Four years and a few days ago I woke up with what would be the last hangover I’d ever have. Trust me, I’ve had more than my fair share. I’ve had more than your fair share. I don’t miss them. Another thing I don’t miss is the blackouts. I’ve had a considerable number of those as well. I had a lot of fun back in those days, or so I’m told. Anyway, those days came and went and here I am, sober as a judge (speaking of which, I’d like to bone that chick from the show Judging Amy). To celebrate my sobriety each year I post a blog in honor of it but I also write about some random drunken times. These are 4 previous installments.

Drink. Drank. DRUNK! The Alcoholic Chronicles Part 1
The first time I remember getting drunk I was 12 and hooked up with 2 girls.

2 Years, No Beers
A little bit about why I quit drinking and how.

Drink. Drank. DRUNK! The Alcoholic Chronicles Part 2
A black out binge drinking story. Good times.

3 Years, No Beers
A pictorial essay of my drunkenness.

It’s been a while since I’ve told a sordid story from my past so I figured I’d take this opportunity to give you a little more insight into what I used to be like when I drank. Enjoy.

When I Gamble, I’m All In.

I was born in Bethesda MD, a suburb of Washington DC, and spent most of my life there. I didn’t move to LA until the year 2000 so all of my adventures prior to that took place on the East coast. I can also safely say that most of my adventures involved, or were orchestrated by, a large negro, my longtime friend Big Kev. This particular story is one of those. It was a Saturday and, as often happened, BK called me up to go out that night.

“Nigga”, he said, “Let’s get fucked up tonight.”

“Hell yeah muthafucka. Where do you wanna go?” I replied.

“Baltimore. Lisa and her big tittied friend Kristine are comin’.”

“Let’s do this shit!”

Because I was an alcoholic from birth, he had me at “let’s get fucked up.” Throw in a mini-road trip and two girls, I’m locked and ready to get loaded. I was always game to go out with Kev and get hammered, but even more so if we headed 45 minutes North to Baltimore. We both liked that city for the same reasons. One, it was far enough away for us to act up and nobody at “home” would catch wind of it. Two, as an industrial city the chicks were low budget and considerably easier than the more conservative Bethesda/DC girls. Three, see one and two above.

Ebony and Ivory, drink together in per-fect har-mo-ny.
Side by side banging bitches, oh lord why do we…

Kevin always drove because I always binge drank and blacked out. Letting me drive was only advisable if you were suicidal. He picked me up around 8pm and the girls were already in the car. If I’d met either of them before I didn’t recall but that wasn’t anything unusual. Had I encountered them previously it would have probably been at a bar and I’d have been wasted, hence I wouldn’t remember. But they were both cute and seemed cool so it was all good. As I’d been told, Kristine had massive jugs. It’s funny because I never cared about breast size back then and still don’t to this day. In fact, I’m generally attracted to girls with small boobies. Not that I don’t appreciate big un’s, just that they don’t do anything for me one way or another. Overly huge ones are actually kind of a turn off. This pair were pretty damn big but they looked good and I was hoping to get to play with them just for the props I’d get from my boys.

“You play with dem titties?”

“Yup”

“Nice”

Our first stop before we even hit 95 North toward Baltimore was the beer store. In the interest of efficiency we wanted to utilize our commute time for some pre-drinking. Kevin, ever the Boy Scout, always prepared for any eventuality so he walked out with a 30-pack. Good thinking. I put it in the back of his Chevy Trailblazer next to some leftover beer from a previous night of partying.

Now we’ve got a full tank of gas, about 45 beers (30 of which were cold), 2 girls (one of which had huge tits), and a very intense we-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude which was only going to get worse as the night progressed.

The drive is uneventful and we arrive in Baltimore with a slight buzz, ready to do some serious liver damage. I’m the worst cuz I don’t just chase the buzz like other people do. I pursue it with murderous zeal and violently attack it once I catch it. When I first imbibe the drinks go down so fast that I’ve often ingested anywhere from 2 to 5 prior to the alcohol even hitting my bloodstream. I’m drunk before I realize it. Lucky for the booze companies, I wasn’t one of those drinkers who thought, “I’m really buzzed, perhaps I’ll ease back on the cocktails”. Quite the contrary. The second I started feeling good it meant that I should quickly have another drink rather than risk losing that buzz. Most of the time I was worried that I wouldn’t get drunk enough in general, so shots were mandatory. Anybody that didn’t want to do one, or ten, was a pussy. Every subsequent drink was a better idea than the previous drink. The question was never, “Should I have another?” but “Should I order the next one now so there’s no lag between it and this current one?”

This night was no different than any other and I’m trashed early. It’s all good times and fun though cuz even in my sloppiness, Kristine seemed to take a liking to me. I couldn’t be totally sure but her sticking her tongue down my throat appeared to be a good indication. Drinking like it’s going out of style, laughing with my best friend, and making out with a big breasted blond was my kinda night. I never wanted it to end but alas, the inevitable came—last call.

The four of us got into Kevin’s car with him behind the wheel, Lisa riding shotgun, Kristine and I in the back seat. Ever the alcoholic, I reach behind me for a warm beer and crack it open. The fact that I’m even coherent at this point is a miracle but that would happen on occasion. As we start the trek home everyone is disappointed that the night is ending. We were having way too much fun and desperately tried to figure out a way to keep it going. When we got to the ramp for 95 South, Kev pointed out that 95 North went to New York City where partying continued into the wee hours. All of us started screaming, “Let’s go, let’s go!” but none of us really meant it. NYC was 200 miles away and even in our drunken state that seemed unreasonable. It would be daylight by the time we arrived and we’d be exhausted. Seconds later Kevin sees a sign for Atlantic City NJ, the low budget Vegas of the East and says, “AC isn’t that far”. The girls explode with excitement and want him to go. Always looking out for the best interest of his boy, BK looks at me in the mirror and says, “It’s on you man”.

It’s 2:30am and we’re speeding down interstate 95 just outside of Baltimore. I’ve got a beer in my hand, Kristine’s titties pressed against me, and her fingers on my zipper. I look directly into his mirror eyes and say, “Fuck yeah”. He swerves into the right lane, hits the exit, and we’re Atlantic City bound. It’s only 60 miles closer than NYC but it’ll still be dark when we arrive which seems to make this decision make sense. At this point in time I should probably disclose one important piece of information.

I have a girlfriend.

Not only do I have a girlfriend, but I live with her. She believes I am out locally with Kevin and is probably expecting me to arrive home about 10 minutes ago. That arrival time is going to be difficult considering that A) it’s in the past and B) I’m on my way to another state. Clearly I’m not the only one thinking about my situation because, once again, Kev looks at me in the mirror and says, “Are you sure?”.

Now, at this point I’ve put a moment of thought into my earlier affirmation that we should indeed drive to AC. However, since that moment a few things have occurred. One, the alcohol has continued to infiltrate my brain and remove whatever fucks or damns I may have been able to give. Two, everyone is all excited about the prospect of continuing to party and I don’t want to ruin it. Three…

Kristine is now blowing me.

I told you her fingers had been on my zipper before. Did you think she was checking the quality craftsmanship of my jeans? I’m in the back seat of a vehicle hurtling me into another dimension, drinking beer as if it’s water and I’ve spent a week in the desert, and getting head from a girl who’s just unhooked her bra so I can fondle her giant knockers. Yes, I am fucking sure. Drive on, my good man. Drive on. Kev sees what’s going on and smiles. Although he always looked out for my best interest, he also let me have my fun when I demanded it. My dick was in a girls mouth, there was no turning back. When I get liquored up, I don’t throw caution to the wind. I throw caution off of a cliff and let it’s skull shatter on the rocks below. Fuck caution. Caution is a bitch.

After a while the blowing stopped and we all admitted to being a little tired. We’d been partying all night and then tried to take a 2 hour road trip to another city. Everybody has to pee and we’re in the middle of farm land, so Kev pulls off past the shoulder into the dirt. Once we’d all emptied our bladders we get back in the truck and prepare for the final leg of the trip. BK decides to shake and wake us the fuck up, so he slams his foot down on the gas in the middle of this field and we start to fly. The terrain is bumpy as shit so we’re bouncing up and down and literally getting air every few hundred yards. He’s going about 50 miles an hour and we’re all laughing hysterically. Nobody is tired anymore. What never occurred to any of us was that if the truck hit an irrigation ditch, we’d have been dead as shit. All of our bloody lifeless bodies would have been carried off by the children of the corn and used as scarecrows to prevent future drunken trespassers. Luckily, we escaped our off roading escapade unharmed as we jump back onto the paved highway.

I resume drinking and time begins to warp, so when we arrive in Atlantic City I have no clue how long we’ve been in the car. I’m so inebriated that Kristine literally has to hold me up and walk me around. We go into a casino, to this day I can’t recall which one, and decide to gamble. I’m determined to show that I’m a baller so I take $200, the maximum advance, out on my credit card. It’s gone in less than 15 minutes. Thankfully I’d been rewarded with one free drink before all of my funds disappeared. As I’m chugging that down, Kev and Lisa walk up and decide it’s time for all of us to crash. I don’t want to stop gambling or drinking but it’s daylight and they’re exhausted. It’s a three to one vote and I’m basically in a stupor anyway so we head across the street to a cheap motel. Moments later we’re in a tiny room with two beds that pushed together wouldn’t hold a grown person. Kev and Lisa crawl onto one and are immediately unconscious. Kristine and I lay down on the other and my slurring, slobbering mess of a self tries to get on her. She basically laughs in my face and turns over to go to sleep. In a huff I close my eyes and pass out. It’s approximately 6am.

Two hours later I wake up to a familiar noise. I’m still wasted but the nap has made me mildly coherent so I struggle to focus and identify the sound. Nothing clicks but instead a thought sinks into my brain as if it’s caught in quicksand, slowly at first but then faster as it continues to struggle to hold on. It’s my cell phone. I search around the room for it and finally find it on the windowsill. The first thing that catches my eye is the time. 8am. The second thing that catches my eye are the words, “5 missed calls” on the screen. I click the button and suddenly I’m the most sober I’ve ever been in my life.

My girlfriend had been calling for the last hour.

I panic. Everything hits me all at once. I got drunk. I cheated on my girlfriend. I stayed out all night. And worst of all, I’m in motherfucking Atlantic City, a minimum of 3 hours from home. I’ve come up with some pretty good excuses in the past and some even better alibis. There’s nothing I can do to cover this. Nothing. My entourage is dead asleep so even if I wake them up it’s going to take a little while to get on the road. I couldn’t be home before noon unless I found a flight that was departing this seedy motel room in the next 2 minutes and would land directly in my apartment. My relationship is over. My girlfriend is punching redial over and over and I get more and more panicked. In my head the ringtone sounds like, “You’re fucked. You’re fucked. You’re fucked”

My phone has become the Tell-Tale Heart.

In my agitated state, the only thing I can think is that I have to get home as quickly as possible. I can’t answer the phone because she’d want an explanation which I’m way to drunk and stupid to come up with at that moment. Plus she might demand that I come home which is clearly impossible. I know that we’ve only been in Atlantic City for a few hours and in this roach motel for less than half that. Yet I realize what I have to do. I wake up Kevin.

“Kev, you gotta get up.”

“Huh? What?”

“Kev, you gotta get up. We gotta go home.”

“Nigga, are you crazy?”

“My girl is blowing up my phone. I’m freaking out.”

At this point, the two girls stir and realize what’s going on. They’re both irritated but especially Kristine, given the fact that just a few hours ago she’d been slobbing my knob in the back of the truck and now I was ruining her snooze cuz I needed to get home to my girlfriend. The girls start bitching and tell me to go back to sleep. BK is barely conscious but sees the look in my eyes.

He rolls right out of bed.

The girls are trying to go back to sleep and Kev just says, “Get up, we gotta go”. It doesn’t matter that we’ve driven to another state for a few pulls of the slots, a couple of drinks, and no sleep. I need to get home and he makes it happen. A prime example of why I’ll be friends with that motherfucker til the day I die and why I’d take a beating for him without hesitation, just like I did in The Battle Of New Year’s Eve.

The drive home seems to take forever and the tension in the car is palpable. I’m frantic and beside myself because my phone won’t stop ringing. The girls are pissed and Kristine won’t even talk to me. Kevin is busy trying to focus on the road and not get us killed. It’s a pretty big difference from the ride to Atlantic City.

Eventually we arrive back in our hood, drop the girls off and go back to Kev’s. I borrow his other car and head toward home. Instead of going directly to my apartment, I stop in the parking lot of a nearby shopping center and call my girlfriend. Long story short, I lie and manipulate my way into having her beg me to come home. It’s not the right thing to do, but it’s the only thing to do. When I get home however it takes a great deal more smoothing over to bring her to full on forgiveness but eventually I do. It’s one of my many talents. That wasn’t the first time I’d pulled off an alcoholic miracle, and it wouldn’t be the last.

That story is just one of hundreds explaining why I don’t drink anymore. It’s not good for me. It’s not good for you. It’s not good for my relationships. It’s not good for anybody. I’m not proud of what I did back in those days, but I’m not ashamed either. Everything I did in the past helped to make me the man I am today. If you’ve learned one thing about me by reading my blogs, it’s that I fucking love myself. And I love myself sober more than I ever did when I was drunk. So next time you sip a cocktail or a beer, pour a sip out for your homie BAF. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to a drink again. But I’m still game to get blown in the back seat during a road trip. Not everything has changed.

Cheers.