Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

It was the summer after high school senior year and I left for "beach week" a few days before my sophomore girlfriend was to arrive. I motored down the highway in my 1966 GTO (no joke) to start partying. After arriving at 3AM, Andy Harper and I started the week off with a drink made of 50/50 orange juice and grain alcohol and stumbled off down Coastal Highway.

The next night, after an afternoon of launching water balloons and oranges off our balcony with a three-man slingshot made from surgical tubing, some white trash kids started calling up to us from the balcony below. Our party had already started, so we invited them up.

The next thing I remember, I was in the bathroom with a strange young woman (classy, I know) who had a heavy eastern shore accent and a marijuana pipe. Now, those who know me understand that I can't "handle my weed" and I was no different back then.

My final memory was becoming cognizant of the fact that I was in the midst of sucking face with a Maryland farmer's daughter. My drunk/high brain made the connection that I was cheating so I pulled away from her just in time to project the remnants of that day's half-digested food into the bathtub beside us. From what I recall, she was a little put-off, but didn't go screaming out of the bathroom. It was in her interest to pretend nothing happened. I mean, would you tell anyone that someone you'd been making out with vomited in the heat of passion? I don't think so.

Other than that moment, I've never cheated on any of my lady friends in my life. I promise.