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Skipping past Writober and Nanoblomo . . ? Shit, I dunno. I'm as bored as you are.

 

Monday, June 11, 2007

Wrath of the 80s, Indeed

I’ve long said that the two most valuable things I learned during my college years were my social security number and how much I could drink. Of course, how much I could drink at 22 and how much I can drink now are very different things. That, and being this far along in my drinking career means I stopped “keeping score” long ago. (Which is slightly different that keeping TRACK. I’m sure you understand.)

But I really pushed the limits this weekend during the Wrath of the 80s party (a benefit). The Girls were supposed to play a couple sets (but only played one . . . a COMPLETELY different story). It was billed as an 80s prom, and I was on the fence as to whether I should dress up. So I half-assed it. Just like high school.*

Anyway, limits. In recent years, I’ve mostly stopped drinking liquor (yes, even my beloved kamikazes) in favor of beer. Easier to handle, easier to track. I’m safe across the board at four beers, but five seems to be the grey area. This weekend, I sort of lost count of how many I had exactly. Factor in a shot of Jager somewhere in the middle and add an ill-advised cider at the end, and you have me. Going over a fucking cliff. Here’s right about the time I (along with 75% if those present) was singing along to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Needless to say, I was wrecked the next day (er, yesterday). I really considered going the “Purge All” route navigated (with great success) during the beach trip at 3:30 a.m. after the combo of Erin’s ziti and grape vodka. But I decided to ride this one out because, as I told Michelle, I’d seen my father drunk and/or vomit-y many times growing up, and it didn’t improve my overall impression of him.

For my family’s sake, I’ll try to stay on the RIGHT side of the limit. Until the next time.

* Enter The Sadness. Because when you’ve got women 20-plus years removed from high school sluttin’ it up in short-short skirts working overtime to cover their sun-leathered hides, and they’re hootchie-slammin’ their hips to music from “back in the day” . . . it’s just a sad sight to behold. Sad, sad indeed. I was really depressed. Thus, the heavy drinking.

shaken and poured by Scott-san on 06/11 at 03:53 PM
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Listening

There's no "I" in threesome.

Viewing

I can't remember whether I've seen anything new since my birthday. Oh, right, that one.

Reading

I was hoping for a little more detail in the accounts of mauling-by-zombie. But the anecdotes were disturbing, nonetheless..

Drinking

I don't have a solid grasp on which exact cheap beers I had at the ATL watering holes.