… if it hadn’t gone down the toilet and all over my clothes. Let me back up.
I purposefully went up to Summit County, even knowing it was Dew Tour weekend. For those of you not hip to the broboarding industry–that’s Dew as in Mountain and it’s a competition not necessarily a tour, although some of the chicks up there definitely make a tour out of it in their own skanky way. It’s a one-weekend-a-year event at which all the semi maybe world-famous athletes (stoners who ride snowboards) gather together (party) in the sleepy (high as hell) town of Breckenridge for a weekend of extreme competition (partying). There are a few things that characterize the crowd in Breckenridge over this weekend, including but not limited to, tight pants, dream catchers, rat tails, leather jackets, low IQs, even lower tall tees, tall hoodies, tall tee-hoodies, copious amounts of weed, a copious number of sluts, a poor grasp of English and, well, I could obviously go on, but won’t.
So that was happening and although I was fully prepared for all of it, I was NOT prepared for the impromptu weekend festivities in which I ended up taking part–Puke Party 2012. That’s right, I took the Booze Bus to Vomitville. All. Weekend. Well, really only just Friday night, but my body certainly made an all-weekend, all-in experience out of it. For the first time in my life, quite literally, I was unable to drink through this hangover. I was unable to eat through it, unable to sleep through it, unable to cry through it, and completely unable to bitch through it, although with respect to the latter, I gave it a good college try. In fact, the only thing I could do–and do with grace by the end of the weekend–was vomit. No, I lied. I could do something else during my trips to the restroom but this blog, for once, is not about shitting yourself.
Looking back on the evening, which resembles a Fireball-flavored nightmare after-the-fact, there were no high points but oh were there lows … I know this because I have head-size bruises on both my knees and was told by more than one onlooker the next day that I was log rolling around the dance floor. Try to get lower than that, am I right?! It must have been a really magical sight, but perhaps not as magical as watching me try to fall asleep (pass out) on the hardwood floor under the house Christmas tree, with gummy worms and nacho crumbles scattered about. Sorry Santa, this seat is taken.
Thankfully the weekend is over and, despite my best efforts, I survived. I also learned a lesson–log rolling a dance floor is so 19never.