The Blind Date

The summer before I left for college, I spent the majority of my time working. The other ninety-five percent of my time I spent it drinking, mostly with one of my good friends SZM. I met SZM my sophomore year of high school. We immediately became friends, probably because our pre-disposition to alcoholism and outlandish behavior. While this story is one of the more contemptible moments in my life, it is far and away one of the luckiest as well. I only wish I had really remembered it.

It was a typical Friday in my home town, and by that I mean I am trying to get drunk and/or high on some artificial substance to take away the agonizing pain that comes with living in a town inhabited by middle class, white baby boomers; all too far removed from the sixties to truly understand the need to abuse drugs and alcohol.

SZM and I are driving around town; well he is driving, I am taking pulls from a fifth of vodka, as the state of California had recently revoked my privilege to operate a motor vehicle due to some minor legal discrepancies, the details of which are not relevant to this story.

The reason for our endeavor was to purchase a birthday gift for his little brother, who had just turned the legal age to die for his country, as well as purchase sexually explicit material. We decided to pursue the latter.

As we made our way into the local sex shop, looking to purchase the finest in adult entertainment, SZM propositioned me with what soon became one of the worst decisions of his life.

Over the recent months he met a girl that he had begun to date, who we will hereto after refer to as Tina. She was very cute and very nice, but also exceedingly naïve. She lacked a certain understanding of how idiotic, immature, eighteen year old males acted when fortified with cheap alcohol.

Now, SZM had planned to take Tina on a date that night to the movies. Unfortunately she was having a foreign-exchange student stay with her from Spain. This is where I become relevant to the story.
Tina did not want to leave her friend alone at home, so she asked SZM if she could come along with them on their date. He in turn asked me if I would come out with him and accompany this other girl, who we will refer to as Lola.

BIG. FUCKING. MISTAKE.

SIDE NOTE:

Let me make this very clear. SZM knew I had been drinking early in the day, which he and I both know will inevitably lead to me making very poor decisions. Worse yet, SZM knows that I am a very loud and boisterous individual, and that this effect is heightened exponentially when alcohol finds its way into my system.

The first class I ever had with SZM, he bore witness to my braggadocio up close and personal.
Being a depraved and immoral drug addict, I was liable to come to school under the influence of some drug or other at any given time.

Sophomore year was primarily marijuana, with the occasional pain killer thrown in to spice things up. Junior and senior year were a grab bag of stimulants, alcoholic spirits, and muscle relaxants.

However, about half way through my junior year, I discovered a revolutionary device used for carrying cocaine and snorting it indiscriminately. The Bullet. This is a small glass and plastic tool that holds coke in it, fits easily into your pocket, and allows the user to snort the drug in small doses all without spilling any while not in use. (For any of those interested, I highly recommend them)

As you can probably guess, I would often bring this Neat-O apparatus with me to school. Well one day in particular SZM and I are sitting in the back of a mechanical engineering class, when I decide to bust out my bullet and take a few hits. I act very nonchalant about this, like this is no different than taking out a pencil sharpener.

SZM looks at me the same way my parents do. Complete disappointment. Obviously my knack for breaking laws has become a recurring theme, and is probably one of the more robust aspects to my arrogance. I am indeed ABOVE the law. (At least in this story)

In this same class, the teacher and I had some difficulties; probably because I felt I was smarter than him and treated him as my subordinate. Well, one day he requested that I address him as “Dr. Black,” (apparently he had a Ph.D., but he was only a high school teacher, so I had my doubts) I of course felt that he did not garner this type of respect, so I responded that if I were to address him as “Doctor” then he “may refer to me as Lord Ryan.” Yeah I was a bit of a prick in high school.

BACK TO THE STORY:

I of course was giddy with the idea of trying to hookup with some girl from a foreign land, and immediately obliged.

Around 9:30 that night, the two girls show up at SZM’s House. I had been drinking moderately throughout the day, making it my goal not to not pass out and vomit on my date’s shoulder in the movie theater. I am clearly buzzed, but still able to function like a somewhat coherent and normal human. At this point in the night I am supremely optimistic about the night’s unfolding. (NOTE: obvious foreshadowing)

As Tina and Lola walk through the front door, I am in fucking shock. Not only is this girl hot, she has got that sexy foreign accent that comes only with truly Spanish women. We all hang out for a while, me chatting up Lola, shamelessly flirting with her; all the while she is eating it up. I’ve got this girl laughing at everything I say, leaning into me as we walk out the door to the car, and giving off that vibe of “I want to make you my American slave boy.”

Prior to entering the Cineplex, being the obnoxious and idiotic drunks we are, SZM and I hang out in the parking lot, alternately taking shots of the apple flavored vodka that we had brought with us. That’s normal, isn’t it?

As we walk into the theater, SZM and I are completely hammered. I have no clue what movie we are about to see, nor do I care. We have a bottle of booze with us and are hanging out with hot girls. All is right in the world. The only thought running through my vodka-addled brain, is having Lola go down on me in the theater, making the floors sticky for an entirely different reason than spilt soda.

Unfortunately, the gods of alcohol had different plans.

Before the movie even begins, I become bored with the coming attractions, and excuse myself from the group to use the restroom. Instead of relieving my bladder like a normal person, I decide I am going to use the money in my pocket to go into the arcade section of the cinema. The kids occupying this area look like they came strait out of Comic-Con; acne and braces were the standard attire. I am clearly not as cool as I think I am.

Now, as much I would love to say that I beat these computer nerds at their own game, and then was able to go back into the theater and hook up with Lola, I sadly cannot.

Unfortunately, I was thoroughly PWNED by my junior adversaries and forced to walk back to my seat with my tail between my legs. I am still drunk though, so clearly I came out the obvious winner.

Now, as surreal and unbelievable as these events may seem, the following account of what happened is completely true. These events are however entirely devoid of my memory, and I still insist because I do not remember any of them, they did not really happen. Unfortunately, many witnesses can attest to the truth and abhorrence of my behavior.

Upon return to my seat, I am intensely drunk and dangerously nauseous. The putrid concoction of buttery popcorn and cheap vodka are not playing nice in my stomach.

I begin to sweat profusely, those small beads that build up near the top of your back and drip slowly down into your ass-crack. My mouth begins to water, that thin, loose saliva that is created to protect your enamel from the acidic onslaught, right before your insides are about to explode up through your esophagus and on to the group of kids sitting two rows in front of you.

Fortunately for my fellow movie-goers, as well as SZM, Tina, and Lola, I am able to confine my involuntary purging to a small and neat puddle directly in front of where I am sitting. It is at this point that I conclude my chances of hooking-up with Lola have all but vanished, as my breath is now a rancid mixture of stomach bile, half-digested popcorn, and liquor.

This in and of itself is not entirely shameful. But to make matters worse, I decide that not only am I going to expel my small intestine on the floor, I am no longer going to be constricted by societal bounds, deciding that I will now take off my shirt in the middle of the movie.

That’s right, after vomiting in front of one of my best friends, his date, and some unassuming Spanish girl; I feel the need to further embarrass myself by exposing my white flabby stomach to the public at large.

But wait, it gets worse.

After readjusting my shirt and getting comfortable in my seat, I now feel the need to urinate. Again, like the village-idiot I have morphed into, I disregard the conventional method for relieving this problem. At this point I feel it is completely appropriate to whip out my cock, and try to pee into the now empty bottle of liquor that created the demonically possessed monster I have now turned into.

I can only imagine the image of American’s in the eyes of Lola. I have failed myself, and my country.

It is at this point in the tragic-comedy that is my life, that some sense of normalcy is restored to this sordid tale. I begin to gather my belongings and stumble my way out of the movie theater.

Apparently the crowd, who had observed me in action, began to cheer as I made my departure. I can’t say much to defend myself, because if I saw some shoddy drunken ass-clown do what I had just done, I would have made a point to publicly ridicule and humiliate him.

Because SZM drove to me to the movies, I have no clear discourse on how to get home. So, like Moses through the desert, I begin to walk. Thankfully, it is at this point, that my brain relieves itself of the surplus of alcohol, and I finally regain full consciousness of my surroundings.

As I come out of my blacked-out alcohol induced stupor, I find myself walking down the side of a road, smoking a cigarette, clothes fully covered in my own piss and vomit. A more depressing moment in my life, I cannot think of.

Again, I am wrong.

When I finally arrive back at my house, I realize that I do not have a key, and I do not want to ring the doorbell and wake up the parents. The best plan I can forge at this moment, is to try to hop in the window of my room. (I could have easily opened a gate and walked into my garage and got into the house, but for some reason this does not register as a viable solution.)

There I stand, sloppy drunk, outside my own house at midnight, trying to break in. I stumble to outside my window, making the feeblest of attempts to tear off the screen and force my body up the four foot outer wall and safely on to my computer desk. I manage to get half of my carcass through the window, when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway.

SHIT. FUCK. SHIT!!!

My mother appears in the doorway to my room.

The look of disappointment that was cast upon me does not even begin to encapsulate the true quality of that parent-offspring moment.