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My Life With Perfect Drunk Memory

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Gentlemen, I have an ability. An ability that, on paper, seems like the greatest blessing a debaucherous individual can possess. Many men would kill for the chance to experience drunken euphoria in the way I do, but they can’t. I envy them, strongly, madly, deeply. Those to whom I have revealed this power, nay, curse, have expressed jealousy and awe. They tell me “that’s awesome” or “that would save me a lot of trouble.” They are wrong.

I can’t blackout, and I can’t forget. I suffer from Perfect Drunk Memory (PDM).

Most people, around their twelfth beer, find the lines between reality and oblivion blurred. They enter a state of walking unconsciousness where actions can be written off. “I was blacked out” is the rallying cry of every drywall-punching, couch-pissing, “show me your knockers”-shouting son of a bitch in the chapter. Not I. This isn’t to say that my actions are any better. The state of being present while your body is in full rampage mode is terrible. While most people are informed of their deplorable behavior the morning after, I’m there. I live it. The only problem is I can’t stop it. It’s like being Jiminy Cricket if Pinocchio was an overweight, alcoholic man-child with a death wish and zero social skills. Except, rather than an increasingly long nose, my stupidity is what will expand, oftentimes to the point of maxing out.

The worst part is seeing how often I strike out. The sheer amount of rejection your typical drunken slob deals with would likely crush them, but luckily Brother Blackout is there to erase those moments from their minds. Not for those with PDM. They get to hear every awful line that comes out of their mouths and witness every look of “what a dumbass” on the face of their desired hole. Many of you would be a wreck if you had to hear the stupid shit you say. “Airplane!” quotes, while funny in theory, often don’t land as intended (much like airplanes from Malaysia). Thanks to a permanent shame immunity it hasn’t fractured my psyche too horribly, and I only sadsturbate about it around twice a day.

This isn’t to say that my curse is without benefits. Sometimes I do funny shit. One night that comes to mind is from last year’s spring break. I had spent the day with a jug of Captain’s Keg (beer, rum, lime) making new friends on the beach. We decided to spend our night at Spinnaker’s, AKA the happiest place on Earth (Blow me Disney). By this time, I was in the midst of another out-of-body experience. Drunk me decided to tell people I worked for an entertainment company as “Snapchat Director-In-Chief,” and I proceeded to get video asking every woman I met to share their views on anal. From the outside looking in, I was both mortified and seriously impressed with the move. Did it get me any trim? Of course not. Was it a hoot? That’s what I tell myself.

I’m also the guy who can account for everyone else’s actions the day after. Does Miller need to know how he got a black eye? I’ve got the scoop. Did someone have a ménage à trois with a couple fours? I have the math to know he nailed an eight. Why is our president receiving calls from a detective? Maybe that grill is ours, maybe it isn’t. The treasure trove of info stored in this cranium is enough to make Stephen Hawking cream his pants for the first time in twenty years. PDM pretty much turns a man into a sad supercomputer.

For too long, I, along with many others, have suffered from this terrible condition. Perfect Drunk Memory leads to more drinking, which leads to more PDM-induced terror, which leads to more drinking, and so on until you find yourself hooked up to an intravenous drip of Busch Light telling people you’re Spider-Man. From this moment on, to save the sanity of we unlucky few, I pledge myself to find a cure for this condition. No longer will we have to wake up in a cold sweat knowing the last words we said to that girl from Public Speaking class were “Do you like movies about gladiators?” No more will we know why the fuck our knee is bent like this. On the graves of those who came before me, I promise to help us black out like the rest of society. Fetch me the cooler, Jeeves. I’ve got work to do.

Listen to us discuss this column on this week’s edition of the Inside TFM Podcast:

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Karl Karlson

Karl Karlson is TFM's self-proclaimed cartoon expert and your best buddy. He resides in Eastern NC where he spends his time roasting pigs and attempting to grow a beard. Karl enjoys drinking on elevated surfaces and rapping on podcasts.

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