Is There an Officer, Problem? Part One

Please keep in mind that, in the course of these stories, I have never in fact been arrested, or indeed had any contact with members of the OPP, RCMP, FBI, CIA, NRA, NASA, or any other scary acronyms.

I suppose that, for the post that will begin this multi-part series, I'll do as any self-respecting writer would do, and start at the beginning.

The first time I ever became insanely drunk off my ass must have been way back in Grade 9. Oh how young we were back then. So young, and so naive. And so very, very un-tattooed.
A friend of mine--let's call her Sally--was throwing a party to celebrate the end of exams, which was kickass. I had my fears that it would turn out to be one of those "In at five, out by ten" parties, consisting largely of sitting around in the basement eating and drinking unhealthy food and very unalcoholic beverages, while parents, still very in town, had their way with the more comfortable, spacious first floor. My fears were soon quashed by the promise that, not only were Sally's parents out of town, they were very out of town. Being the naive, un-tattooed child that I was, I got some form of Smirnoff Ice cooler thing when asked what kind of booze I wanted someone to pick up for me.
Shut up. I made up for it later.
Not realizing that, even though they taste as good or better than a normal carbonated beverage, it is not a good idea to drink four coolers as if they are, I proceeded to drink my four-pack in the span of about 4 minutes. This being my first time drinking a large amount, I was still sort of a lightweight and I became rather buzzed. Not quite hammered, but I could safely be considered "Not a very big contender" in any spelling bees that happened to be taking place.

I managed to sit down with a friend of mine--let's call him Ted--who proceeded to offer me some of his whiskey. Not wanting to insult the man, but knowing that drinking pure whiskey would be akin to suicide at this point, I brought the bottle into the kitchen to mix it with some lemonade.
Now, in my defense: the instructions I got about the mix to use were nothing more than vague gestures, involving thumbs and forefingers being spaced certain distances apart, with one being a larger gap, indicating the amount of lemonade to use. However, the person never actually said that. They simply stated: "THIS much" and "THIS much", while holding up their fingers. If you haven't figured it out by now, I poured out about half a glass of whiskey, with probably half a shot of lemonade. It tasted terrible, but I told myself I would be insulting Ted and wasting his booze if I didn't finish it.

Hilarity and laughter at my expense aside, drinking all this brought about a stunning revelation to me, and a message popped up in my head, reading: "When I get really drunk, I can't feel pain! Badass!"
Well, it wasn't the drinking itself that brought it about, but two specific events. The first one occurred when I meandered upstairs, looking for other people to hang out with, having decided that those downstairs were "chumps". I found a bunch of people that I knew sitting around the edge of a kickass bathtub. "I'm getting in on this shit!" I told myself, and might have stated aloud. Not content with sitting on the lip closest to me, I decided I wanted to sit on the one across the tub. It was way better. I tossed one leg into the tub--empty, in case anyone was confused--without incident. Then, as I was lifting my other leg over more quickly than necessary, I allegedly smashed my foot incredibly hard against the side of the tub. More than one fellow tub-sitter asked me questions along the lines of "Holy shit! Didn't that hurt a whole motherfucking lot?" My only answer was to stare blankly at them and say "Huh?"
They then proceeded to inform me about my foot-smashery, which is how I now know about it, and am relating it to you. Jesus, that's confusing. This is like some sort of space-time paradox, isn't it?

Anyway, the second event occurred after I decided that I absolutely had to sober up. ALLEGEDLY, I professed undying love for my friend--let's call her Jennifer--who proceeded to rebuke me on the preposterous grounds that I was a) drunk and b) standing in front of her boyfriend as I said this. I got a little bent out of shape at this, and was told by someone that I needed to get sober to prove my love for Jennifer. This person was clearly a jackass, but being the trusting and oh-so-inebriated soul that I was, I listened. I enlisted a sober-up crew, who found me bread and coffee. I devoured the bread as I do the souls of my enemies, then proceeded to chug the coffee in one gulp. Shocked faces greeted me as I lowered the mug in triumph. It was then explained to me that the coffee I had just quaffed was fresh out of the pot, and thus, scalding. I shrugged all manly-like and told them that I felt nothing.

Needless to say, my sobering up had little to no effect on Jennifer, and frankly I had no recollection of any events occurring after the bathtub incident. It was only until the day after that someone related my exploits that evening, after firmly stating that I was, in fact, a dipshit.

Part Two soon to come.