I Hope They Serve Tequila in Prison.

Before we begin, I think it is important to mention that these stories are only true to the best of my knowledge. I was drunk, a lot, and I solemnly swear that these are depicted as I remember them. But memory is cousin to truth, not twin, and in this case mutated, undesired lusus naturae.

One of my most notorious measures of debauchery was the night I tried to take vengeance on a group of blonde replicants who had caused me injury. It begins on a summer morning, like any other. I had slept over at my boyfriend Matt’s, who lived only a mile or so from me. We were both in our gutter punk phases, and thought it was cool (albeit mandatory, for lack of a bed) to sleep curled up on his little rug in the center of his room. I was hungover, greasy, sexed, smelly, and rushed out by the unexpected arrival of the roommate’s grandparents. The short journey home brought me past what we called Sorority Row, and it was apparently rush week; murders of loud, squawking women were pouring out onto the lawns of these coveted girls-only palaces, chanting some well-intended lyrics meant to take away their insecurities.

As I passed by one of them, they stopped their chant at the same moment a song ended in my headphones, so the silence was notable. I looked over to a particular group of these women and noticed they were all staring at me as I walked by. I wasn’t unfamiliar with this reaction, especially from “that kind of girl,” but this time was a little different; they all stared in horror, as usual, but just one of them had the audacity to say, “Oh my god, gross.” Now I want to point out that in that moment, right then, I didn’t care. In its way, her shitty little remark gave me the satisfaction of thinking I was right, that they were all vapid, barbie bimbos, and I was cooler than them. When I got wasted later that night, however, I sang a much different tune.

My roommate Rachel came home that night with a bottle of some horrid tequila, Sauza or something, and even though I was on probably my ninth Coors Light, I got out two shot glasses. I was nineteen and full of misplaced confidence in my drinking, so she and I matched shots and drank the whole bottle in about 45 minutes. Angry that I wasn’t drunk enough yet, I told her I was bored and that we should go over to Matt’s house. I grabbed my purse, opened the front door, and –

Ceiling. White ceiling, with wide rectangular sections and water damage stains. Not my ceiling. Couch…whose couch am I on? Familiar smell, head hurts… should sit up. Ow, no, fuck that, lay down for a minute, look around. Matt’s living room. Matt’s front door, Matt’s weird animal bones. Okay, cool. How did I get here, where is Rachel? Ah, ahh…fuck. What is that, why does everything hurt? Not hangover hurt, like actually hurt?

I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. Now I see that my chin has a sock or gauze or something duct taped to it, and there are scratches all the way down my neck and into my shirt. Pull my shirt and bra away from my body and yep, dirt falls out. What the fuck? Looking back in the mirror, part of my right shoulder is gone. Not just scraped, but gone, as though someone went at it with a very small trowel. Is that dried blood on my forehead? What the…I need to lie down. What time is it? 6 am. Fuck, such an ungodly hour, not one will be awake for a while to fill me in, so I should go back to sleep….

Or sit on the couch, wide awake, unmoving, and let the anxiety take over my shitty stupid brain until someone or something distracts me. I wonder if Matt still has any ramen left from that whole pallet his friend gave him... No, too hungover. Vomit.

So I wait.