Belvedere, Norway, and DXM

In college, my sorority voted me as both "Most Likely to Travel the World" and "Most Likely to Become a Porn Star". One weekend during senior year, a frat star brought me as his date to a "mountain weekend"; boys wore khaki pants, ripped mirrors off walls and snorted cocaine with a Barbie-sized vacuum cleaner. This weekend coincided with my 22nd birthday, and my frat date gave me oral sex and Belvedere as gifts.

As the vodka was refilled, I grabbed my date by the hand and lead him out of the room in search of somewhere more private. The Belvedere amplified my sociopathic Scorpio tendencies, and I wanted to perform fellatio. We walked into an empty bedroom, and I pulled down his pants. I heard laughter and gasps piercing through Michael Bolton's even-less-sexy blue-eyed soul. The room I selected had a patio overlooking the living room, and I was too wasted to notice the entire house was watching us. I suppose it's easy to be voted "Most Likely to Become a Porn Star" when those doing the voting have already witnessed you in action, but I learned my lesson.

Next week, when the same gentleman was my date for a formal event, the only person who witnessed any copulation was the bus driver.

I have woken up with dry jizz on my chest and in beds with boys I didn't remember meeting, but my worst hangover started midway through Winter Break at college. I found nearly $1,000 missing from my bank account after waking up, and I instantly knew where the money had gone.

A few days earlier at the start of the bender, I attended a rave for my friend Dave's birthday. Before the all-night dance, we went to a rich girl's three-story house to pre-game. As others took molly, I chugged vodka and spoke to the rich girl about her Winter Break plans.

"I'm going to Norway with a bunch of my gay friends to stay in a cabin in the woods," she said. "You should come!"

"Yeah, I should!" I drunkenly agreed.

Somewhere between the rave and copious drinking for the remainder of my break, I took her words literally and bought a ticket to Norway--complete with an 11-hour layover in Germany. I had emptied half of my bank account to go to a Norwegian cabin in the woods with a bunch of strangers.

Most of my drunk stories are sad, but this one is also insanely stupid. One night, I was drinking with my friend Marcy at my parent's house. She had brought over some Sutter Home White Zinfandel because we wanted to simultaneously get drunk and develop diabetes. We started with two huge bottles. She also had some Klonopin, so I popped a couple of those.

Then we decided it was a great time to hit up Walgreens-her for some air duster and me for anything with DXM. I'd been doing DXM because why the fuck not; everything kind of sounds like a good idea when you're a drug addict. Marcy couldn't find any air duster without bitterant, but I purchased a huge bottle of Robitussin and some capsules. I barely remember interacting with the cashier, but she sold it to me.

When we got home, Marcy decided to go to bed. I chugged the bottle of Robitussin then took the bottle of capsules. Marcy looked at me like I was crazy (I was), but then went to bed. I remember lying on the couch downstairs; when you take enough DXM, it's just as powerful, if not more powerful, than a few hits of acid. The dark room broke up into fractals-not the fun "Wow! I'm tripping!" fractals, but the kind where reality completely disappears. I couldn't tell where my body ended and the leather of the couch began, and the word death floated before my eyes traced in bright pink neon lights. I had just mixed three different nervous system depressants, but I wasn't scared because fear is something you need a body to experience.

His continued until the sun came up. Marcy left. After coming down, I remembered that I had a psychiatrist appointment and a therapy appointment that morning. So I hopped in the car without a second thought. With a shit-eating grin, I told my therapist how good I felt-the wave of depression had subsided. Things were looking up! I left that appointment and went to my psychiatrist appointment. I must have looked OK, because I finally convinced my doctor to prescribe me Adderall. She was a good doctor, so it took me about six months. When I was drinking, I did plenty of stupid things-kissed girls in front of ex-boyfriends, cleared a couple parties with X-induced temper tantrums, bought horrible coke from random men in Little Haiti parking lots-but this was by far the absolute stupidest.