When I’m Drunk in Columbia I Interact With People
If you were a girl and met me this past weekend chances are you thought I was either entertaining or creepy, depending on how awesome you are. Pretty much from the minute I got in town my only goal was to get stupid face wasted. I’m talking the kind of drunk that would curb stomp my morality into oblivion. We started drinking off the keg I bought about three seconds after we got it home. Combine an early start to drinking with a Big 12 Tournament semifinal game and I’d be fucked up on a normal day. But throw all that on top of a return to Columbia and it becomes the perfect storm. I was super drunk and crazy excited by about 11:00pm. I was enthusiastically giving zero fucks.
This was all before we went to the fraternity house. I might be 1000% biased but if there’s a fraternity that treats its alumni better than mine I haven’t seen it. Granted I don’t know how much of my own treatment I actually witnessed since the interactions I had that night are a giant blur of handshakes, hugs, shots, and Franzia bag slapping. There seriously must have been 20 bags of Franzia floating around that place. Either that or the guy with the one bag was never more than eight feet from me, which is a distinct possibility. Even the girls were hospitable. One of my Twitter followers was there waiting with a batch of cookies she baked me. Thanks for those, the white Franzia really complimented them.
Of the aforementioned entertaining/creepy scenario, I’m pretty sure the first girl I made out with that night fell into the latter. I don’t blame her, I probably came on a little strong, my bad. To be fair though, my BAC was easily higher than her age. Hell it was higher than my age. I can’t blame her for
sprinting discreetly slipping away. In fact it was an intuitive decision. About ten minutes later I was in one of the house showers (sorry guys) puking up all the toilet wine and cheap liquor I had been force-fed.
In defense of me vomiting, my alcohol tolerance is as high as ever, but being someone who can afford grownup booze I long ago lost my taste for shitty liquor. Tequila distilled through dead Tijuana alley cats doesn’t sit with me like it used to. The second girl I made out with, and the one I ended up taking home, probably did not know about that first girl, or my shower purge. This probably isn’t the best way to find out now that I think about it. Don’t worry though, I totally rinsed with a Natty. And we had a good time so who cares? Credit to you for being cool enough to find my drunken bullshit entertaining.
Any other exchanges I had Friday night, or at any point throughout the post-stripper portion of the bachelor party on Saturday are mostly foggy memories. If you met me during that time period then it was great to meet you… probably. And you might not reciprocate that feeling… maybe.
Sunday was supposed to be my day of rest in preparation for my epic 13 hour drive back to Austin, but then some guys from the house invited me out drinking so I decided to continue my brilliant decision streak and did that instead. Fast forward through several pitchers and a lot of Rumpleminz and I was doing shots with some guys from another house that recognized me from the TFM videos. We spent the rest of the night chatting up some girls. I might have also taken a quick break from that conversation to accost Mizzou’s back up power forward Steve “Big Minutes” Moore and slur my undying love for the basketball team.
When the bar closed these girls were unfortunately not totally sold on the idea of going back with us to one of the guys’ apartment and taking shots of Wild Turkey. Sounds weird, I know. I mean who wouldn’t want to follow three shitfaced strangers back to an apartment and take shots 101 proof liquor on a Sunday night? Then I threw the most pathetic Hail Mary I’ve ever thrown and
casually blatantly dropped the fact that I worked for TFM. And here I thought Steve Moore had given me the most pathetic look I would get that night. That led to this tweet exchange:
In all honesty it’s for the best those girls didn’t come back with us. Not two minutes later I was breaking up a potential fight with some townies. Also, if sex was my endgame then it was a fruitless endeavor anyway. I was so disgusting by that point that I wouldn’t have even masturbated, let alone force someone else to touch me. I hadn’t showered that day and was wearing at least half the clothes I had worn the night before. I was absolutely filthy. My balls were dripping with the kind of boozy sweat generally reserved for someone who runs a marathon the day after Mardi Gras. Good call ladies.
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