III

I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again, but if I’m gonna break a promise to anyone, it’ll be me. Just last Halloween, my homie threw a Halloween party at his place where I dressed up as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I enjoyed myself with other costumed people such as a stereotypical Mexican, a stereotypical Verizon Wireless customer service representative, and a stereotypical Arab who kept trying to tell me she was Jasmine, but what kind of Arab name is that. My goal that night—much like every night involving ethanol, etc.—comprised of not vomiting, but everything always sounds so simple on paper.

Some time after my sixth drink, out came my food and out came my tears to stain my big glasses. I passed out in my Corolla only to wake up hours later to drink water and eat some festive, good-ass cupcakes. “I won’t let that happen again!” said young me. Four months later, my homie decides to age a year and celebrate it at his house once again. He goes all out with this one by hiring a DJ and a bartender. There’s no way I could possibly fuck this up. Imminent good times!

Some time after I tweeted, “Another shot of patrón. Alcoholic beverage limit reached. Stay cautious,” I consumed four more drinks because my buzz failed to kick in for some reason. Whatever I ingested earlier that day geysered out of my mouth and dripped out of my nostrils as a stream of tears fell upon my big glasses. I once again took solace in my automobile only to wake up hours later to devour carbohydrates and water to achieve sobriety. Conclusively, I realized that I had yet to party at my homie’s house without fuckin’ dyin’, man.

“This time will be different! Oh, man, it’ll be different!” said youthful me with a white hair or several on his head. This time it was my homie’s brother’s birthday at his house yet again. I read and studied history. I highlighted and took notes on all of the right passages. On All Hallows’ Eve of 2011, I had too many drinks. For my homie’s birthday of 2012, I got too impatient with my inebriation. No more than four drinks—I’m keeping my nutrients tonight. I will not lose (my nutrients).

After a friendly, wholesome, beef-based dinner at my other friend’s house, I made my way to Anaheim. I parked along the steep, tortuous driveway near his place and strolled right into his courtyard: a familiar scene of good times and predominantly brown people with slanted eyes. Toddlers ran around looking out of place, but under supervision, indeed. It was a celebration, bitches. Finishing my greetings, I picked up that Blue Moon—mistake 1 of 5 completed.

“Let’s take some shots!” a friend of mine said, and a small quantity of Patrón made its way to my hand—mistake 2 of 5 completed. This would happen again several minutes later making mistake 3 of 5 complete. I completed mistake 4 of 5 with a shot of Jack Daniels, but I knew my limits. I knew very well that I crossed into the danger zone, and I would not let history repeat itself. I refused to fall victim to that fermented wheat, but I didn’t think it would conspire with tetrahydrocannabinol to send me to hell. Them shits sound like a freshwater fish.

One of my other homies dropped the news: kites would be flown tonight. Hell, he already flew one earlier, and who could resist flying a kite in the middle of the night? The kite-flying club made its way to a clandestine location: the side of the house. We formed a circle encompassing a diameter of a little over a meter, but it certainly wasn’t break dancing-worthy. One thing led to another, another, and another.

Note an infant Dick van Dyke at 1:44

No less than ten minutes after attempting conversation with a two-year-old, trigonometry would not be required to calculate the down-the-hill force of the evening. My view began to rotate clockwise. Gravity kept changing direction. Walking around didn’t help. I finally sat at his planter reversing the digestive process and raining tears on my big glasses. Luckily, my homeboy was there to make fun of my situation and get us to my car where I ejected more beef outside of my door. He designated drove us home, and I haven’t vomited since.