Waking up in a strange place that you have no recollection of ever arriving at is one of the many occupational hazards of being a fulltime alcoholic. Unfamiliar territory is, ironically, familiar territory for the oft blackout (wo)man about town. This morning I found myself in such a predicament. In my semi conscious pre-waking stupor state I thought I was home safely in my bed. The more I woke up I quickly realized that I was not happily beneath the covers of my own bed, but rather on a couch, a really fucking small couch. I laid there trying to figure out where I was as my feet hung off the end of the couch. The only thing that had provided me warmth through the night was a filthy blanket that I’m pretty sure spends most of its time absorbing dog semen. I wasn’t necessarily worried about where I was, but I was sure as shit curious about how I had gotten there. Apparently I was pretty fucking hammered the night before.
Granted I had planned on getting hammered. My fraternity brothers and I went out for the night to watch the annual Mizzou-Illinois Braggin’ Rights game at a bar. The flow of that particular game lent itself to marathon style consumption. I started out stress drinking, worried about the game. Then the Tigers started to coast and that turned into happy drinking. Then halftime came and so did “Oh man it’s halftime I should drink more” drinking. Then the game got close and I reverted back to stress drinking. When Mizzou finally won the always excessive, impossible to be overdone victory drinking started. Victory drinking is of course the greatest form of drinking. I’ll get riot instigating level drunk in honor of one of my grade school neighbors winning their tee-ball game. “To the first of many victories little Timmy! NOW LET’S FUCKING RAGE! U-S-A! U-S-A!” Maybe that’s why someone bought me like five Rumple Minze shots last night, either that or they took my Christmas article to heart. Regardless, I was blackout city, because the last thing I remember is a table or something, and maybe some chairs. I’m not really sure.
Now I hate to disappoint, but the point of this article is not to recount a crazy night had, because a crazy night was, in fact, not had. I mean I don’t think it was crazy, I did black out after all. It’s certainly possible that I started a fight with a hobo because I told him he should put glitter on his cardboard sign to “make it really pop,” wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t think anything of note happened though. It was just your average, humdrum, thirty beer night. But I’m not concerned with the night, I’m concerned with the morning. I generally have a mental checklist that I like to run down when I wake up in a strange place. If I can answer all or most of the questions positively I know I’m probably okay. I went through that same checklist this morning.
At present, is someone raping me? – No
Do I feel raped? – No
Am I in a jail cell? And if so, am I absolutely sure I don’t feel raped? – No and yes
Is there any blood? – Just a little, no big deal
Is this America? – Pretty sure
Am I tied or un-sexily handcuffed to anything? – No
Is there a crazy eyed man with a large knife and an erection watching me sleep? – Not this time
Do I hear familiar voices? – Yes
Do I hear any screaming? – No
Am I in a lady’s bed? – Sadly, no
Do I have a vague sense of guilt? – No more than usual
When my answers to those questions are satisfying I get up to figure out where I spent the night. When they don’t I get the fuck out of wherever the hell I am as quickly as possible. You know, unless it’s jail, in which case I just go back to sleep. In this particular instance I turned out to be at my pledge brother’s new house, no big deal. But still, waking up somewhere with no recollection of how you got there or where “there” is, is always a little bit concerning, and oddly exhilarating. I highly recommend you create your own mental checklist for these situations, and feel free to add to mine. After all, when it comes to getting blackout drunk, safety first! Well, not really, but it should be somewhere on the list.