The Point

Where I went to college, we have three nights every fall that are, unavoidably, going to be party nights. Resident Assistants assigned those nights know that they will accompany some overenthusiastic first year or sophomore to the hospital to get her stomach pumped. They know that they will only be able to write social violation reports for extreme cases such as cocaine snorting and arson because everyone on campus will be violating some rule on those nights. Luckily, those students who aren't criminals or addicts or RAs are free to enjoy these three nights without fear of repercussion for minor infractions.

As an undergrad, this.was.amazing.

During my first two years in school, I had fun and I drank on these nights, however, I kept myself in check. But in junior year, I got cocky.

Really cocky.

I have *such* a crush on Runaways era Joan Jett Photo by Brad Elterman

The specific night on which this story occurred began simply enough: I had a few drinks in my room with my friends. I wandered around the halls and drank some more with friends. Then I went outside for a few cigarettes and met up with my friend Stella and her boyfriend, Stanley. We were just running out of alcohol and debating where to find more when Rosaline approached us.

Rosaline is a year older than me and she is the very definition of a hippie. The wedding rings she salivates over are wooden. She doesn't shave her armpits unless begged to do so. She has been known to go days at a time without showering. Her clothes usually have beads or talismans sewn on to them and they jingle as she walks. Obviously, she's one of the most awesome people ever born.

As she shared a cigarette with us, Rosaline announced to Stanley that she was about to have a major load of mary jane delivered to her room and he had ten minutes to decide if he was in. Stella is allergic to mary, so it was always a major treat for Stanley if he found it when he came to visit Stella.

Instead of rushing to say yes, Stanley told Rosaline he'd let her know in the next few minutes if he'd be joining her. Stella and I exchanged a quick glance of concern: Stanley should have been jumping for joy. Right then Rosaline's phone rang and she walked away to answer the call.

"What's going on?" Stella asked, brow furrowed. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm fine," Stanley answered Stella and turned to me. "Abernathy, go with me."

"WHAT?!" Stella and I shouted. I wasn't even sure Stanley liked me and here he was insisting I score mary jane with him.

"I can't go alone," he almost sounded like he was begging as he looked off to where Rosaline had disappeared. "She's kind of...different. And I don't know these people. C'mon Abbi."

Stella shoved me, "Abbi, go with him. You know Rosaline isn't the most put together and if something goes wrong you can get Stanley out of it." I looked at Stanley and examined the wrinkle-free button down oxford he was wearing, the Sperrys on his feet, the Ray Bans poking out of his pocket...he'd never do this without me. Stella was staring at me and I knew she could tell what I was thinking. "He needs you Abbi."

Thanks to Jose Cuervo and a serious lack of judgement, I finally agreed.

As we walked up to Rosaline, a rusted black jalopy pulled up to the edge of the lawn. Rosaline turned to us, "That's him. Go wait for me in the smoke room."

"The Smoke Room" was just some girl's dorm room where people were always smoking something--cigarettes, pot, crack. Seriously, the girl had no boundaries. Tentatively, Stanley and I headed to the room. My college was pretty small, so I knew the owner of the smoke room, but I worried about the implications of entering such a laissez faire environment.

Inside of the room, people were sitting everywhere. A few were smoking cigarettes, but no one was talking much. We all sat awkwardly for about five minutes before Rosaline joined us. Immediately, the room came together like a well-oiled machine: three water pipes appeared out of thin air. In no time, they were packed and lit and beginning to circle the room.

Stanley sat directly across from me. We each received pipes at the same time and looked at each other cautiously as we took our hits. Something felt weird, but I didn't say anything: I hate smoking mary. I'd only done it a few times before and never using a pipe. I sat and took the room in, which was becoming increasingly more difficult as the people within the room breathed think pale clouds of smoke into the air.

When the pipe reached me a second time, I knew something felt wrong. I looked over to Stanley and he caught my eye before motioning to the door, "I think we should leave here. Now."

Like sixteen year olds with handles of SoCo at a busted house party, we bolted. "That was crazy!" Stanley said.

"I know." We walked over to the lawn, to find Stella still smoking on a bench.

"Done already?" She raised an eyebrow as Stanley slid onto the seat next to her.

"Something was off with the mary," he told her. "Right?" he looked to me.

"Right." I breathed. Suddenly, I did not feel so well. "I'm going to go find a beer." I said, trying to save face as I began looking for a dark corner to get sick in.

***

When I came to, I realized that I was in the back of the senior dorms. I'd snuggled into the brick wall and artificial scratches all over my arms and back. I couldn't remember how I got there from the bench with Stanley and Stella, but I was sure that if I moved even an inch, I would die.

I heard music coming from the dormitory above me. Inside, girls were still drinking and smoking and partying as the night wore on. This is where I began hallucinating. 

I wiggled deeper into the earth and held my breath, sure that if someone in the dorms found me outside, they would turn me in to the police. As I listened to my breathing, it occurred to me that the ground I was laying on was on a slight incline. I became terrified that the hill was actually a giant mountain and I was going to roll down it into the street below. In my confused state, I was convinced that I was going to roll into the street and break my arms. Then someone would call the paramedics and they would call my parents. My parents would show up at the hospital and say, "Abernathy, we are so disappointed in you!"

Then they would kill me.

American Gothic by Grant Wood

I began crying and digging into the ground, literally clawing into the dirt for fear that I would roll down this "mountain." Eventually, I passed out.

***

I woke up and realized that I was beyond drunk and high. I was genuinely fucked up. Making my first intelligent decision of the entire evening, I left my hiding spot on the ground and stumbled to the back door of the senior dormitory. Luckily, a friend of mine walking through the hallway saw me standing awkwardly outside and let me in.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"I don't know!" I started crying again. "I don't want to break my arms on the mountain!"

"Alright, Abernathy. I'm walking you home." This was A Big Deal. My dormitory was at most a hundred feet from the senior dorms. I knew then that I looked just as fucked up as I felt.

via halfgodboy

My friend walked me back to my room, where I found my friends sitting around talking. I didn't even acknowledge them as I peeled off my jeans and t-shirt and crawled into my bed.

One of the girls asked if I was going to get sick.

"Probably," I told her. "I'm pretty sure I'm dying. I'll miss you."

***

When I woke up in the morning, there were twigs, clods of dirt, and leaves in my hair, under my fingernails and in every inch of my bed. I felt so sick I didn't eat again for two days.

It was easily the worst hangover of my entire life.

The Code: A Story with Hand Gestures

That's it: The Code which allows our friendship to thrive while so many others crash and burn.

Almost immediately following the development of The Code girls were out to get us. At the time, there were two girls I was hooking up with semi-regularly (aka every time we were at the same party). The first girl wasn't the best kisser, but she was--by far--the most aggressive. She was also the dirtiest talker I've ever come across. Seriously, I'm blushing now just thinking about it. We can call her Jezebel--for obvious reasons. The second girl was really into calling the shots, so we can call her Rica Suave. 


When you get down to it, the three of us were just friends with generous benefits. 


One night, I threw a huge party with Arla. Our hall was packed with people, alcohol, and a haze of smoke (from God only knows what substances). Towards the end of the night I overheard Jezebel and Rica discussing which girls at the party they would and would not hook up with. One of the girls mentioned Arla as a possible conquest and I began to laugh. 


"That will never happen," I told her firmly.


"That was rude," Rica seemed upset.


"No, it's the truth. Arla and I have a promise and she won't break it over either of you." I informed her.


"I bet I can make her." Jezebel said.


"Really?" I asked. Seriously, Jezebel was the kind of girl you make a friend with benefits and not an actual girlfriend. She had no hope of being the kind of girl who breaks up friendships. 


"I bet I could." Rica said, staring at Arla. 


I snorted. Of course, what I said above about Jezebel applied to Rica as well. 


"Are you jealous?" Rica asked.


"Not at all. In fact, I completely support you. Go, try your hardest. But you're stuck with me." 


Both girls glared at me before crossing the room to try to seduce Arla. It was probably one of the single most hilarious moments of my college career. Arla shot them down and ended up leaving the party to spend the night with a girl who was neither Rica nor Jezebel. 

from thequickanddirty (and obviously the Simpsons)

Two weeks later, I walked into a dance party to find Jezebel crying in the hysterical way that only drunk girls can. Her friends told me she was crying because Arla refused to make out with her. I looked around and found Arla with the girl from two weeks ago. 


I didn't touch Jezebel after that night because, let's be real, I don't play second fiddle.


Score one for Team Lesbi-bestie.

from cafepress

Rica took a much smarter approach and gave up on Arla the night I told her it was a lost cause. In fact, after she found out why Jezebel was kicked to the curb, she was careful never to do or say anything that might pit me against Arla and vice versa. She stuck around for a while and eventually became friends--without benefits--with Arla too.

Friends, it's 2011! It's a new year and time for a fresh start. So keep an eye out, because coming to you soon will be a better, brighter, prettier version of The Point!

from FuckYeah, Raainbows

Mad love,

I am a big fan of rituals. I love them. I find something very calming about doing something the same way every day, day after day after day after day. Most of my rituals are really boring, like washing the dishes. Every day, I stand at my sink and concentrate only on soap and getting the dishes as close to sparkling as I can. I don't think about when I'm going to be able to afford to move to Atlanta or when I'll feel I'm ready to have babies or all the things I need to get done at work. I just kind of hone in on the dishes. My mom says it's a form of meditation.

If you really concentrate, you can make most things into a form of meditation or ritual. Like walking to work every day or lotioning after you get out of the shower. Most of rituals are super normal, but I have one that my friends find a bit controversial.

Have you seen it? It's easily my favorite show on television besides Law and Order:SVU and South Park. It comes on A&E every Monday night. If you haven't seen Intervention, it is a show where you spend forty-five minutes watching the most fucked up moments of someone's life. Then you see their friends and family throw them an intervention. 

The show's subjects are addicted to crystal meth, xanax, heroin, cocaine, alcohol, computer duster, and video games (apparently, I missed that episode). Having never had an addiction, I find this show fascinating. How long has Jenny been sleeping with that guy she met on craigslist in order to get oxycoton? What happened to Ryan in his childhood to make him so insecure in himself? What will happen when Rachel swallows a fifth of vodka on the way to her sister's wedding?

These are all questions that need answers.

Watching Intervention is totally normal. Everyone does it. It's won Emmy awards! What makes my watching of the show so unorthodox is that I drink while I watch it. Sometimes it's a glass of red wine, other times I find a pint of imported German ale, and --occasionally--I'll have honey whiskey on the rocks. Whatever the week's poison, I pour my drink, snuggle into my couch, and prepare for an hour of the best television in the world.

Observers of my habit have called it "sick," "wrong," and "simply disturbing."  I even had a roommate who used to lock herself into her room while I was watching Intervention. What these people don't understand is that I watch Intervention because it's cathartic, as I suspect most people do--whether or not they fess up to it.

If you've ever seen Intervention, you know that someone always cries. They can't help it. The 'cast' and audience literally watch some unfortunate person yo-yo to the edge, within moments of their last breath, over and over throughout the episode. Usually, the tears begin with the subject's mother. Then their kids start crying. And finally, the addicted person breaks into heaving sobs.

Of course, by this point in the show, I'm drunk and crying too. The show always ends by showing the subject of the episode in rehab and letting them tell you about how they feel. They are always thankful they went. This is easily one of the best parts of the show, because--finally--they are so hopeful! They are happy and smiling and they look like real people instead of coked-out junkies.

Then text flashes on the screen to tell you how the subject did post-rehab; this is where you find out if they relapsed.

I cry no matter what. If Bill goes to rehab and stays sober for 3 years and counting, I cry because it's so beautiful. If Nancy drops out of rehab and ends up living in a sandbox, I breakdown because it's such a waste. If it's really bad, I call my sister to calm me down. She knows that Monday nights are my Intervention evenings and she is always ready to talk me back into a world that makes sense. Once, there was a man--an alcoholic--who fought rehab tooth and nail. They had to threaten him with forced psychiatric hospitalization to make him go. He finished treatment and returned to his family, only to die unexpectedly three weeks later. His wife and children gave interviews talking about how happy they were to have him back for those three weeks. I was on the phone for hours.


My best friend compares it to that shtick in Fight Club where Edward Norton attends support groups for the terminally ill so he can let go of his emotions and find peace. While I'm not interacting with people face-to-face, I use Intervention to throw myself into the lives of strangers so I can encounter something more intense than my daily grind, in hopes that it will be just enough to release my emotions and cleanse all of the bad thoughts I spend all week holding in.

Friends,

This Shit is Bananas

The first time I ever saw a Four Loko, I was at my friend Sharon's house. We were hanging out, getting ready for what were were hoping would be big house party when Sharon's roommate, Lisel, approached me with a Four Loko in hand. Someone had left a few camo-print cans in her beer drawer after her last party and she refused to drink the stuff. "However," she said, "I know I can count on you to drink it Abernathy. You drink anything."

Truer words have never been spoken.

While my friend, Jade, inspected the can and began raving on about how stupid it was to drink alcoholic energy drinks with this much alcohol (she's studying to be a nurse), I played a quick round of eenie meenie miney mo to choose which can I'd go for first: blue raspberry or fruit punch.

Blue raspberry won out and so it began. I will tell you all that the first sip of Four Loko was fucking disgusting. I mean, so sweet and sugary, I thought I'd lose all of my teeth. However, I'm not one to turn down a free drink, so I powered through and about halfway through the can, it didn't seem to taste so bad. That's also around the time I started to feel it's effects.

At the time this story takes place, you should know that I was working on spicing up my exercise routine. I had been using dumbells at home, but I was bored. I tried running, but I'm not a big fan of moving that fast unless someone's chasing me. I tried going to the gym, but I was always beat there by old faculty members who wanted to listen to Simon and Garfunkel while we worked out (SIMON & GARFUNKEL!!!). Finally, I settled on Carmen Electra's Strip Tease DVDs. Unfortunately, the only one the local thrift store had was installment four: The Lap Dance.

So half a Four Loko in, I decided to show my girl friends all of the moves Carmen had taught me. To help you picture the scene, I'm in the living room with 5 or 6 girls while all of our guy friends are out on the porch. Luckily, the back porch has a sliding glass door, so the boys can see everything going on inside.

I asked Sharon to put on "something slinky" (which I think ended up being Britney Spears, but that's neither her nor there), I grabbed a kitchen chair, and got to work. At first, everyone looked a bit scandalized. I mean I was standing up, lying down, straddling the chair- generally acting like a drunk with an embarrassing idea. But by the second run through, I began noticing that people seemed a bit more attentive to my antics.

This is when Jade intervened. She walked over to the chair and said, "Hey. I want to learn to do that." So I slowed the dance down and began telling her how to shake her hips. We ran through the dance a few times, but she refused to do the move that required she swing her leg over the chair back so she could straddle the chair. I didn't push: Carmen says that everyone gets comfortable in their own time.

After we got tired of that, I decided to go outside and see the boys. I would say at this point, there was maybe a quarter of my drink left. It wasn't until I walked outside that I realized they had witnessed my every move. One high-fived me, but another decided to comment on the speed of my dance, saying it was too slow and not fluid enough.

SERIOUSLY???? What guy complains about witnessing two girls shimmy around for 20 minutes? I mean, I'm not a pro at boys, but from the amount of times I've been hit on by them in the clubs, I think it's safe to say that - in general - boys love watching girls gyrate around.

So, drunk as I was, I got angry. Who was he to think he could insult me? Especially, drunk arrogant energized me? I said, "Fine, you want to see a lap dance? I'd show you one, but I don't want to tease you with one when you know you can't have me."

My friend said, "Hey baby, it's whatever. I'm not going to stop you and you might come over to my team someday."

Uligh...nastay.

Lisel spoke up before I could say anything in response. "You could give me a lap dance." Of course I could. Lisel's living room is very quickly taking on the reputation of lap dance central. I've recieved, witnessed, taught, and given lap dances in her living room. I don't know why, but her living room is where the crazy goes down. (Do you hear me Lisel? Sharon? Lap Dance Central in there.)

Driven by my need to defend my marvelous lap dancing skills, I grabbed Lisel and marched her into the living room. Jade just shook her head, "You are not going to do this." She said it like she was watching a freight train barrel towards my reputation, but she could not hit the brakes fast enough to save me.

"Oh yes she is!" Lisel bellowed. "Sharon, put on the music!" The music came on and I began to work my magic. I'll admit, I was a little too into it (it's a risk you take when you're working with the Loko) and within 4 bars of the song, Lisel was shoving me off of her lap.

As I caught my footing I heard a beeping noise, which sounded suspiciously like a camera. I turned quickly and found Jade in the corner with her digital camera in hand. "Oh no," I breathed, shaking my head. You don't have to be sober to know that drunk photos typically aren't for sharing. However, you do need to be sober to figure out how to deal with them. I opted for chugging the remainder of my drink.

Ten minutes later, Jade was no longer taking pictures: she was videotaping my rap-tacular skillz as I performed Afro Man's "Colt 45." And at this point, though I knew I didn't really want to be taped, I was too drunk to even ask her to put it away. Oddly enough, the boys were all over this. I earned mad respect once they realized that I knew- and was prepared to sing- every. single. word. It was amazing.

Soon after, the boys left and Jade passed out. Sharon approached me with the second can of Four Loko and insisted I drink it. I may have been drunk, but I was not stupid. I told her no and she suggested that we then share the can. I agreed, although I had no intention of drinking anything more than a sip.

We stayed up talking for a while and I stuck to my guns- I barely even tasted that can of Four Loko. Everyone went to sleep while Sharon and I were chatting. Then Sharon fell asleep an hour or so later. Here's where the caffeine side of Four Loko comes in; it keeps you up. I was awake with only Netflix to keep me company until 5am. At which point I realized I was sober enough to drive and dirty enough to need a shower.


Update!
The Points:
1. Thou shall know thy's limits with regard to alcohol. Seriously.
2. It pays to have the confidence to tell your friends "no" when pressured.
3. You know you picked a good friend when she promises not to post your drunk lap-dance photos all over the interweb--and then follows through on that promise. Thank you, Jade.