Last Thursday was ridiculous. Between the three of us, my friends and I had 2 bottles of wine and half of a bottle of Hennessey. Freaking ghetto.

The only things I remember are an ill-conceived drinking game based around Iron Chef America. Every time they showed judge Jeffrey Steingarten’s greasy-ass lips, we would drink. Then on Project Runway, every time Tim Gunn touched his face, we’d drink. Whenever someone smiled, we’d drink.

Woke up at 1AM, making HURRRRR HURRRR noises on their futon (leaving what was later delightfully described to me as a “squirtle” on the wall).  I tore off the funky futon sheet in horror, clutching it to my chest. Then I immediately forgot I’d already taken the sheet off, and HULK-LIFTED the mattress, scrabbling to find the sheet.

Then I decided since I couldn’t find the sheet, I should take the whole futon mattress OUT OF THE APARTMENT. More HULK-LIFTING. Then, “Jesus christ this is freaking heavy, eh?” so I just ended up feebly flipping the mattress over and over again, still trying to find the sheet.

I called a cab service to come get me in motherflipping Harlem. I was crying for some reason, and my drunk-voice sounds like the voice of a retard with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. The dispatcher kept asking me if someone had kidnapped me, or if I was being held against my will. “NOE, I JUSS DRAUNKKK, I nee to go hooooommm,” I moaned in my retard-drunk-voice. The cab finally came, and the disgusting horked-up sheet was still clutched to my chest, but I wouldn’t notice it until I got home. When I got home, I realized that I wasn’t even wearing shoes — only socks.

2:15 AM. I tore off my clothes, threw them in the bathtub, and went to bed. When I got up for work the next morning at 8, I woke up in a sandwich — I had somehow crammed myself in between the bare mattress and the fitted sheet. The elastic was holding me in like a pita pocket.

I think I win the 2009 award for WORST DRUNK EVER!!!

i have recently become convinced that recycling programs are nothing more than a conspiracy designed to shame people into not drinking. when you just toss all your empties out in your garbage, no one sees them and no one cares – but we have these transparent blue recycling bag, and when you’re working through two boxes full of miniature liquor bottles (plus the weekend’s case of beer and a bottle of wine) that shit is NOTICEABLE.

good thing i ain’t shamed!

they say drunks won’t get help until they hit rock bottom. so i was like “how will i know that i hit rock bottom??”

a few years ago, i was pretty close maybe, but i wasn’t quite sure. all i knew was that even if i said “you know, i don’t feel like drinking tonight” i’d suddenly notice that i was in the liquor store buying a bottle of whiskey, then i’d suddenly notice that i was at home drinking it, and i’d be like “hmmm, i could have sworn that i explicitly told myself not to buy/drink this bottle of whiskey, but here i am, and hmmmmmmm”

right, pretty close to rock bottom probably, when your body goes out and buys whiskey even though your brain told it not to.

so my sister had given me this little bottle of gekkeikan sake, it was a cute little bottle. kind of egg-shaped with a cap that could be used as a sake-shot glass. and i kept it around because it was aesthetically pleasing, so i was like “OK i will never drink this bottle of sake. no matter what. even if i am broke, and there is no alcohol in the house, and there is nothing to drink except this bottle of sake, i WILL NEVER DRINK IT.”

because i knew that if i actually drank that bottle of sake, that was it. that was rock bottom.

i still have that bottle of sake, it’s on the end table in the living room. so i guess i never hit rock bottom.

by the way, i haven’t actually been out drinking in a few months, but then i went out the other night and had exactly three drinks and it was like BLAMMO!!

not drinking really kills your tolerance. it’s hard being a sober drunk.

So I was at the liquor store the other night and the guy carded me. I’m in my 30s now, but I still get carded sometimes so I was like “oh, ok” and I flipped out my wallet and showed him the ID.

He says “can you take it out of there for me, please?” And I’m like “uh, ok” and wondering what the hell dude, isn’t this just a formality? Do you REALLY need to thoroughly inspect the ID?

So he takes my ID, looks at it, and says “really.” In this snide kind of way that’s like “yeah right, dickhead. you’re not fooling anyone with this cracker-jack box ID.”

And I’m kind of speechless, I mean, come ON man, I’m 30something fucking years old, get off my case, so I just say “yup” and he says “when’s your birthday?” like this guy STILL can’t believe I’m over 21.

I tell him when my birthday is, and then for good measure I add in “which makes me well over 30 years old” and he’s like “WELL OK, MAN, AT LEAST YOU STILL GET CARDED, WOW”.

Then he told me how bad he felt when people stopped carding him.

It was a stupid encounter all around.

I don’t like gin.

When I tell people I don’t like gin, they usually think it has something to do with a bad experience I’ve had: maybe I threw up once after too much gin? But no, that’s not the case at all. The simple truth is that I don’t like the taste. Can’t stand it. It tastes like plants, or sticks or something. I’ve had Mojitos made with gin and they were almost tolerable, given the considerable amount of mint to mask the flavor. I also don’t mind it in a Long Island Iced Tea, where its ginnish taste is completely lost, but otherwise I just won’t drink gin.

One time, years ago, I remember there was nothing in the house to drink except a bottle of my roommate’s gin. I tried drinking some of it, but just couldn’t do it. I didn’t even have anything on hand to chase it with, so I had to get the taste out of my mouth by eating cold cuts. That’s right, I was chasing my gin with slices of ham.

I wrote a short vignette of a story once. It included a dialog between two girls that was somewhat autobiographical:

“He gave me a bottle of gin, isn’t that special?”
“What’s so special about that?”
“He hates gin. Won’t touch it. For a drunk like him to give me a bottle of something that’s just for me – that he’ll never drink; that’s very special.”

For the record, there is only one other thing that I know of that I won’t drink, and that’s a Bloody Mary. Tomato juice? Pickled green beans? Are you kidding me? I can’t swallow that shit.

I guess the fact that there are things I won’t drink means there is hope for me yet.