Drinking + Convertible = Clairvoyant
I was a late bloomer when it came to flirting with alcoholism. Somehow, I managed to not have a drink until I was 21-- Blame it on the Baptist upbringing. A couple years after college, two guys friends who had moved off to another town and become Presbyterians-- and thus fans of the booze-- came for a visit.
I only had a few hours to spare because I had tickets to the midnight premier of X-Men Origins: Wolverine.
Blame that on the four-older-brothers upbringing. The guys showed up at my house with arms full of things you have to be 21 or older to purchase. It was like an all-you-can-drink buffet and a jackpot for a naive 23 year old who had a liquor pallet to explore.
I started out with the usual beer and wine, then moved on to a shot of tequila here, some whiskey there, before really getting ambitious and finding out what was so great about Southern Comfort and Rum and exploring whether there really was a difference between Jack Daniels and Crown.
After a rushed hour of imbibing, I was feeling pretty good. My roommate Shleisel eyed me suspiciously, wondering whether I would really make it to the movie with her. My oldest brother was driving and when he showed up in my Sister-in-Laws 1983 Camaro Convertible, Shleisel volunteered to drive. I remember climbing into the back of the convertible with the top down and the blur of a green light as we left the neighborhood. That is the last thing I recall.
Apparently alcohol can take a bit of time to fully produce it's effects-- who knew?! Because of this it is not recommended that you continuously pour bottles of it down your gullet.
My brother and Shleisel quickly realized that I was in no condition to wait in line outside of a movie so they opted for a tex-mex pitstop in hopes that a little caloric intake would counteract the gallons of alcohol I had just consumed.
I concentrated hard on dipping my tortillas into queso but failed to include an actual tortilla in the process as I repeatedly submerged my fist into melted cheese and got confused about where my tortilla had gone. I kept insisting that I was not, in fact, drunk.
Midnight was drawing closer so we made for the parking lot. Somewhere between opening the door and climbing into the backseat, I disappeared. An employee on a smoke break screamed "OH MY GOD!" as I fell straight back from the car and landed flat on my back on the pavement. The tex-mex worker ran over to dispense medical advice and describe the epic nature of my fall as I cackled and rolled about on the pavement waving away their worry by repeatedly shouting "Wolverine! Wolverine!"
We were the last to arrive at the movie and ended up on the front row. This was convenient because just as the previews ended I turned to Shleisel and in my best attempt at a whisper told her "I just threw up on myself." I have a vague memory of being rushed up the aisle and then standing over a trash can as I vomited with an audience of moviegoers watching. I like to believe that all my former high school friends and church camp crushes were there to witness this.
We ended up at my brother's house where his wife put me in the shower- with my clothes still on-- and shushed me so that I would not wake my nieces and nephews who were sleeping and did not need to find out that their favorite aunt was toying with the idea of becoming a raging alcoholic who vomits in public.
The clothed shower was very satisfying. Afterwards I lounged in the living room and repeatedly asserted that I was not drunk while referring to myself in the third person as my dog, Zola. "Zola is not drunk, Zola is just happy!"
They would later tell me that at this point I began talking about random people and sharing insights into their secrets-- though these were things I actually didn't know and had never thought about. I outed a girl we all knew from the gym and proclaimed that she was a lesbian. I accused someone of having an affair despite knowing any details about it, and made various other predictions about the future actions of our mutual acquaintances.