My Mind on Shuffle

If it seems like a lot of these flashbacks involve the consumption of alcoholic beverages, well…what can I tell you?  And for the kids out there, let it be officially stated that I do not support underage drinking.  (Unofficially?  Oh, unofficially, I'm all for it.)  At any rate, there are many events in your life that you'll remember forever, your first kiss, your first concert, your first car accident, the first time you wake up in bed with a stranger of the same sex…  And then there are the firsts which you'll never fully remember, but have them retold to you by those witness who were there, laughing their asses off, at the time.  This is one of the latter.  For the true ironic twist, a little pre-info: I had recently (like a week before this occured) lamented the fact that my short drinking history included no instances of lapsed consciousness.  This recounts the night I lost my blackout virginity (not the same thing as passing out and being gang-raped, thankfully.  I'm sorry, is gang-rape not funny?  Would being tea-bagged be the better joke there?  Help me out.)

 One random Friday way back whence sophomore year of college, my roommate and I were bored.  It was a beautiful spring day, classes were done for the week, the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, it was clear what had to be done.  It was time to start binge drinking.*  I mean, shoot, what else was there to do at four in the afternoon at Valpo?  So we recruited random friend #1 (hereby referred to as RF1, partly because I totally can't remember his name) and token-hot-chick-my-roommate-totally-could-have-nailed-if-he-didn't-have-a-girlfriend,-the-loser (hereby referred to as Hot Girl, cause I want to write THCMRTCHNIHDHAGTL even less than you want to read it).  Because I'd never tried it, we decided to attempt to join the "Century Club".**

Now, if you've never tried it, Century Club (the man's version of the ever-popular Power Hour) is much more difficult than it sounds.  Beer, or, I would imagine, any carbonated beverage is not well suited to shot form (any game that involves strategic burping is not easy).  Our beer of choice, Red Dog, is really not well suited to drinking in any form, but hey, three cans for a buck-that's value.  You don't believe me, I know.  Next time you're drinking, drink your beer in large gulps, once a minute.  Good.  Now do it again.  And again.  And again.  How're you feeling?  That's what I thought.  Now never doubt me again!  Jackass.  Where was I?

Ok, so roommate, RF1 and I were going to attempt the Century Club and Hot Girl was going to be our designated pourer.  Aaaaand, we're off.  Things are going well.  We've got the Dave playing in the background, we're shooting the shit, we're shooting beer on the minute…  At some point I say something stupid (surprise!!) and Hot Girl assigns me a Penalty Shot.  Let it be known that there is no such thing as a Penalty Shot in Century Club.  This is not hockey, here.  But hey, when Hot Girl tells you to drink, you drink (man rule #239).  She finds this inexplicably hilarious, and I'm doubling up for about ten minutes straight. 

We're cruising past the 30 minute mark, holding strong, feeling good…well, as good as you can with thirty shots of Red Dog in you…

40 minutes roll by and Roommate is starting to slow down…RF1 is going strong…Hot Girl is looking hot…I'm not doing to bad…

As we roll past the 50 minute mark, Roommate makes the dreaded bolt for the bathroom…RF1, no problems…Hot Girl, you guessed it, still hot…me, starting to feel it…

At 53 or so, Roommate returns…he has battled the beer gods and lost, he's out-the pussy…RF1 is kicking some Red Dog ass…Hot Girl, you're sick of hearing about and she no longer matters to the story, but she is still pouring…I'm really hurting…and whoops, there I go for the bathroom…

I return around the 60 minute mark.  The wise thing to do here is to follow Roommate's lead and bag it, rehydrate and get ready for the rest of the evening (remember, it's about five thirty at this point…in the afternoon).  However, upon seeing that RF1 is still alive and kicking, and not wanting to puss out like Roommate, I decide that the proper thing to do is "puke and rally".  So, not wanting an unfair advantage I do five shots in a minute to catch up from my bathroom break.  This is the last thing I really remember.  From here on out, this story has been reconstructed by the other characters present.

Apparently, I held out until about 80 or so at which point I gave up and slumped in our stolen lounge chair(now that I think about it, we stole a lounge chair freshman year and sophomore year we placed one of our room-supplied lounge chairs in the actual lounge because we didn't have room for it, but I digress), semi-conscious.  At some point I bolted upright from the chair, wandered across the room and face planted into my open closet (imagine the image of a tree falling in a forest, complete keel-over).

So there I am, head buried in my laundry basket (into which I, miraculously, merely dry-heaved).  After chilling out there for a while, I somehow made it across the room and curled up on the floor half under my desk.  I believe that seemed like a good idea because the garbage can seemed like a much more apt vomit receptacle than the laundry basket.  You know, just in case.

At some point, I hauled myself into bed (the top bunk no less!) to "sleep it off".  At around nine (PM, these events have transpired over one afternoon, the night is still young here), Roommate busts in asking me if I want to go to some off-campus party.  I rouse myself enough to notice that it is, in fact only nine o'clock and that I am, most definitely, already hung over.  I tell him, predictably, to shove it and "fall back asleep" (or pass back out, your call).***

The next day, Roommate and I debriefed and I finally had it.  My first blackout story.

*"Binge drinking" is a term almost exclusively reserved for the context of "in a study on underage binge drinking".  I have never heard any exchange such as, "Want to drink?" "Screw that, let's binge drink!" Or, "Man, it's totally time to start binge drinking."  I think part of this is due to the fact that, at least in college, to refer to drinking as binge drinking is pure redundancy.

**One hundred shots of beer in one hundred minutes. 

***This party ended with Roommate sprinting back to our room in the middle of the night, completely wasted and telling me one of the best stories ever.  One which I am, most unfortunately, not allowed to repeat.  It was obviously pretty good since he ran about four miles at two in the morning, bombed off his ass.  And now you all hate me for not telling you.  Sorry.