It was probably my junior year of high school and I was at my first real party. I'd never even touched alcohol before, but for some reason I'd decided tonight was the night. I was going to cut loose. I was going to channel the ghost of Orson Welles. I was going to GO. NUTS.
Like an idiot, I wasted no time in knocking back the brew, oblivious to my rapidly increasing inebriation. I began to lose control of my voice modulation, and by 10:30 PM I might as well been shouting, "Hey, everyone! This is obviously my first party ever! And man, do I love Natural Ice!”
Of course, being a naive teenager, I had no idea that life has consequences (which, in all honesty, is a concept I grapple with to this day). Sometimes the flipside to overindulging manifests in the form of your peers thinking you're an obnoxious moron (because you probably are), but more often it arrives in the form of projectile vomit (but I'll get to that later). At some point during the night, enough people had complained about the loud idiot in the Nine Inch Nails t-shirt that the hostess of the party had to take action. She confiscated my half full cups of beer, chaperoned my drunk ass into her bedroom, and directed me to play with her pet ferrets while I sobered up enough rejoin the civilized masses.
I rolled around with the animals for a few minutes but quickly lost steam. In spite of the ferrets' dizzying novelty, or perhaps because of it, it became clear to me that I was in no shape to be communing with animals, let alone humans.
In fact, I was in no shape to be conscious. I promptly passed out face first into the girl's bed, completely oblivious to the curious creatures scampering across my back and chewing on my hair.
I don't know how long I slept there, but it was not restful sleep. I awoke a little while later, delirious and confused, groggily cognizant of the sound of the party still raging in the other room. As I struggled to sit up, something suddenly became very clear to me.
I am going to barf.
I am going to barf immediately.
I leapt out of bed and booked it to the bathroom down the hall, which was of course occupied by teenagers smoking meth, or banging each other, or playing Magic: The Gathering, or whatever it is that teenagers do. A quick survey of the second floor bathroom proved that it was likewise locked and in use. Panic took hold. I lumbered back into the bedroom, the vomit rising, and I knew I'm out of options. I had no choice but to let loose in the corner of the room.
I spewed forth a great, heaping mass of cheap beer, stomach acid, and bits of public school cafeteria tacos. With my belly (and soul) purged, I could do nothing more than crawl back into bed, curl into the fetal position, and cry myself quietly back to sleep.
It wasn't long before I woke up for a second time. The party outside had died down to a dull roar. As I slowly became aware of my surroundings, I realized I could hear something in the room. It was a faint sound, foreign and yet still somehow familiar. My eyes could barely focus, so I strained my ears to listen.
Whatever it was, it was coming directly from the corner where I'd puked. I struggled to sit up, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I witnessed a downright horrifying site.
Ferrets eating vomit.
Ferrets eating MY vomit.
Suddenly lucid and aware of the massive party foul I'd just commited, I was instantly consumed with one simple concept: escape. I had to get the hell out of here, move to Montreal, and change my name to Ferdinand. Nobody could know of my crime. Thankfully I was on the ground floor, so I scurried to the window and scrambled out of the house.
As I shambled along in the dark, thoughts of drunk ferrets consumed me. All I could hope was that my furry friends had finished off their dinner, destroying any evidence of my terrible mistake.