Your Journey To 21: Part 1

Tomorrow, I’ll legally be allowed to do what I’ve been doing for the last seven-ish years. I’m like many of you. Everybody’s first drink came from their Father’s liquor cabinet. You and your degenerate little friends decided to take two shots apiece, bully the kid giant fucking pussy that never folded his Nike Elite socks and refused to indulge in the practice, and pretended to be way drunker than you actually were. You did this twice and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it at the lunch table. Good times.

 As a high school underclassman, I paid some kid one-hundred dollars (in a wad of wrinkled up five-dollar bills split between six of us) for two racks of miller light and a handle of Jack Daniels. Forty minutes later, he’d come back with one rack of Natty Ice, and a fifth of flavored Svedka that’s packaging resembled the NYC gay pride parade. I can’t tell you how many times I was left wondering; it’s so crazy that the liquor store is always running out of Whiskey. You would think they would keep some extra bottles in the back or something. Drinking at that point in your career is all about finding your boundaries and figuring out whether or not you’re a lightweight. Maybe you’ll blackout a time or two, but you’re mostly just figuring the whole thing out. Your biggest concern was getting rid of the empties. For three years, I had a few empty thirties of PBR hanging out in a childhood toy chest. It’s likely by the beginning of high school you have one friend whose parents are absent chill as fuck, so you’ll end up in his dog-covered basement pretty much every weekend. 

When you finally get both your real and fake driver’s licenses, the world becomes your Oyster. Thanks to my guy Sajid, who ran the shady liquor store twenty-five minutes away, I planted my feet into the world of entrepreneurship. As a high school upperclassman, it’s an unwritten rule that you have to stay sober, waiting for an 8:45 Snapchat from a Sophomore that’s offering to pay you ten dollars and a BJ for a twelve-pack of white claws. There’s no rush in life quite like playing Russian roulette, going into liquor stores you know nothing about. Seeing your boy come out with a thirty of Coors Light when you thought he wasn’t getting out of there without a citation is a feeling that can only be compared to watching Miracle for the first time. At this stage in your life, drugs and alcohol have become normalized. Whereas Freshman year, there was still a stigma around the girl that posted a Snapchat story smoking out of a Granny Smith, by the time you turn seventeen, if you aren’t engaging in illegal activities, you’re the weirdo.

I want to finish this with a Part 2 after I legally enter a bar for the first time. There’s a lot more to be said here. See you Monday.

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