Since I'm looking backawards lately, I'm going to tell you about my first time getting drunk.

I was at my best friend Teddy's house. I'd been living there for a couple of months, ditching school. I wasn't getting along with my folks or my peers, so Ted's basement bedroom was the perfect place to hide. We'd set up blanket forts and play RPGs on Super Nintendo to pass the time, chainsmoking Newports along the way.

One night, I somehow ended up with a fifth of Southern Comfort. I don't remember a whole lot about what happened, but I do know that while trying to pass out, dizzy and spinning, I'd puked on the carpet and rolled over into it. I woke up with my face in a puddle of rancid sweet SoCo pink mash.

The second time, also at Ted's, I drank my first beers. When I tried to get my bicycle from the garage, I smashed my right index finger between two panels while closing it. My fingernail took about a month to shed. I also crashed my bicycle on the way to my parents' house, and I came home bleeding and hurt all over.

Now I know when to say when. (Yeah, right. Not true. 12/3/04)
11:50 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm