There's nothing that screams "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas!" more than a small mirror striped with big fat rails of cocaine. Or, in my case, a cracked CD case piled with an ivory powder mountain. It isn't often that I get to hang out with my brother, seeing as he fucked off to Michigan a while back to lay hardwood floors and gamble away his meager earnings in cut-rate casinos.

We each gave Mom a kiss and lied our way out the door, claiming marijuana and beer. The truth was less wholesome but equally illegal. With poker chips in hand, we set off upon slush girdled streets on a southeasterly course.

After a brief visit with a merchant of casual self-destruction, I wheedled and cajoled. "Drink with me! Come on!" My brother rarely drinks, if ever. After growing up watching our father sleep naked on the back porch, muttering and scratching as insects feasted upon his hairy ass, he was not inclined to imbibe the spirits of garrulous shitfacery. He's a stoner, plain and simple, not a boozer. He declined.

I implied he had female genitals. "Why not just drink appletinis and take scissors to your manhood? Show me your strength, little brother. I demand you do shots with me. You want to share in my cocaine frenzy? Then you gotta down a few glasses of the see-through poison, too. Deal?"

We settled on vodka and 7-Up. I bought the cheapest fifth available, Fleischmann's, for $6.99. We got back to my apartment, cranked up some music (I'm still in a Wilco phase) and mixed a couple cocktails.

Two hours later, I was kicking his ass in Texas Hold-Em. I was on my fifth drink. He was half finished with his first. We were both jacked on generous helpings of Christmas snow.

Another two hours later, the bottle was empty and the pile was gone, snorted away in gleeful rushes. We were both mouthbreathing, and by now he was kicking my ass in poker. I was probably very drunk, but the opposing substances balanced each other, preventing me from stumbling, bumbling, or word jumbling. All I had was an overriding feeling of numbness. Eventually we ran out of energy and went to sleep. I slept poorly.

When I rose shortly after noon on the 26th, my stomach lining felt like it had melted and been sucked down into my intestines. I felt queasy and weak. I vomited twice before showering. I drank water and water again. We hopped in the car and made for Mom's place, from where my brother would depart back to Ypsilanti or Kalamazoo or wherever the fuck he stays in that barren winterbound state.

I only made it two blocks before I had to pull over and yark again. I did. Again and again and again. After the water, it was just dry chucks. Unpleasant. At the end, maybe the thirteenth or fourteenth heave, my tummy found something new to eject. Good old-fashioned crimson blood. This was a new experience for me. It swirled and spread atop the puddle of water and digestive acids I'd started with. It tasted of pennies.

I collapsed back into the car, digging through my pockets for candy canes and starlight mints. Anything to mask that thick ugly taste.

My brother spoke. "And you wanted me to drink that shit? Daaammmnnn. That was blood, right?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"...No."

"Still wanna talk shit about me not drinking?"

"Not really."

When I drank beer a few days later, I threw up after three. I couldn't handle alcohol. Still can't. I think something is broken. 3:27 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm