Jul
23
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Law prom

—Brittany McLawStudent

Like so many of us, my drunken moments are depressing if not downright concerning. Considering the fact that I do NOT need an intervention in my life right now (I’m on a roll here!) I will tell you about one of the moments that I can look back on now, and muster a hearty, belly-rolicking chuckle.

Let’s set the scene: It’s prom night. No, not high-school prom—my 22 year-old boyfriend, who didn’t have enough sense to avoid knocking a 17-year-old up, did have enough (or was it shame?) to refuse to take me to that one.

Fast-forward to my next prom going opportunity. Hastings. Law. School. Prom.  Also known as “Barristers Ball.” Open Bar. Top-Shelf Liquor. Marble Floors (in hindsight, a terrible and dangerous idea—in fact, I’m surprised none of the assholes I go to school with have sued over it yet).  And bless those bartenders, they didn’t cut anyone off—the whole night!  Imagine the most stressed-out group of students finally letting loose with unlimited Patron, Makers’, and Grey Goose.
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Jul
21
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Lost in Portland

—Haley

So, this one time when two of my favorite folks were in town…I got LOST.

There’s getting lost, being lost, and getting LOST. Getting lost can happen to most anyone, at any time. Being lost and getting LOST, I feel, are reserved for the habitually enthusiastic. Like the time I was shooting for 12th and Ladd and wound up at 28th and Stark with a skid mark all the way down my right arm (from connecting with a van while trying to slow my bike down enough to read a god forsaken street sign). I’d say this counts as being lost. Once I figured out what street I was on I knew where I was. Entirely different from getting LOST.
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Jul
08
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Visit to the homeland

—Prez


I’ll be honest with you guys; this was a tough one to come up with. I don’t want to brag too much, but I’ve been quite drunk quite a few times. For every good story I came up with, I was promptly reminded of a different time where I was even drunker. After searching the dark recesses of my mind and contacting some drinking buddies, I realized that one story stands out like a wine-drinker at a dive bar, and it happened on my trip to the homeland a few years back.

Technically, I could make the argument that the entire three-week visit was the drunkest I have ever been, since I don’t recall a day when I wasn’t heavily enthusing with some cousin, uncle, or childhood friend. Seriously, it was 21 days of non-stop alcohol consumption, but one drunken blur of a night stands head and shoulders above the rest (and it wasn’t the wedding that was the genesis of the trip, that’s a story for later).
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Jul
01
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: The exciting conclusion of 2010

—Zip

I work at the One Union recording studio. One year, our annual Christmas party was to be followed by a recording session at 2am. Turns out we were connecting to Cape Town, South Africa to record “Ninja” from Die Antwoord. It was noon there.

The fancy shmancy restaurant we go to for dinner every year is Jardiniere, by the opera house. They pour drinks with a heavy hand! We all had some whiskey at the office before the party, and once there I indulged in my usual drinking of the oldest and most expensive scotch they have available (it’s on the boss’ tab!) The dinner went well, was really fun, and Jesus those scotches were huge! We ate scallops, steak, risotto, holy shit, tons of buttery french shit piled up on top of all that booze. I drank like an asshole even though I knew I had an overnight session coming up.
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Jun
29
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Best dormie ever

—Josey

The story of the drunkest I’ve ever been is more depressing than funny. Same with the second drunkest, and the third. And maybe more than that. I’d rather not leave you feeling halfway dead inside, so I’ll tell you a different story: Let’s call it the approximately ninth to twelfth drunkest I’ve ever been.

It was spring semester of my freshman year in college in Manhattan and I was in a long distance relationship. What this means is that I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone. My story starts with such a call, one weekend night when two friends and I had plans to venture to a goth club. They pre-gamed vodka and 40s for an hour or more while I told someone 3,000 miles away it was their turn to hang up first. When I emerged, it was time to leave, and the last thing I remember is proclaiming that I “needed to catch up,” and raising a mug brimming with cheap vodka to my lips.

When I came to, 12 hours later, I was in my bed, wearing my goth clothes from the night before, covered in crumbs and crumpled slices of potato bread. It was 11am. An empty bucket was perched next to my pillow and the windowsill was littered with several glasses of water in different states of fullness. “What, uh, happened last night?” I yelled across at my dozing roommate. “Ask me later.” She mumbled.

I made it to the goth club—just not through the front doors. Unable to stand and propped between two friends, the bouncer suggested they get me some food and come back later. “But I’m 18!” I insisted.
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