Things not to do on your weekend

Sorry about the lapse in new material. I'm still new to this whole "posting with a purpose" thing and need to get better at coming up with material and a more consistent basis. With that in mind, here it is.

Things not to do on your weekend:

1.Get drunk enough to break a chair and then throw the broken chair across the room.
2.Get drunk enough to break a chair, throw it across the room and then not remember any of it in the morning.
3.Get drunk enough to spend the entire day following the alleged “chair incident” either throwing up, or looking for places to throw up, or finding something soft to eat so you can throw it up again later.

Now I’ve had my fair share of testing my limits in the past, and generally know exactly where I stand in regards to them. What I mean by this is, I’m more often than not, under control of the situation that I’m in, even while drinking alcohol. I pride myself in not having many (as in I can list them on one hand,) experiences where people would say things like, “holy crap, remember when you got drunk, lit a cat on fire and then rode the neighbor’s German Shepard bareback down the street while peeing in mailboxes?” However, unfortunately, I had one of those weekends this past weekend. Lucky for the German Shepard, it was hit by a car recently and won’t have to carry me any longer. Unless I get really really drunk.
Let me say right off the bat that this alcohol consumption isn’t something that I’m proud of, nor is it something that you should strive to achieve. Mostly, because I’m much more of a man than you are, but also because you feel like human garbage soaked in alcohol the following morning. I learned very early on in my relationship with mister alcohol that to spend too much time with him is not necessarily a wise personal move. As funny as those stories are, you aren’t going to stand an asian’s chance at an indy race of scoring with the chicks if you keep peeing in people’s mailboxes.

I think my undoing was the white russians that I was drinking all night. Actually, I KNOW that my undoing was the white russians that I drank all night. I don’t exactly have any numbers as to how many I consumed because, due to goading by one of my room mates, who will remain nameless but whose name rhymes with “Len” and starts with a ‘B,’ played a mean trick on me wherein I ended up drinking a large quantity of white russian late in the evening, and far too quickly. After this, things degenerated rapidly.

I know for a fact that I had a pizza in the oven at the point-of-no-return “Len” trick. I don’t know:
1. Who took the pizza out of the oven.
2. How I managed to eat ¾ of it at two in the morning while full on milk and alcohol.
3. Where most of it ended up in the hours following.

But there is “evidence” of this pizza’s existence and consumption at various places in the house. As well as some corn, which I don’t remember eating either. (No seriously.) It was while I was consuming this pizza that I don’t remember,r that the alleged chair breaking and throwing occurred that I also don’t remember. To be fair, the chairs we have around the house aren’t that strong. However, I’m not a little person and was also several white russians and three quarters of a pizza into an otherwise decent evening. In any case, the chair’s demise came about (allegedly,) through me sitting down “heavily” and the having it dump me unceremoniously onto the floor after cracking and breaking in more than one place. I, feeling badly for the chair, then attempted to piece it back together with nothing but my wit and bare hands. Maybe some pizza sauce was involved, but by and large I don’t think I had any tools with me. After failing to fix the chair, I’m then told that I launched it across our dining room and into the living room.
Content that I wasn’t going to drink any more or kill any more furniture, anyone who was still awake must’ve gone to bed at this point. Another one of my housemates who claims he got home at “four or five” in the morning, reports that when he walked in the front door, I was still wandering around the upstairs, alone, drink in hand and ignoring everything he said to me.

So, this weekend, if you happen to swing by our house and see me with a white russian in my hand, slowly back away and make sure that I’m not eating a whole pizza. I don’t ever want to have to wash pepperoni out of the dog’s hair ever again.