Thankfully no, because I was absolutely trashed. So to translate from the above: end-of-season kickball party. Free beer starting at 8 (sure, it’s PBR but free is free and that’s Drunk Me’s favorite kind) and our team got a $50 gift certificate to the bar for having the highest bar attendance for the season.
Kickball: encouraging clumsy athleticism and functional alcoholism for three seasons now.
I’m enjoying my free beers and wings, when the captain of the team we lost to in the first round of the finals comes by with a pitcher and announces “I got a pitcher of Root Beer Barrel shots, who’s with me?”
MIGHTYNUTE HAS EVOLVED INTO JUGGERNUTE
Two rounds of shots later, and their second basegirl and I are having an absolutely wonderful time. During the regular season, she managed to elbow me in the jaw AND tackle me flat to the ground in the same game. Last night’s game, I got her out at home by dint of having about 100 pounds of mass on her and - well, ever seen those cartoons where Wile E Coyote runs at full speed into the wall? Yeah, it was like that.
So she and I are laughing about it and enjoying the friendly rivalry, and a few moments later, we find a less-crowded little alcove to ahem become better acquainted -
- for all of about thirty seconds before her boyfriend stumbles drunk out of the bathroom and thankfully is blitzed enough to NOT realize what’s going on. Brief awkward moment of “Whoa, bad idea?” “No, great idea, just bad timing.” and I hear another round of shots being called.
JUGGERNUTE USED ALCOHOL AS COPING MECHANISM. IT’S SUPER EFFECTIVE!
Eventually I manage to stagger out to the bus home once the bar’s cleared out, and drunkenly text my intern with what was meant to be “I may be calling in sick tomorrow” but apparently came out as “I may ben cat wing in still tomato.”
I get home and thankfully Sober Me has left a big 64 ounce bottle of Gatorade along with a capful of aspirin in the fridge for Drunk Me. Thank you, Sober Me! You’re the best wingman ever!
Miraculously, I did not wake up feeling like a refrigerator full of mariachi bands was dropped on my frontal lobe. I do, however, have a slightly buzzing ache to remind me that I am not in my early twenties anymore. But what a night.
