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Reminiscing On My First Blackout

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It was a cold evening in the middle of February, freshman year. The only thing to keep me warm was a girlfriend who wouldn’t stop nagging and a handle of cheap vodka.

It’s hard to say where things went wrong. Some would say purchasing a $12 half gallon of liquor from a less than reputable brand was where things went awry. Others would point to the water bottles I packed that, in fact, did not contain water as what sent me over a cliff. Personally, I place blame on a (former) girlfriend whose negligence allowed me to drink so much.

You see, standing at 6 feet, 6 inches and tipping the scales at a feathery 280 pounds, I felt invincible. This body was built to drink. Now, I had gotten drunken off my ass many a time. But as far as I knew, fully blacking out was a myth. It was a story people used as an excuse for making cringeworthy decisions. But that night, I learned the truth. It was like coming face to face with the boogeyman. All those stories I had heard about this supposed beast, stories that I had so naively dusted off came to fruition. THE BLACKOUT IS REAL.

9:00 pm
I bust through the door of my girlfriend’s place wielding an obscure brand of 100 proof Russian vodka.

Here came my first warning:

“Be careful with that. You can’t pass out anywhere — you’re too big to carry,” she so rationally reasoned.

Safe to say I was not going to let a woman tell me about what I can and cannot drink. Of course I started taking behemoth pulls from that thing because I’m a man and I make my own decisions. 

Again she interjected:

“Dude, seriously, it’s not funny. If you get too drunk, I’m not going to be able to get you home.”

Again, I am a man. The more you tell me I can’t do something, the more I am going to want to do it. So again I marched forward on my path to self destruction.

10:00 pm

This once heavy container of vile liquid is feeling a bit light. I look down — only a quarter remains. It’s time to head out for the night but I am afraid this well will run dry. I book it to the freezer where I find a delightful surprise. It is an island of misfit alcohol. Half filled water bottles with who the hell knows what inside. I grab two of them when a familiar voice can be heard in the background.

“Don’t you dare…”  “You have had plenty. Put it away.”

This was the tipping point. Do I handle myself like an adult and just call it a night or do I ride this drunken wave into the darkness? You already know how this story goes. I slide a bottle into each back pocket and we forge on into the night.

11:00 pm

My legs have lost all stability. Also, what happened to the rest of this handle? Some douchebag must have drank it when I wasn’t looking. Fucking dick.

I gotta piss. Where’s the balcony?

Woah is this balcony wobbly or is it just me? Did I just get piss on myself?

Dammit, that’s definitely piss. 

Time to head back inside. Wonder where my girlfriend’s at.

I make my way back in the house and reach in my pocket to start on one of those water bottles. As I go for the first swig, I make eye contact with my girlfriend across the room. She is NOT happy. Without missing a beat, keeping my eyes locked on her, I chug that bottle in the most defiant manner possible.

12:00 am

1:00 am

2:00 am

3:00 am

I’m really thirsty. Can I stand? Nope. No way that’s happening. I call out to my girlfriend for assistance.

“Hey, babe, can I have some water?”

She stomps into the bathroom with an anger that could never be replicated.

“I’m not getting you ANOTHER fucking glass of water. You already spilled the last three glasses. I’m sick of your shit tonight.”

It was at that moment that I realized I was laying on the bathroom floor, head on a pillow, and in a pool of what presumably was my last three requests for water. 

You see it turns out that shortly after I chugged that mystery bottle of what we now know was Dragonberry (I still to this day will not drink that shit), things went downhill pretty quickly. Allegedly, the captain of the basketball team tried to make out with my girlfriend and I just stood there watching like a chump.

That was the moment that my girlfriend woefully came to the realization that, as she put it, “the lights were on but Dent was definitely not home.”

It gets worse.

You see, my girlfriend was able to get my drunk ass down the steps and out of the house but about halfway home, my body decided to reflect the state that my mind was in: DEAD.

With tears strolling down her face, she dragged my lifeless corpse the rest of the distance home. I spent the next three hours yacking hard until I came to. 

It gets even worse.

In my unconscious state, my (former) girlfriend decided to peruse the messages on my phone. Pretty cowardly move if we’re being honest but I digress. The point is, as you can imagine she did not like what she found. 

The most unfair part was that she expected me to defend my actions minutes after exiting a blackout. Picture me drunkenly mumbling about how I don’t know who Katie is while a super fed up white girl is shoving my own phone in my face like I don’t know what I already wrote. 

So as a lesson for all you kids out there, blackouts are real and if you think you may be experiencing one, take a few precautions. Hide your phone, stay close to home, and don’t be around your nagging girlfriend who surely will try to foil your good time.

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Dent is a washed up former athlete who swears he's totally over his ex-girlfriend. One of these days he'll get around to applying to a real job, but until then he'll keep pumping out lackluster articles while downing copious amounts of Natty Light.

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