Senior | Female | Medill | Off campus
I swear, I took all the precautions before my friend’s 21st birthday celebration. I only had one beer before we went out—Moose Drool, which the old man at the liquor store guaranteed to be hearty and delicious. I actually ate something to ward off the effects of alcohol. But despite my efforts, most of the food ended up on Sheridan Road, marking our route as it poured from a moving SafeRide cab, and I woke up clad in what were definitely not my basketball shorts with a pile of my soiled clothing beside me. “Damn,” I thought. “It happened again.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I like to think I don’t start the night with the intention of blacking out. But waking up in strange places with a headache and the lone memory of that first sip has become a nasty habit of mine. Throw in my penchant for travel and you have a not-so-stable drunk who is a danger to herself on the streets of strange cities: Prague, Chicago, Berlin, Philly, Munich, L.A., Rome, Queenstown, Sydney.
Last night was no different. It starts with dinner and light pregaming with friends before heading to the EL with Boystown on our minds. We find ourselves at Roscoe’s where we quickly learn the night’s special: pitchers of cool, tall, delicious Bacardi Pink Lemonade. I blame my dad for the shrewdness with which I devour and consume anything I feel I’ve already paid for. Case in point: I buy the first round, and thus feel entitled to drink as much as I can from the subsequent rounds with a fervor that might suggest I plan to start a twelve-step program the following day. Add to the mix, the most delicious shot I’ve ever come across—a dangerous combination of Baileys and butterscotch schnapps—and I quickly realize my eyes are starting to get heavy and my smile widens to create an image no one should ever be subjected to.
Next, an impromptu dance performance in front of what appears to be a blurry crowd. My 5’2″ frame shakes everything my momma gave me in front of a crowd of intoxicated gay men. I sufficiently embarrass my friends, and the birthday girl whisks me away and out onto the street. “Damn celebrations,” I think as as I douse the pavement with crunk juice.
A kind bouncer who’s standing nearby tells us we should puke somewhere else because cops aren’t too fond of such activities, and that cues the end of my evening. My friends and I navigate sketchy alleyways until somehow we manage to stumble upon a CTA stop and crash through the metal turnstiles. After pouring the contents of my stomach on the Red Line, we are on the final leg of the journey: hop in a SafeRide for a quick ride up Sheridan.
“Is she ok?” the driver asks, clearly unimpressed with my own drunken moans of “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
But just as those words leave my mouth, I empty my stomach again, this time covering the cab floor with pink lemonade and potato chips before my friend has a chance to open the door as we whiz down Sheridan Road. I distantly hear the driver whine “we have a situation” into her radio. We exit the car and I try to comply with my friends’ instructions: “Hold your head up” and “Just give the guard the ID I’m handing you.” I manage to convince the front desk CSO I’m sober enough to get in to Slivka, the hallowed hall of sober engineers and science majors.
Fifteen minutes later, we hear a knock at the suite door. “You’ve got to hold up your pants,” my friend commands, referring to the oversize shorts I’m wearing after she maneuvered my rag doll-like intoxicated body out of puke-soaked jeans. They hand me my ID, remind me one more time of my name, and then open the door to two frowning police officers. Who knew they did that in Slivka? I stumble through my name but forget my birthday—an accomplishment, considering my condition. The police let me off with a warning and direct my friend to just “take care of her.”
No calories, a stage dance, and a visit from NUPD—not a bad night, considering I’ve had to pluck rats from the slumbering forms of my friends in Berlin and slept in a bush in Sydney because I couldn’t find my way home. Still, it might be a while before I can drink pink lemonade again.
