You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery Read Online Free PDF Page A

fact is, I am writing this book right now because of the career I have built on drinking. . . . So . . . eat shit, student-loan debt!
    Anyway, back to le break. My three friends and I decided that we would be super classy and head to Key West that year. We were all finally twenty-one at that point and didn’t have to go all the way to the Bahamas or international waters to drink legally. So, we headed south. We decided to take my friend Melissa’s car because, duh, she had a convertible. But convertibles don’t have a hell of a lot of trunk space. Try cramming it full of four girls’ duffel bags, each overstuffed with bikinis and condoms, and your roommate Erika’s “just in case” chocolate fondue fountain, and shit gets real.
    I decide to take one for the team by packing light. This meant a small backpack filled with one pair of jean shorts, one jean skirt (it was 2005, don’t judge me), and five white ribbed Hanes His Way tank tops. Or wifebeaters, as we so eloquently call them in the South. I went to a craft store earlier that week, bought iron-on letters, and decked each tank out with “Day One,” “Day Two,” right through to “Day Five.” I figured it would save me the trouble of having to decide what to wear every night after a long day of drinking in the sun. And—I’d be able to see the slow deterioration of my condition throughout the week. For example:
    FRIEND
    (looking at my spring break pics)
    Why are you covered in scratches, with a Corona bucket on your head, French-kissing a stray cat?
    ME
    (points to chest)
    It was Day Four.
    FRIEND
    Yeah, but that still doesn’t—
    ME
    I said,
Day Four
!
    See? Brilliant.

    Censor bar added because apparently Day 3 is when I decided that bras were unnecessary. And if you’ve ever worn a Hanes wifebeater, you know they’re as thin as Prince William’s hair.
    With the car packed up, all we had to do was just get there. The drive from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, to Key West, Florida, is about twenty hours. This meant someone was going to be stuck with the dreaded two a.m. to nine a.m. shift of driving. Because I am an insomniac, I was given the honor. Let me paint a picture for you. There’s a purple Volvo convertible speeding down I-95. Inside are three sleeping girls, as a fourth chain-smokes with a two-liter of Mountain Dew between her legs, singing every word of Nelly Furtado’s first album.
    But having the dreaded shift allowed me to wake up my friends in style. As soon as I saw the WELCOME TO T HE FLORIDA KEYS sign, I cranked up the song “Kokomo” and opened up the convertible. The sun was rising over the crystal-blue water, and we sang along with the Beach Boys. Everything was majestic . . . until we realized we were still three hours away and were at a traffic standstill. The lyrics “We’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow” had never rung truer.
    Now, you would think four girls ready to party would book a room right in the center of town, hoping for their hotel to be packed full of hotties with bodies. Cuties with booties. Wrecks with pecks. One-night flings with ding-a-lings. Menaces with penises? Ok, I’m out.
    Regardless, that was not our style. We booked a room at the Atlantic Shores, the clothing-optional gay resort on the edge of town. This might seem like a strange choice, but let me break it down for you.
    Q: What looks tacky when you’re rocking a mid-2000s bandeau top (besides said mid-2000s bandeau top)?
    A: Tan lines. Can’t get tan lines if you don’t have to wear a bathing suit.
    Q: What is the last thing you feel like doing when you are hungover as fuck?
    A: Sucking in your stomach. No need to hold in the Corn Nuts gut you acquired on your twenty-hour drive. Those old gaymen weren’t going to do a double take on your body unless you had a birthmark that was the spitting image of Streisand.
    We took a spin around the grounds, which looked like any average roadside beach motel. Honestly, besides the