So TimeHop reminded me that this day last year was a really fun day.
When officers perform field sobriety tests on drivers they suspect to be drunk, they look for certain clues.
But in order to conduct field sobriety tests that are admissible as evidence in court, they have to be trained. How do you train someone to recognize drunkenness in another person?
Get the other person drunk, of course.
When I heard they were looking for volunteers to get wasted starting at 9 a.m. I was basically Pinkie Pie. “Me me me me me me pick me!” Not because I like getting drunk. I hate being drunk, actually, because something about nausea just makes me frantic to make it go away. I hate, more than anything else, that yellow feeling in the gut and the tingling sensation on the insides of my cheeks as they flood with saliva in preparation for a mighty hork. Hate it. It goes:
- nausea/vomiting, then
- fever, then
- everything else in terms of unpleasant physical sensations that I hate.
But I am an experience whore. I love to be able to say I’ve done something. Been somewhere. Seen something. Whatever. I get people who blow all their money on travel and good food. It’s not about having something to show. It’s about having something to remember. I get that, man.
I dig it. I dig it so hard.
So I was all over this opportunity. I got to drink rum and coke all day and get super drunk before my fellow reporter, Mr. Ferry (whose name I say like Agent Smith in The Matrix says “Mr. Anderson,” just for fun, because it’s fun, because reasons), came to document my epic wastedness and share it with everyone in town.
Just to recap, I got paid to get drunk for a whole day and I got to call it work.
That was a glorious day.
The evening was not so pleasant. During the day I recall saying numerous times that “I’d totally do this again, you guys!” By that evening I was like “I’m the world’s biggest idiot.”
But it was fun.
Now, with a bit of distance, I can say that I would absolutely do it again. And pay the price again. Because drunk at work.
Here’s the first person piece I wrote about that day.
And here’s Mr. Ferry’s very professional, not drunk, story:
And here is my photographic documentation of that glorious, glorious day:
I’m the short, wide blonde.
I am way hotter now.
Not skinnier. But my hair is badass gray. And I got contacts. And learned how to curl my hair.