The Drunken Blog

Going out to DC is a big deal. It’s too far away to effectively drive, parking is inconvenient, cabs are too pricey, and the metro closes at 2am. And yet, for some reason, I love going out to DC. It’s not something I do every weekend, and I have to be in the right mood for it, but DC is usually a good time.

My last visit to DC was an exception, however. Maybe it’s because I had imbibed heavily the two previous nights in a row and I was just plane pooped out. Maybe it’s because being in the presence of attractive girls makes me act sober. Maybe it’s because I picked up an unlucky penny. Mayhap it’s because after having had so much alcohol in such a period of time, the alcohol had taken the place of the inhibitory neurotransmitter gamma-aminobutyric acid and as a result of which my brain compensated by reducing the natural creation of GABA meaning that I would have to drink copious amounts of alcohol just to feel “normal.”

Obviously I don’t drink that much if I am able to remember that lesson from biology class.

It was most likely that I was predisposed to have a bad time. I wasn’t in the mood for going out, really. I mean, I would have been fine with a chill evening of drinking, but I never would have suggested going out to DC in my condition. However, I was coaxed out by Mary. To her defense, she didn’t have to coax that hard, pretty much the mention of Nancy and Ricky coming out was enough to get me to go out.

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Bamboozled is a fun word. It’s not so fun when you are on the receiving end of the bamboozlement, though. That’s what happened to me last week, rounding out a three day drinking fest starting on Thursday and culminating in me passing out at 6pm on Sunday.

The drinking fest started on Thursday. Thursday was the last day of my old job; I decided to give myself a whole three day weekend before starting my new job on Monday. Obviously I had to celebrate my last day. I left from work early, because what were they going to do, fire me? I left at about 4 (I know, it’s not even that early) and sat in traffic for about an hour until I got to Fairfax. I met up with my ex-girlfriend Kate, we actually both arrived at the same exact time, it was a little scary, if I’m going to be truthful here.

Just as a side note, taking Doug’s advice, I will be using actual pseudonyms for my acquaintances, as opposed to acronyms or made up words that are hard to follow, so no more New Friend Number 37. Also, these names will remain consistent between stories starting with this one; I’m even making a list of pseudonyms to which I can refer back.

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I wake up the next morning with one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in quite some time. I immediately get some aspirin and start chugging water. Today is going to be a long day. Jeff leaves the place around 11 because he still (!) has to help out with homecoming. Doug and I just sort of lounge around and wallow in our hangovers until about 1pm.

We had done an inventory check and both of us were a little worried. I managed to lose my phone the previous night, and Doug lost his class ring. Oops. Luckily for me, my phone is not lost; I left it in the car from the previous night. Doug, however, is not so lucky and his ring is nowhere to be found. We are finally ready to leave for the homecoming festivities. I put on my jacket and stick my hand in my pocket (you never know when you’ll find money, especially after a night like the previous night), but alas, no money to be found this time. I did, however, find Doug’s ring. I’m not really sure why he would have entrusted it to me, or how or why I had it at all. I really don’t remember anything from that night involving that ring.

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