Been a lotta bitchin and whining in here lately. Or so some of these hardasses like to tell us. Have fun lying on that death bed waiting for me to catch up, assholes.
Anyway, here’s one from my early career alcoholism days. Back when everyone still thought this shit was “hilarious” and not “concerning.” Memory’s spotty because, well… you know.
Cut to undergrad. Me and some buddies either went out or stayed in drinking. Doesn’t matter. The important part is I absolutely overdid it. Blacked out completely.
Wake up the next morning in my own bed. Immediate victory lap.
Phone? Check.
No cuts on my face? Check.
No texts saying I ruined my life? Beautiful.
I’m thinking I pulled off a flawless operation.
Get dressed, head outside for class… and my car is gone. Completely gone.
Now I’m standing there trying to piece together the night like a detective with CTE. I KNOW I didn’t drive drunk, because I specifically remember deciding not to. So naturally I conclude my car has been stolen.
I walk to class, attend the whole day like a responsible scholar while internally panicking about grand theft auto. Spend the afternoon searching every street around my apartment like a divorced dad looking for a lost dog. Nothing.
Next morning I go full adult mode. March into the police station, file a stolen vehicle report, answer all the questions, the whole nine yards. An hour later the cop calls me back.
“Hey, we found your car.” Apparently it was parked one street over from where I THOUGHT I parked it two nights earlier. Turns out I DID drive there sober… I just completely forgot I took my car in the first place.
To this day I have no clue how I made it home safe. Don’t really care either. But the image of me filing a stolen car report over my own blackout parking job still kills me.
Not my worst alcoholic story by a mile, but definitely one of the dumbest and statistically most impressive.