Let me preface this tale by saying that part of this story is going to be false, and some parts will be truer than others. I really don't mean to lie to you, but you see, I don't really know the actually reality of what happened. (do we ever?)
. . . .
My weekend started off with a bang. It was St. Patty's Day, and although I had no intentions of taking the following Friday off, it seemed to be my fate. GMoney and I got home from work around 5:30. We changed clothes and headed up to the OTC Commons for free kegs of green beer, MinuteMan Pizza, and eye-candy to boot. Chris and Liz and some other people we knew were there, so we walked around chatting it up for about an hour. By that time the kegs had all but dried up and the pizza boxes were cleared away so that some drunk girl could climb on the counter for some kind of amateur hour dancing contest. We bowed out.
Not to say that we went home.
Even though GMoney had plans with some ladies later in the evening, I convinced him to go to Gallo's Tap Room to have another green beer with me and maybe a shot of some good Irish whiskey. It was St. Patty's Day, after all. And of course, he obliged my alcoholic endeavors. We got to Gallo's and the place was packed, with some old guy up front playing the guitar and singing Jimmy Buffett songs. All in all, the scene was pretty lame, but the Jameson really helped. We walked around the crowded bar for thirty minutes before we could get served and by that time I ordered four drinks -- I figured if it was that hard to get some beer, we had better stock up while the 'getting was good,' as they say. The old man playing up front finished up with a dreary rendition of Mustang Sally, hung his guitar by its neck and started making his way through the crowd. Of course, I immediately found him next to me and was forced to buy him a tequila.
We soon left the bar in favor of drinking beer in our living room. GMoney had to redress himself for Senior Crawl and I was still thinking about the half empty plans I had made earlier. We joked around until about ten, when he had to leave for the meet up at some girl's apartment he had never been to. I decided that it wasn't good to be alone in my nearly drunken state, so I decided to keep my plans and headed out to Traditions. When I stepped in the door there was some Pink Floyd loud on the jukebox and my favorite barkeep was serving. I pushed my way through the crowd and ordered another beer and a shot of Jagermeister to keep the party going. I rounded the bar in hopes of finding Chica there and I was not too disappointed.
Soon the story is going to get a little fuzzy.
Chica and I chatted it up for a while, talking about the stuff and fluff of our lives, all the while drinking more beer. I ordered one last round for the people around and we drank to good health and good times to come. That was the point I decided I had better take my sorry ass home. I strapped the Lincolns on tight and readied myself for a walk in the cold. That's when my night turned sour. I didn't get 100 yards from the bar when three Mexicans jumped out from behind a dumpster and demanded everything I had. In my defense, the only reason I wasn't quick to meet their demands was the severe amount of alcohol in my blood. In the end it didn't matter. The biggest one hit me square across the jaw, his fist coming completely around my head. This, in turn, lead to me rolling around on the ground and cursing up a storm. I couldn't really understand what they were saying, a jarble of Spanish and poor, heavily accented English, so I threw my cd player over the lot of them just so that they couldn't have it. I winced as the whole thing smashed in the parking lot, sending my new Jack Johnson CD flying. I simultaneously received a swift kick in the gut, knocking out what was left of the air inside my lungs. After that, I was pretty much done fighting and I handed over the contents of my pockets without saying a word. The little guy kicked me once more for good measure, took my hat, and they took of laughing in the night. Thankfully, I got home in one piece - just $200 dollars poorer.
No wait -- that's not what happened at all. . .
The last thing I remember is telling Leslie that I love her. And that even if she had a real good guy at home, that I didn't care and that I would love her anyway. I suppose that's what drunk people are supposed to do. After confessing my undying love, I walked back to where Chica and Hector were standing and offered them a toast. We finished off the shots of Jagermiester and the rest of our beer. As soon as the last of the liquor hit my stomach, I knew my expiration date was way over due. I kissed Chica goodnight, shook Hector's hand and gather my stuff, knowing that it was going to be an adventurous walk home. I left the bar, pointed myself towards my house and started walking. Unfortunately, the shortest distance between two points is not always a straight line.
The next thing I remember is crashing through the woods, and even though it didn't seem strange to me then, it is a little peculiar to me now. It's strange because there really aren't any woods even near my apartment, much less in between my starting point and my destination. Regardless, I was walking through the woods and with little concern to the branches slapping at my face and body or the relentless thorns grabbing at my every motion. My daze was broken the moment I snagged my foot on a tree root, catapulting my body, head over foot, down an eight-foot embankment. When I had finally come to all my senses, I realized to my demise, I landed in a creek bed. Luckily, it was dry. I brushed myself off, and by the grace of God alone found my way out of the woods and onto my couch.
The next morning I woke with my entire body aching from head to toe, not to mention a mouth so full of cotton you could have started a fire just by rubbing two sticks together. I beat on my alarm clock until after my shift had started. Time had gotten the better of me, and so I relented, called my boss and off of Friday's work. I told him that I turned my ankle going up the stairs the night before, and I didn't have a way into work because GMoney hadn't come home yet. He didn't expect me to walk to the bus stop and so he offered a recommendation of "put some ice on it" and he would see me on Monday.
This is the only reality that exists and is true. After all this, the story only gets crazy.
