Somewhere between Billy and the Vomit I got really drunk. The last thing I can clearly remember that night was everyone screaming at the top of their lungs about the political mindedness of the waitress and the businessmen following Dylan's advice. A big circle of people... well not that big because the party hadn't truly begun yet and many people clearly expected to be fashionably late. Or so they proclaimed in their verbal RSVPs. I had decided to actually drink. And there I was drinking. The first time. Such a sad state of affairs when your first underage drink-fest is three years shy of an of-age drink-fest. Late Bloomer I suppose. And so there I was with a mighty plastic tankard of cheap Oklahoman 2.0 beer. A Joe's cup will hold 2 1/2 cups of fluid before sloshing over. And though I don't know what that equates to in volume; I know it's a standard of measurement in the breezy night of Stillwater. There's a rule that says that when you drink you must continually repeat the current level of intoxication to yourself. It becomes a mantra. Yep I'm buzzed. Yep I'm more buzzed. Oops just got a little wobbly. Back to buzzed. It's mandatory. But there is a skill and delicacy to it. Do not be that guy that reveals his Inner Monologue. Loudly. Repeatedly. That guy's not cool. So somewhere after that ode to the lonely bar I got really stewed. Somewhere after my trip out the door I blacked out. Sometime after my blackout I picked myself up off of the porch and rubbed the throbbing hematoma on my forehead. And Somewhen after I got back to the dorm I knowingly slept in my own vomit. Because it was warm. And Because it was mine, Mr. Crane. That's the mind of the drunkard, with his addled logic. When one does not score a fine porkable honey at a social gathering, then bile is the next sensible choice. That's lateral thinking.