Lesson learned: When over half of the bottle is gone, it's probably time to stop. Unless you want to spend the hours from 2:40-5:25 in the morning cleaning up spilled booze and vomit.
I've been waiting for so long to see my favorite cousin - the crazy, bisexual artsy one. We talked a lot online and over the phone, but a face to face meeting was necessary. Finally I got to see him yesterday for Thanksgiving. The day started out innocently enough. He and I went to downtown Tempe, visited some of the cool herb and smoke shops, bought jewelry from street vendors and walked on glass for money (apparently he's gotten into street performing and he does this regularly). We snuck onto the roof of a Chase credit card building to smoke some of our newly purchased goods, then promptly went back down to the street to get sodas. I met a nice man who offered to pay me as a part of his street performance act; it's too bad I don't live in Tempe, otherwise I could have made some good money as a jazz singer.
We met up with the rest of the family back at the house and my brother, my artsy cousin, my other favorite cousin (his twin) and I parked ourselves in the desert with paper plates piled full of food. We talked about virtually everything ever and then we decided it would be a good idea to visit our other cousin who just got out of rehab. She's doing alright. She looked good, she sounded happy, and her nutcase of a mother isn't around to drive her insane.
It was dark now. We managed to convince our parents to let us stay at the house overnight while they went back to the hotel. Once again, the night started off innocently enough. The four of us went to the guest house to watch raunchy movies and listen to trippy music. We all went out to smoke again (my other favorite cousin doesn't smoke; he's a serious cross country runner) and we resumed watching the movie. I don't know exactly when I fell asleep, but it was before the movie was over because I don't remember watching the credits.
I woke up to the smell of Jack Daniels. My two cousins (lets call them Thing 1 and Thing 2 - Thing 1 is artsy bisexual one, Thing 2 is the cross country runner) were both lying at the foot of the bed. Thing 1 was waving the unopened bottle around and saying my name in various accents. My brother was still playing GTA.
Three seconds after I opened my eyes, I was bombarded with requests to take the first shot. I figured I hadn't had a chance to party with my cousins, so I took a swig and passed it. Thing 1, not to be outdone, took two quick drinks and handed the bottle back to me. I opened a can of coke, made us both cocktails, counted down to three and tipped my glass back. The night went downhill from there.
The final count as of 2:30 am was:
Me - 3 shots, two Jack and Cokes, one whiskey on the rocks, and unnumbered sips in between formal drinks
Thing 1 - 7 shots, two whiskeys on the rocks, unnumbered sips x 2
Thing 2 - 2 shots, one Jack and Coke
Brother - a few sips before deciding he didn't like the taste
Thing 1 was clearly in the lead, but I had no intention of catching up. Still holding the much-emptied bottle in his hand, he staggered around the room speaking exclusively in a Scottish accent, telling his brother how much he really cared about him and proclaiming that he would get Thing 2 and my brother laid as soon as possible. He may or may not have said something about how his best friend thought I was ridiculously hot. I chose to ignore it. I (perhaps stupidly) chose that particular time to tell my brother that I was bisexual. I don't think he was terribly surprised. The next day he asked me a few questions about it, and that was that. I also decided it would be a good idea to announce that I wasn't a virgin, which surprised everyone except for Thing 1. Thank god I still had the wits about me to keep mum about the details of my escapades. Thing 2 was listening to his iPod on the floor and then connected it to the speakers in his room. We put on Hendrix, cleared the chairs out from the center of the room, and started an air-guitar jam sesh.
It was at that moment that Thing 1 staggered backward, dropped the bottle on the bed, and fell into my arms. For a few seconds, he continued to loudly proclaim that he wasn't drunk, that he could stand on his own, and that he was Bionic Man. Then he went silent. Before I had time to react, I realized what was about to happen and I drunkenly stood in the center of the room as the boy leaning against me proceeded to projectile vomit all over me and then pass out. I've never sobered up more quickly in my life.
If I don't make it as a performer, I'm going into emergency response. We were beautifully efficient; we got everyone showered and mouthwashed, got me out of my dirty clothes and into clean attire, got Thing 1 out of his dirty clothes and into a warm bath, got the carpet cleaned out, got the clothing and booze-soaked bedsheets in and out of the laundry, got Thing 1 into clean clothes and into bed, got the bottle out of the house and into a neighbor's full trash can, got the shower rinsed out and got everything completely Febrezed in under 4 hours. Didn't leave a fucking trace.
Dignified night? Not in the slightest. Innocent night? Nope. Fun night? Not after about 2:45 in the morning, it wasn't.
Worthwhile night? Definitely. In a really sick sort of way, this story serves as one huge reminder of how close we are. I said things I haven't said to some of my closest friends yet. Yes, we were drunk, but we were honest, we were heartfelt, and we were loving. Until I got puked on, it was the most fun and the best conversation I've had in a long, long time. Even with the vomit, I think I'll take it.
Judge me if you will. But this was a good Thanksgiving.
