I hate running out of essentials. So I stock up on that shit. I don’t want to have to go to the store to pick up items I really, really cannot do without. This includes (but not limited to):

• Shampoo & Conditioner – Because brushing unconditioned hair is a bitch.
• Body Wash – What can I say? I love the Axe commercials.
• Toilet paper – No thank you, Shitty Buns.
• Deodorant – No one should smell sour. Ever. EVER.
• Hair Products – You don’t want to see me with fucked up hair. I look like this.
• Cologne – Although this is not a necessity, I still have a ton of it. That’s why I’m listing it.
• Tampons – Sorry fellas. I HAD to list it. If we don’t stock up on this, it could turn out like that one scene in Dirty Love.

I have at least three of every one of those things. I have a bottle of cologne in my car. There’s also a stick of deodorant in there. Yes, it melts. But melted deodorant is still better than none at all.

Is it weird that I have a surplus of this stuff?

(The ever so sexy Ben at No Ordinary Rollercoaster is holding a contest for best worst hangover story. Upon reading about the contest I tried to recall my best drunken moments. There are so many. Some made me cringe. Some made me laugh. And some … some made me put my head down in shame. Which one should I tell? There’s the time I re-inacted an Exorcist scene in the hotel room with all of my friends. Then there’s the one where I couldn’t hold it while we were in the Jack In The Box drive-thru. I dug a little deeper and found the following gem. First of all, I’m not sure why I’m publishing this story. Blame Ben and the Three-Tiered Tupperware. I haven’t told many people about this, but here it goes. Enjoy.)

The year was 2002. I was 21 years old. I had been on my own for 3 years at this point. I don’t think you realize how big of a deal this was for me. Living under my parents’ roof meant that I had to abide my parents’ rules. This meant no social activity whatsoever. All I was allowed to do was go to school, go to work, and then come home. My mom made sure that school and work were my only focuses, whether I liked it or not. I mean, I don’t blame her. She only wanted me to succeed. It just kind of blew, that’s all.

Then I moved out when I was 19.

FREEDOM!

It was strange at first, all this freedom. I even passed when friends offered me a drink because I still hadn’t had my first alcoholic beverage at age 19.

Needless to say, that changed real quick.

“A game of basketball and then quench our thirsts with margaritas? Sounds awesome.”

“House party? Offff course!”

“A couple 30-packs and carne asada at the park? Are you fucking kidding me? Is that actually a question?”

Two years later I was legally allowed to purchase my own alcohol. That’s when I started hitting the clubs. First, I stayed local and frequented the clubs in the Inland Empire. And then I started making more friends from all over Southern California and got invited to go to a club in Long Beach.

It. Was. Amazing. The bar in Upland could not compare to this place. First of all, there were so many more people. Second, there was better music. And third, not only were there more people, but there were more attractive people. Cah-Ching!

Being that it was my first time partying in Long Beach, my friends made it a point to show me how they do it. As soon as we walked in the door, shots of I-Don’t-Know-What were shoved in my face. And then I was handed a drink. And when I finished that first one, another drink magically appeared in my hand.

I was nervous as hell. Back then my self-esteem was shit. I was extremely self-conscious. I was the quiet girl who never talked. I used to never dance because of this. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but when I get nervous I always think it’s a good idea to drink a little bit more to calm my nerves. I don’t know why I think this because it usually isn’t ever a good idea. Why? Because my drunk ass didn’t know when to stop drinking.

I don’t know how many drinks I had that night. All I know is that my friends started hitting the dance floor and dragged me along. Dammit. I don’t know how to dance. Let’s fix this by taking a couple more shots!

Let me tell you: it worked. A little too well. I sure as fuck wasn’t nervous anymore. I was ALL OVER the dance floor. My vision was blurred. Everything was in slow motion. When I saw someone I knew, I threw my arms around them (I’m a loving drunk). Time flew by. Before I knew it, it was time to go home. I walked into my friends condo and plopped myself on her bed. I didn’t even have the energy or coordination to remove my shoes, let alone my clothes. Hell, I didn’t even make it all the way on the bed. My legs were hanging off the end of the bed. Fuck it, this is comfortable enough.

I woke up to my friend nudging me, telling me that my phone’s alarm is going off.

Ugghhhh. My alarm was going off to remind my drunk self that I still had to go to work. On Sunday. And I had to be there at 7am.

Mother.

Fucker.

I worked in Corona at the time. I just partied my little ass off in Long Beach, roughly 45 miles away. I stood up and could barely hold my damned head up because it felt so heavy.

So began the journey to work. Halfway through my commute, I started getting flashbacks.

Shots.

Mixed drinks.

Laughing.

Dancing.

More shots.

More drinks.

More dancing.

Wait, how long were we there? And who the hell was I dancing with?

Oh. My. God. Bwahahahahahahahahah! I texted my friend the following message:

“HAHAHA! I just remembered that I was dancing with that dude in a wheelchair. How the hell did that happen?”

This is what I got back:

“LOL. That wasn’t a dude.”

It all came back to me, slowly in little pieces. I remember the wheelchair lady, except I really thought it was a guy. An ugly guy at that. I remember watching her dance with someone else. I remember my friend pointing her out because of the way she was “dancing.” She was totally doing a 2-step with her wheels. She was teetering side to side on the wheels. Hunh. Never seen that before.

Fast forward to later on that night and I actually remembered dancing with her! OMG! I don’t even know how to do that. I don’t dance! I don’t know how! What made me think to start dancing with he-she in a wheelchair?

I finally got to work and hid in the office and slept for four more hours. I was thankful that I was in a position that didn’t require supervision. Thank you soooo much.

I was so embarrassed by my behavior that I didn’t want to face the Long Beach people for a lonnnggg time because I was worried that they’d make fun of me the second I saw them. Eventually, I hung out with them. And yes, they remembered that night and laughed all about it. They re-told the story to those who weren’t there that night – the one about the girl who doesn’t talk much but once you get some liquor in her, she dances with chicks in wheelchairs that look like dudes.

NOTE: I have nothing against people in wheelchairs. Please don’t send me hate mail. It was just the most random thing to remember after a drunk night.

I drive on this roundabout on an almost daily basis:

If you’ve never been on a traffic circle or a roundabout, don’t worry. They’re kind of intimidating at first, but you’ll get the hang of it. Basically, it’s a circular-shaped intersection. Depending on the intersection, entering traffic has to yield to stop signs, traffic lights, or yield signs. This particular one has yield signs. Just go slowly and use your blinkers (as the signs indicate), and you’ll be fine.

But do not stop in the circle like the fuckhead in front of me did this morning. That’s a good way to cause an accident. There’s a continual flow of traffic behind you, DickWad. I hope you have good insurance, because that’s likely to cause a multiple-car pile up.

In the worst case scenario, like realizing last minute that you’re passing the street you want to get on, just keep going. It’s a CIRCLE! You’ll see your exit again soon. I promise.