Tequila is a monster. It doesn’t come out of the lake, nor does it hide under your bed (unless you live with your parents, then you totally need to hide it). Instead, it sits in your refrigerator ready to strike at a moment’s notice. And when it gets you, boy does it get you. Tequila unleashed its master plan on the most important day of the year: my birthday. Granted, just because it was my birthday doesn’t mean I got drunk off tequila. My dear friend Pablo* decided he would start the party without me, so when all the bros got to his apartment, we walked in to what looked like an upside down IKEA.
We were beyond confused because the apartment was a mess and Pablo was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, here comes Pablo flying towards us, bottle of tequila in hand, laughing like a hyena as he hugged us with a tighter hug than Aladdin and Genie. I figured he was just slightly tipsy until I heard him say, “Happy birthday, Mr. Closet! Care for a shot? Nooooo? More for me then.” Pablo proceeded to swallow a massive gulp from that vile bottle. One of my closest friends forgot my birthday, and thought it was the closets’. The man took so many shots of tequila, it tasted like water for him. Beautiful, isn’t it?
The night progressed and we slid to another apartment to have a good time on the day of my birth. At least, that was the plan. We walked in, followed by the mighty and exuberantly drunk Pablo. He exploded, “Let’s danced everyone!” He then keeled over and began to throw up, so I helped him up and tried to take him outside as he continued to throw up. Let me tell you, someone who weighs 145 pounds feels more like 3,000 when he’s drunk and about to pass out.
After I finally got this giant rock of a person outside, I got up to go back inside to continue my night. But not before those who had abandoned me to continue partying stopped me. “Brandon you’ve got to watch. Pablo’s not OK! We’ll take turns watching him.”
OK. That’s fair. I mean, it’s MY birthday, so it’s only fair that I spend it next to my half-dead friend in 31 degree weather, while wearing shorts. For the record, don’t question me as to why I was wearing shorts in the middle of February in freezing weather. They felt comfortable and it wasn’t that cold earlier in the day.
Three hours in the blistering cold of north Florida passed. My phone was almost dead, my friend was basically dead and everything was dead as dead can be. Everyone was inside partying and dancing without me, and I was livid.
Finally fed up, I decided to order Jimmy Johns as Pablo came back to life and asked for a sandwich. When the delivery guy came with my sandwiches, and I walked back into the party, people were furious. “How could you get food without us? Wow, that’s rude, man.” College life lesson: People only want to be your friend when they’re drunk and hungry.
I composed myself, held in my anger and returned outside to Pablo, who showed signs of a recovery and a massive hangover. We sat quietly eating our sandwiches and in perfect timing, I received a birthday text from none other than my ex-bae. “You know what, I’m going to call her,” I said quietly to myself.
Pablo grabbed my phone and silently warned, “No…she is bad.” He fell back asleep with his half eaten sandwich. I smiled, knowing that as plastered as my friend was, he was still looking out for me.
The night finally ended, and we got a cab back to Pablo’s place and crashed. I laughed, knowing that even though my birthday night totally sucked, it could’ve been worse. For instance, I didn’t spend money on alcohol, which is always a plus. Not to mention that my friend still cared for my wellbeing, even if he killed my birthday vibe.
Don’t be fooled, though, there’s not a pot of gold waiting at the end of this rainbow. My birthday was ruined thanks to that damn bottle; Pablo won’t be drinking tequila on my next birthday.
*Name changed for privacy.