I think I lost count of the number of shots I had last night. (UPDATE on this: After speaking with Katie, she estimates I did about 16 shots last night, two of which were doubles. Oh good lord). I also think I'm dying right now. I can count the number of times I've gotten this shitfaced on one hand. And hopefully it stays that way, because even if it sounds cliche right now, I'm not drinking another drop for the foreseeable future.
I went out with Katie last night. She'd had a horrible weekend and needed some girl time. And she was driving, therefore she had to remain sober. So we started out at a local Mexican restaurant where I imbibed on a margarita and about 4 shots of vodka.
We then proceeded to walk 2 miles around Capital Lake and then drive over to this place called Charlie's, where we ran into, let's say, a mutual friend whom I will not name to protect the innocent... lol That just kicked everything into the stratosphere of the surreal. Our friend suggested I try my vodka heated. I'd heard him talk about this before, but never had gotten around to it. So I knocked a few of those back (I started losing count after three, and he told me several times I'd regret shooting the stuff instead of sipping it). We all then decided to go over to this place called Frankie's. In the midst of all of this, I was saying a lot of shit. I have no idea the half of it. But I remember making a lot of people laugh. That's me when I'm drunk, I guess. But I wasn't merely drunk. I was fucking plastered. I then recall having my last shot lit on fire with a match. And then...
I was back in Katie's truck laughing all the way home.
Falling into my bushes getting out of her truck.
Making an ass of myself in front of Ken.
Puking into a bowl three or four times.
Waking up with the shakes several times throughout the night.
Then waking up for good feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.