So, rum and I aren’t very compatible. I mean, I drink it and I’m gone. Can’t remember anything, and not totally sure I’d want to, actually.
I remember the first time I ever even had some. It was my first party, and I was only like 16 or so. I walked into the joint, and it was awesome. Or, at least, I thought it was awesome, but looking back it was kind of lame. It was just tons of people sitting or standing. I don’t think there was even music. But still, It’s my FIRST party, of course I was going to think it was rad. Anyways, I was being all hardcore and sipping on Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I was scared to actually get drunk, but that didn’t stop me from playing the part. I would occasionally slur a word or two, or maybe throw a stagger in there, just to play it safe. Everyone who was cool was drunk, and I was one of them, or so it seemed. After about 2 ½ hours, I had finished my third lemonade. Being the social butterfly that I am, I moved from group to group. Talking, laughing, and slurring my words, you know, to still be cool and all. I finally made it over to my brother and his friends. Now my brother was very used to this, being older than me. So I would try and mimic him. Be the perfect blend of funny, but aloof somehow. My brother’s friend was extremely attractive. Baby blue eyes, nice body, and all that jazz. In his pretty lap was a very large bottle, and inside this bottle swished spiced rum. He handed it over to my sibling who took a sip and chased it, then handed it back. Suddenly, the stud of a friend focused those two oceans he calls eyes on me. He motioned for me to grab the bottle. I was hesitant of course, but I slowly clutched it with both hands. In my drunk voice, I asked about a chaser. Then my brother butted in and assured me I didn’t need one. Which was definitely a lie, and I knew it. He wanted to get a laugh out of my drunken self being disgusted by the grotesque liquid I held between my hands. I was fake drunk, so I had to be an idiot. It’s in the rule book, and I’m a stickler for the rules. So I played dumb, and tried to keep my look of agony under wraps. I pressed the bottle to my lips, and drank. I about hurled right then and there. They laughed and said to go again. I couldn’t just not do it. My brother and his sexy friend were telling me to. So I did. After that, it all turned black. Safe to say, I was a lightweight.
Three lemonades and two gulps of rum, and I was on my ass. My last memory was the blue-eyed beauty, which was a good last memory to have. Then I awoke in my car. Disoriented, I looked around and came to the conclusion that I was still parked at the party house. I was freezing, this was December, after all, and I lived high up in the mountains. I noticed my shoes are missing, so my feet were exposed to the elements. Upon that realization, came another. A stench made itself known to me, a stench of vomit. I look down, and guess what? I’m drenched in it. My shirt and sweater were literally soaked, which added to my body temp reaching Ice Age proportions. I decided to look around my car. There was a sheet, which was used to cover me up in the ice tomb I was concealed in. A nice gesture, I suppose. There was a trashcan, too. More puke in it, ‘twas a beautiful sight. I noticed two things. My shoes? Nowhere in sight. My keys? Practically nonexistent. So I exit my vehicle, and whip out my phone. I had just about 4% left on my battery, so I was like fire to unlock it, and dial my mom. I got one ring in, and then nothing. My cell had perished. So what was I to do? I wasn’t in a very good part of town, and felt unsafe. I overcame that, and then thought up the idea to walk to the gas station and use their phone, foolproof! So I started my trek to the gas station. Roads get very cold at night, especially in the winter. My socks weren’t even socks anymore. They were just hole-ridden rags I placed on my feet in a hurry to get out of my house. So I was walking practically barefoot on what felt like a frozen river. I could feel the frostbite nipping at my poor little toes. I really have never been that cold, it was so terrible. I finally made it to the gas station and, to my luck, it was closed. It opened promptly at 6 A.M., and the glimpse I had of my phone, before it departed, told me it was just after 4 in the morning. So I assumed it was around a quarter until 5, and I almost cried. I was cold and covered in my own stomach acid. So I walked to the main road, and made my way to the yellow lines. I turned those lines into my personal catwalk. I thought that someone would drive by, see me in my distress, and help.
I was right about the cars and them seeing me, but not so much with the helping part. So I just walked. I, honestly, couldn’t feel my feet anymore. I tried to turn my phone on again, but to no avail. Then came a savior to me in the form of the dilapidated post office. All I could think was that its lights were on and I was saved! I could barely hold in my excitement. I burst through the doors, expecting warmth to surround me. It didn’t, it was only a few degrees warmer, but no big change. Oh, but that didn’t destroy my spirit! When I noticed that there was no one there, was when my spirit was destroyed. So I gave up. There were no chairs, so I just sat on a table they had against an ugly wooden panel wall. Me sitting evolved into me laying down, and that evolved into me sleeping. Yes sir, I slept in a post office. I woke up, and looked at the clock on the wall. There was only fifteen minutes until 6 A.M, and the gas station would be open! Hopefully, with people, too! I got and made sure I had my phone, but something felt weird. I turned my phone over and discovered my battery had decided to leave me (The back to my phone was missing). So I let out a whine, it felt good to. I had to retrace my steps. Finally found it in the road, thankfully unharmed. I journeyed back to the gas station. I didn’t let myself get excited this time, until I saw that there was a car parked next to the building. I ran as fast as my frozen feet would allow, and made it to the heavy glass doors of the Chevron. I walk in, and there’s a foreign guy working the register. I tell him I need the phone, and he nods and smiles. Then he SHUFFLES to the back of the store. Oh no, take your time, I just look like I need medical attention, no big deal. I mean I was shivering, drenched in vomit, shoeless, and pale. The guy looked at me like I was the most normal thing in the world. He finally comes back, and hands me the phone. I say thanks and begin dialing and trying to phone my mother. The entire time me and the cashier was looking at me, and would occasionally nod and smile. I pressed the call button, but all I heard was a beeping noise from the other line. So I called my dad, same thing happened. So I called a few of my friends, and it continued to only beep.
Frustrated, I finally told the worker that his phone is broken or something. He proceeds to tell me that I have to dial *78 before making my call. I just stood there in disbelief. I was, no joke, standing there for ten whole minutes trying to use this phone. He stared at me for ten whole minutes, watching me struggle. I had to actually say something before he told me how to use that stupid thing. After I was done having a mental breakdown, I called my mom. She was pissed, I wasn’t allowed to go to parties, and she also is a woman who enjoys her sleep, which I had interrupted. After she hung up on me in anger, I waited for her to arrive. I walked to the back of the store, feeling the dirt on the linoleum press against the soles of my feet. I came upon a sketchy-looking wooden picnic table. I thought to myself, “Now, why would they need a rickety old picnic table in the center of a gas station?” your guess is as good as mine. I sat down, thinking it’d crumble. It was old, grey and had started to splinter. Luckily, it remained intact. I sat there and waited for 30 minutes for my mom. I finally heard the doors open and the clang of the cowbell they tied to the handle. It was my mommy. Never have I been so relieved to see that gorgeous mug of hers ever before. I made my way over to her, my arms wide. I was totally in need of a hug, but a mom hug specifically. I was an inch away from feeling her body heat, when she looked me up and down. Disgust written all over her face. She pushed me away, and my heart was broken. I tried to speak, but she said to just shut up and get in the car. Over the next week, my keys were recovered, my shoes were not. Instagram was plastered with photos of me doing God knows what.
Apparently after the second gulp and I was blacked out, I puked violently on my friend, was taken outside to continue puking, stopped for a bit, went back inside where I started puking again, my friend Cherish dragged me into the bathroom where she finger-fu*ked my throat until I couldn’t puke anymore. Afterwards, I went and talked to Danielle in the kitchen, where she says my eyes rolled back and I fell backwards on the floor, where someone promptly stole my shoes. Once I was properly unconscious, my brother stuffed me in my car with a thin sheet and a trashcan. So that, my friends, is why I don’t drink rum. Quite a lovely story, am I right
