The summer after my high school graduation was one of the most memorable times in my life; in that I don’t really remember much of it.
Drugs were bountiful, liquor flowed like Niagara Falls, and I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of the godforsaken redneck town, I adoringly called home.
While this time in my life was mostly spent unconscious and/or uncontrollably vomiting, one night stands out from all the rest.
One of my best friends, Tryme, was leaving to go to University of California San Diego the next day. Logically, my friends and I decide we are going to throw a going away party for him. The night went like this:
It’s Friday night, and I’m sitting in my room watching the Los Angeles Dodger’s get their ass handed to them, hands cupping my balls, when my cell phone rings. It’s my buddy White-I.
Ryan: “Hey what’s up”
White-I: “Hey fool, what are you up to?”
Ryan: “Jack shit. What about you?”
W-I: “Just chillin. We’re gunna throw a going away party for Tryme. Cruise over.”
Ryan: “I don’t have a ride.”
W-I: “uhhhh……ask your parents.”
Ryan: “Hahahaha, they hate me”
W-I: “Fuck. Ride a bike.”
Ryan: “Why don’t you just come get me?”
W-I: “I’m drunk already.”
Ryan: “So, you pussy.”
W-I: “Just fucking ride a bike”
Ryan: “dude, that’s like six fucking miles.”
W-I: “don’t be a pile”
Ryan: “…..whatever, I’ll be there in like an hour. There better be some booze and blow ready for me.”
W-I: “Hahaha. For sure.”
After about ten minutes of contemplating whether or not to go, I get my fat-ass up out of bed and get dressed. I quickly say good-bye to the parental unit and hop on my Huffy 12-speed. I ride in style.
30 minutes and 4 cigarettes later, I finally arrive at my destination. Sweating like a field worker, I trudge up the stairs, out of breath and barely able to stand.
I stomp through the front door and demand alcohol, threatening violence if denied the sweet grain elixir. I am not disappointed, as the spread of booze in front of me is vast. I am starting to feel better, and the thought of having to bike home is not even crossing my mind.
The night starts out mellow enough, some casual drinking and the occasional bong-rip being blown in my face. We stand around reminiscing about all the stupid and crazy shit that we had done throughout high school. The list was long.
A couple of hours pass by, and everyone has a pretty good buzz going when our friend Kwiddy shows up. He is by far the grimiest of the bunch. Personal hygiene was not his strong suit. As per his usual self, Kwiddy comes up with the brilliant, yet disturbing idea of doing whip-its. For those of you who don’t know, a whip-it is when you inhale a balloon full of laughing gas, or nitrous oxide. It is the same stuff dentists use to numb the pain when they rip out your teeth, and it is also sold legally, in tiny silver canisters. It has some frivolous warning label on the side of it that describes the domestic uses and warnings about its illegal uses. (We obviously disregarded this and deem it unimportant)
The collective group is less than enthusiastic about the prospect of inhaling what is sure to kill millions of functional brain cells that are going to be in short supply once in college. I on the other hand, am always willing to sacrifice a few brain cells in the interest of well…pretty much any drug. This reaction is most common when I have had a few drinks. I can be talked into pretty much anything when intoxicated, hooking up with ugly girls and taking drugs included.
Kwiddy and I hop in his little white beater-truck and drive to the hole-in-the-wall erotica shop that sells these silver bullets of death. I start to feel the effects of the four beer bongs and three shots of Cuervo, (that’s casually drinking, isn’t it?) and am immediately drawn to the sex toy section like Charlie Sheen to a three dollar hooker. I find the two-foot dildo’s fascinating and begin to swing them around the store like I am Sir Lancelot of King Arthur’s Court. I next try to simulate a mock latex orgy between various toys, when Kwiddy drags me over to the counter to pay for the nitrous.
12 canisters, 30-pack of balloons, and 1 tool for releasing the gas. $26
Hello high blood pressure and an early grave.
We drive back to White-I’s apartment, and I am giddy. Not only did we just secure enough nitrous to kill half of the operating brain cells in my body, I spot my buddy Codan’s van in the parking lot. His presence means two things for me:
1. Cocaine has officially made its debut to the party, and
2. There is a distinct possibility that I will either
a. Get arrested
b. Become loud, cursing everything and one around me
c. Overdose
d. All of the above
Kwiddy and I walk into the apartment, and the party is in full on demolition mode. Excesses of alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine are being consumed like the Seventh Sign of the Apocalypse is evident.
I immediately load up my first balloon. Praying to all gods, that they will hopefully save me from cardiac arrest in the event of an overdose; I exhale deeply, and put the tie-die balloon up to my quavering lips and suck hard.
I stand up on wires; used to be functioning legs, and start to talk.
“whoooaaahhh, guuuuuuys. Thiiiiiiiisssss shiiiiittt iiissss fuuuucking weeeeiird”
While the high is a mere blissful fifteen seconds, all of the sensory perceptions in your body rapidly dissipate and your voice unquestionably sounds like Shaquille O’Neal. My head floated calmly three feet above my body while I tried to regain a sense of equilibrium and sit back down.
Fuck. This shit cannot be good for me. And it’s only my first one.
I load another.
Goodbye promising future.
I load another.
God I hope the University of Phoenix will still accept me as I most assuredly will now fail out of UCSB.
After a solid half-hour of intermittently sucking pure poison directly into my lungs and taking handle pulls of vodka, I examine the scene in front of me. The floor is a littered with a myriad of empty canisters, balloons, and beer bottles. I quietly sit back in my chair and try to push the depressing thought of biking home out of my mind.
Quick and deathly, the cocaine finds its way across the room towards me. Or was it me who actively sought out and demanded that I be able to snort the celestial powder? At this point, the truth is negligible.
Over the next three hours, my life took place between a mirror of cocaine, a handle of bourbon, and a living room besieged with empty canisters of hopeless dreams.
Somewhere in this jungle of alcohol, blow, and laughing gas, I predictably, black out.
The story unfortunately does not end there. It gets better (at least from a third party perspective).
THE NEXT DAY
The following morning I awake in my own bed at my house. My sheets look like a back-alley abortion had just been performed on them. My nice white down comforter is thoroughly soaked in a red sea of my blood. My head and feet are both throbbing with pain, and I can feel my irregular heart beat at the open sores on both my forehead and all along my foot. I begrudgingly look down, prepared to see a bloodied stump, only to be greeted by a mixture of white puss decorated with dark black gravel. (Did I mention I was wearing sandals when I biked home? Yeah I’m not very smart.)
As I am trying to gain my bearings, as well as pick off the dried blood that had become matted into my hair, my mom walks into the room. She looks at me with complete disbelief and horror. I tell her that a car had ran a red light, nearly colliding with my bike, causing me to crash on to the pavement (even when inebriated I am still quick to come up with some bullshit excuse for my drunk shenanigans. A blessing or a curse? Who cares at this point).
The truth of the matter is I don’t remember how the fuck I managed to get home that night. My bike was outside my house, damaged, but still in working condition. It still boggles my mind to this day, that I was able to ride my bike, six miles down the busiest street in my city, eat shit so hard as to bust my head open, still get back up and ride home, all the while not being arrested. For once in my life, the gods of alcohol were on my side.
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