I didn’t mean to get drunk.
I thought I would have a few cocktails, enjoy the company of good friends and good food then turn in early in anticipation of a “family sunday”. While I did in fact accomplish all of the above, my night also included an ill-advised gin martini, a horseload of espresso, and some kind of whiskey-and-butterscotch shot that tasted pretty good but more likely than not was the cause of my undoing.
I spent Saturday dress shopping with my mom and sister, which (let’s be frank) is enough to make anyone crave a few strong cocktails. But I was tired. So i got a coffee. Or, to be specific, four shots of espresso over ice. Then dinner with the fam and a barbecue birthday extravaganza for Tresa, wherein much cake and vodka was consumed. We played with fire, roasted S’mores, drank more vodka. I didn’t think I was drunk, but then while poking my stick at a downed and flaming marshmallow, I managed to pour my beverage down my leg. But I’m not one to be unduly shamed by accidental spillage. I sally forth!
Eventually, we moved the party to our friend Rob’s house, where he had set up a makeshift bar including JB, Tanqueray 10, cheap vodka, and other brown liquors in bottles that I didn’t really look too hard at. After scanning the selection, I allowed him to make me a dirty gin martini – DIRRRRRTY being the operative word. that shit was so dirty you couldn’t hit it with extra-strength lysol.
But I drank it anyway.
Then there was PBR, and who can resist canned beer on a hot night?
Then a bottle of Ketel One appeared, like an angel through the fog.
Then i drank a sugar-free redbull.
Then i drank katsumi’s 8-hour-old coffee.
Then someone handed me the butterscotch whiskey shot, and then there was dancing.
And then I woke up in the morning and there was PAIN.
I really didn’t mean to get drunk, but at some point during the evening I had this Tom Waits vision of myself, all scraggled and nicotine-stained, and I thought it might be fun to break into the natty booze and chase the devil away. What was NOT fun was sitting miserably at brunch on Sunday, gingerly sipping on lemon water and praying for a silent death.