I Swear I'll Never Drink Again

Remember the days when you always got away with underage drinking? Remember when your parents legitimately believed you were a good kid? Remember the first time you got shit-faced plastered and woke up the next morning feeling like you were mauled by a bear? This is the real, entirely non-embellished story of my first time being so hungover that I almost threw myself out a window, and every word of it is true. Especially the sex with David Beckham part.

It all began on an August night before 12th grade when my friends Paul, Doug, Kyla and I decided to commit the criminal transgression of drinking beers and camping out at Paul’s neighborhood beach. It could have been the three beers, or the wine cooler, or the two more beers, but I have a funny feeling it was the Goldschlager that did me in.

If you’re familiar Goldschlager, you’ll know what I’m talking about: raising the bottle to my mouth, I took my first swig that night and let the red liquid soak my tongue and flood my throat. Suddenly, angels started singing and the pearly gates opened up to a cinnamony and delicious-orgasm-heaven of drunk. It was the quintessential “My God I cannot taste the alcohol in this” chick drink. I wanted to do topless back flips on the clouds. I wanted to marry Goldschlager and have tiny human/malt-liquor offspring. I wanted it all for myself. With stealth, I snuck away from our beach fire and went onto the dock to drink it. But first I had a rough and tumble in the sand with David Beckham. I would give you more details but I was really drunk, ya know… the memories aren’t so clear…

Moments later, I passed out on a dock bench, empty bottle of Goldschlager in tow, having drank the entire thing. I didn’t wake up for two hours. I know this because I was later told that while I was unconscious, everyone went skinny-dipping. Normally I would rise from the dead to see naked people a-frolic, but unfortunately, I missed the nudie swim and everyone went to sleep.

When I finally came out of my coma, I mustered up the energy to whimper, Paul… Doug… Steve Irwin… and the names of any other authoritative males I could think of, seeing as I forgot whose house I was at. When no one responded to my cries for help, I rolled my potato sack of a body off the bench and dragged myself to the edge of the dock, and “Ding Ding Ding!” It was round one of yuking onto the dune grass below. I wasn’t overwhelmed with the pain and discomfort that usually accompanies vomiting. Rather, it was more like, Hey, I’m throwing up now. I wonder what color it is.

In mid-gag, I heard footsteps in my direction. It was Paul, who pulled me up by my long, scraggily beard and asked me if I wanted to sleep in a car with him or Doug, or in the tent with Kyla. For the love of God, tent with Kyla! I responded. That girl is so hot, it would be AWESOME to say that she took advantage of me! Paul tossed me into the tent by my chinny-chin-chin where I subsequently dreamt of cinnamon-schnapps fairies hitting me in the brain with hammers.

And this, my friends, is where the holy grail of hangovers began. I awoke that morning with my head clamped between God’s mighty vice grip and my tongue tasting like poop. Kyla was utterly disgusted to know that she had slept next to a thing that had vomited the night before, but volunteered to drive me home nonetheless. Much to my chagrin, Kyla had one of those Yankee Candle Car Jars in her Chevy Blazer. The nauseating perfume of Mango Madness was thick in the air, causing a party in my stomach, and I don’t mean the good kind. As we rolled up and down the roads of Connecticut, which were especially mountainous that day, I gripped the arm-rests, clenched my cheeks, and stared straight ahead, trying not to inhale the mango smell and puke all over the car. White-knuckled and suffering, I gave yes or no answers to the questions Kyla asked me such as, “Do you think Dave still likes me?” and “What is your detailed opinion on the meaning of life?”

When we got to my street, I hurdled myself out of the car as it rolled passed my house at 60 mph, tucking and rolling into my front yard. After wiping the grass stains off myself, I had to decide whether to perform round two of vomiting on my front lawn, or inside my house. I decided to try and make it inside, thinking that my parents were still asleep. So I walked in the front door and lo and behold, there was my dad reading the newspaper at the counter. It was pretty much like walking into your house and seeing The Sphinx or a giant steaming turd in the middle of your kitchen; like, oh shit I wasn’t expecting that.

He asked me how my night was. My head was throbbing, and I tried to say, Good, but it came out more like Gwalbt, as my mouth began to fill up with bile. I hauled ass to the bathroom upstairs, submerged my head in the toilet, and from my mouth flowed forth a radiant, glowing deluge of cinnamon and stomach acid. Catching my breath after the New York Marathon of puking, I dragged my deflated self into the shower, laid on the floor, and let the water run on me until I was pretty sure the homeless drunk smell had rinsed off. I then morphed into shiny reflective goo like Alex Mac and slithered onto the couch in the TV room.

I had been laying face down for a half hour watching the floor spin and contemplating the easiest method of suicide when my mom came in the room to vacuum and found me shriveled up between the couch cushions. After picking me out of the vacuum filter, she proceeded to ask the typical overly-invasive questions moms are trained to ask about your night. My mother looked at me in sheer bewilderment as I struggled to explain why I was green and emaciated in the middle of August. Keep in mind, at this point in time my mom still thought I would never drink, and that I was “at Chloe’s house watching Mean Girls” the night before. No one told me that one side effect of Goldschlager is that you become a really terrible liar. I couldn’t think of any way to justify my visible insanity to her other than, You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve been recently lobotomized.

Convinced that I was criminally psychotic, my mother went off to research military schools she could enroll me in. Meanwhile, I slipped into a deadpan vegetative state that would’ve put Terri Schaivo to shame. Every once in a while my younger brother would come in to prod my cold body with a stick, only to determine I was dead, get bored, and go outside to skateboard with his friends. This went on for hours. That evening I woke up in a cold sweat and cried for a little bit at the realization that I was still alive, whimpering, Please, God, just take me now. Soon after, round three of vomiting occurred and kicked me in the ass 17 times. After throwing up more bile, and possibly a kidney (it’s hard to tell in the mix), I made the difficult commute to my bed.

And this was where I faced the debate that haunts all teenagers at one point or another: Do I tell my parents? Do I finally reveal to them that I’m not their perfect little baby? Who knows…it might not be that bad, maybe they’ll even let me stop wearing diapers and sucking a pacifier if they realize I get drunk. But then again, they could get really upset, and freedom as I know it could be gone forever. Just then, my brother came upstairs to make sure another larger animal hadn’t eaten me so he could show his friends the cool dead thing he found. I decided that it wasn’t worth hiding from my parents why I appeared to be dying, and I asked my bro to fetch my mom.

My mother came upstairs and I confessed the whole truth to her... insisting that it was only between one and two beers that left me lethally hungover, of course. I should probably also mention to you that I gave this entire speech in an English accent, because let’s face it, you really can’t stay mad at a British guy. I think it worked too, because much to my astonishment, my mom didn’t go all Leather-Face on my ass and decapitate me with a chainsaw right then and there. In fact, she was actually pretty cool about it. She brought me soup and Triscuts and nursed me back to health, and I’m proud to report that a mere two-and-a-half days later, I had recovered. Okay, you’re right, I’m lying; it was four days.

From then on, I vowed I would never drink again. I kept that promise to myself for about three weeks, then I discovered keg stands. Hey, whatcha gonna do? As you can imagine, I now slip into Kill Bill style flashbacks at the smell of cinnamon, and yes, my parents think I’m a drunk. I’m glad all that happened though; it was really nice to come clean with Mama and Papa Romeo. Every once in a while at college I take a swig of my 40, look back on this memory, and chuckle to myself as I rub my beer gut, satisfied that in the end, things worked out.