The Key West Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Day 2 – 7:49am (exact time, I checked my phone immediately after I woke up)

Several years ago, a friend of mine named Annie introduced to a very unusual game.  Here are the rules: If you open one eye and know exactly where you are, you lose.  If you open both eyes and know exactly where you are, you lose.  But if you open both eyes, sit up and look around, and you still don’t know where you are, you win.  Interesting game, I know.  So anyways, after waking up feeling like a winner, I take a closer look at my environment.  My private, ocean front condo (pier lawn chair) has lost all of its privacy.  About 10 to 15 people swarm the pier; I’m in the dead center.  I notice a couple’s attention turn from the breath taking view of the ocean, to the more entertaining view of a haggard college kid waking up from a night of debauchery (me).  To better set the imagery, imagine waking up in a lawn chair wearing all of last night’s attire, including shoes, rocking a hair style that looks like the work of a jet engine, and a matching pair of blood shot eyes.  Your first sight is that of a 50-year-old couple, grinning as they watch you arise.  Once fully able to stand, I see all the other hotel guests with shit eating grins on their faces.  I only assume that they are grinning with me and at not me.  Anyways, after my less than 2 hours of sleep (lack of sleep will become a central theme during this journey), I stumble off the pier and back towards the hotel.  I call all occupants of the room, no response (in their defense, it wasn’t even 8am; I’m an early riser, I’ll sleep when I’m dead).  I notice the hotel pool already has 2 occupants and figure it’ll be a safe bet to go lay there for a bit.  I try vigorously to force myself back to sleep.

Day 2 – 8:46am (again, I checked my phone)

After obtaining another 30-40 minutes of shuteye, I know I’ll not be able to doze off again, but I try.

Day 2 – 9:30am

After rolling around for 45 minutes, I realize I was right at 8:46am.  I accept this and now I begin to desperately seek companionship.  Not to say that the 2 elderly ladies at the pool weren’t eye candy, I just need someone more my age to help me hold a conversation.  I decide to check on headquarters (the car) and make sure it still exists.  I hobble down a couple streets and over to the car; it is still there, and untouched.  That’s one positive.  On the way back to the hotel, I notice a couple groups of young attractive females heading towards the beach (my original resting place).  It seems early for Spring Breakers, but I guess they are trying to hit that peak tanning time.  Anyways, I meander back over to the hotel pool.  I notice a maid cleaning rooms right around the room I was trying to gain access to.  I move in for the kill.

Me  “Excuse me mam.”
Maid (heavy accent) “Si?”
Me (Ah fuck) “Um, I’m locked out of my room, any chance you can let me in?”
Maid  “Si, how many towels?”

I’m not making any of this shit up.  The truth is always funnier than a lie, so why bother?

Me (thinking she will open the door and give me towels) “Um 2, it’s this room here.”
Maid  “Ok, 2 towels?”
Me  “Yes that would be great, but I’d like to use those towels inside this room (I point).”
Maid (hands me 2 towels and walks away) “Here, si?”
Me (desperately wishing I had taken Spanish in High School instead of French) “No, wait!”
Maid  “Si?”

It is very hard for me to become upset with this lady; it really is a true case of miscommunication.  I keep my cool as I try to find new ways to communicate.  I try using my hands to motion that I need the door opened.

Me (yanking on door handle) “Locked out, no key!”
Maid (finally understanding) “Ohhhhhh, here (points to my room)?”
Me  “Si Si, gracias.”

She instantly opens the door; I wave thanks as she smiles and walks away.  Now before I enter the room, let’s back up a second.  Yes, this was very nice of the maid to let me in, but for safety sake, I really wish I needed a way to prove that I lived in the room instead of pointing to which room I wished to access.  I mean, what if I was some psychotic kid petter?  Luckily for my unsuspecting, unconscious friends’ sake, I’m not.  Anyways, I enter the nearly pitch black room.

Rizzo (mumbles) “Shut the door!”
Me  “Dude it’s me, relax!”
Rizzo (mumbles louder) “Shut the door!”

As I enter, I shut the door and step over a chalk line of Franchize that appears lifeless, and swerve passed an incoherent Rizzo.  Upon opening the bathroom door, Big Bonk simultaneously walks out.  I jump back, startled.  Big Bonk is reaction-less; he crawls back into bed.  I make good use of the toilet then hop in the shower.  Try and recall when I said throwing my bag in headquarters would later prove to be a fatal mistake.  This was it.  The keys were with AJ, whom I had called early in the morning but was unable to contact, so I had no way of getting to my bag.  So after the much-needed shower, I throw on last night’s jeans (totally nullifying the shower) and go back to the pool.

Day 2 – 10:30am

I now notice the beach is swarmed with people, many of which look like they came to party (hot, soon-to-be drunk, chicks).  I’m alive and kicking, I wish I could say the same for the rest of my clan.  Watching other college kids enjoy their Spring Break from a neighboring pool is not something that pleases me.  The aggravation I feel can be expressed as follows: try putting a cheeseburger in front of a fat kid, and then stapling his mouth shut.  Yeah, it’s that bad.  I could go to the beach alone, which is already kinda weird, but most definitely not in jeans and shoes.  I refuse to be “that guy.”  So I hang out poolside, in jeans, and try and let time tick by.  I get a call from AJ.

Me  “Yo dude, where you at?”
AJ  “I’m over at Johnny Boy’s.”
Me  “Dude, let’s rock and roll, I’m bored outta my mind.”
AJ  “Alright, we gotta get our shit together over here, I’ll hit you up soon.”
Me  “Peace.”

With a very dim light at the end of the tunnel, I start to ease up a bit.  I notice 2 elderly Italian American men heading my direction.  They have their Styrofoam cooler, their obnoxiously white hair, and of course, each one is sporting their very own “old man tan.”  I quickly become the meat in their over-charred sandwich.  Why they decide to surround me and make shared use of their cooler obsolete, I wish I could explain.  Anyways, they definitely weren’t amateurs.  One of the men took charge and positioned both of their chairs in hopes of achieving the perfect tan.  Why these two walking balls of melanoma felt it necessary to continue polluting their skin with cancer, again I wish I could explain. Perhaps they want to beat lung cancer, and this is the only sure fire way?  They turn what used to be “swimming trunks” into something that holds less material value than a stripper’s thong.  Now let’s pan out; an aerial view perhaps.  20 feet to my left, a pool, now surrounded by 5 or 6 elderly women; to my immediate left, I’m talking half an arm’s length, is Italian American #1.  10 feet to my right, we see 2 fully-clothed elderly women, whom appear to be discussing something that took place sometime in the late 1920s.  And to my immediate right, again no more than half an arm’s length away, is Italian American #2.  Out of all the members of this circus act, I can honestly say I was the only one whose day consisted of more than trying to fight off the grim reaper.  I sit in agony as the freak show continues.

Day 2 – 11:15am

I frantically call AJ 1 or 2 more times; no success.  I try the room again, bang away loudly; with no success.  I send AJ an “SOS” text message, which I wish dearly I hadn’t erased.  I’ll try and recreate it.

“AJ, pick up your fucking phone, I am going insane here.  Save me ASAP!  SOS mother fucker, SO mother fuckin S!”

That’s not verbatim, but you get the idea.  Moments later my phone rings; it’s AJ.

Me (frantic) “Bro, where the fuck are you, I’m losing my mind!”
AJ (laughing) “Relax dude, we just got done eating, about to go to the beach.”
Me (more frantic) “Dude, save me right now, you got to come get me, I’m dying!”
AJ (still laughing) “Calm down, let me see if I can get Monnin to come pick you up.”

I hear him chatter away in the background.

AJ  “Alright dude, we’re gonna get you, where do you wanna meet?”
Me (with a sigh of relief) “At the car, say 15 minutes?”
AJ  “Done.”
Me  “I love you.”
AJ  “Oh and by the way, we must have been fucked up last night, we’re down to 7!”
Me (discussing the Skittles) “7!?!?  Bro I told you I only took that half?”
AJ  “Whatever dude, we’ll figure it out, 15 minutes!”
Me  “Peace.”

Initially too excited to think about the Skittles that went MIA, I prance towards headquarters.  On the way there, I’m doing the math in my head.  If you go back and do a recap (don’t waste your time, I’ll do it for you), we should have 9 Skittles remaining.  We started with 19, not 20; allow me to digress for just a moment.

We told our street pharmacist to feel free and pop one on the way to the meeting place since he was doing us this big favor.  Yeah, we are nice guys; not really.  The actual reason for our generosity was we figured that if our street pharmacist had actually been given rotten Skittles, aka rat poison, we would notice his cold sweat and vomiting.  This would then probably have deterred us from purchasing said Skittles.  Luckily for us, he seemed pleasantly loopy upon arrival.  Kids, don’t buy drugs from strangers.  Back to the story.

Back to the math, AJ also passed out 2 to buddies at Irish Kevin’s.  I guess it’s possible I could have unknowingly tipped my African American bathroom attendant amigo in Skittles instead of the money that I claimed to be without.  Who knows, all I care about at this point is getting into headquarters, retrieving my bag, and continuing my Spring Break.  The bag also contained my wallet.  While I have 3 forms of identification on me, I have no credit card.  This could’ve been used to purchase breakfast while I waited for the rest of the zombies to rise from the dead.  I did however manage to score a free bottle of water from the gift shop at the hotel.  Here’s how that played out.

Me (to clerk) “Hey boss, does this hotel have a water fountain?”
Clerk (searches his database (brain)) “Um not to my recollection; our sister hotel does.”
Me  “Where’s that?”
Clerk  “Across the street.”
Me (being lazy) “Ah man, alright, thanks, no worries.”
Clerk (trying to be helpful) “We have bottled water.”
Me  “I wish, sorry man, my wallet is locked in a friends car (true).”
Clerk (making a fatal mistake) “Just grab one and pay me later.”
Me (acting sincere) “You sure, it might not be for a couple of hours?”
Clerk (being too nice) “No problem!”
Me  “Wow, thanks man, I’ll hit you back as soon as I can (lie)!”

I get to headquarters and wait for my rescue team.

Day 2 – 11:45am

Still waiting.

Day 2 – 12:00pm

Still waiting.

Day 2 – 12:15pm

Starting to work on some “blue jean swamp ass,” I desperately pray for the timely arrival of my rescue team.  I try and look farther than my eyes can see for my pals (I don’t know what car I’m looking for, this does not help).

AJ (from behind me) “Get in!”

A van pulls up behind me, fully loaded (with Spring Breakers that is).

Me (as I drop to a knee thanking God) “I love all of you!”
Johnny Boy (from the van) “Let’s ride, it’s beach time!”
Me  “Yes sir, AJ open this bitch up so I can grab what I need!”
AJ  “I’ll tell you what you need…”

He steps out of the van, unlocks headquarters, and high fives me a Skittle.  He was right, I did need this.  I chase it down with a sip of warm bottled water I found in headquarters.  I grab my wallet, a pair of board shorts, and happily dive into an already too crowded van.

Me  “Thank you so much for saving me, I was losing my fucking mind!”
Monnin  “No problem man!”
Me  “Alright, who’s ready to fuckin party!”

Everyone gives and agreeing “Hell Yeah” and we drive to our destination: Smathers Beach.

Day 2 – 12:30pm

We have reached our destination: Smathers Beach.  After maneuvering the van carefully into a make shift parking spot, its contents spill their excited bodies out the sliding door.  Everyone from Johnny Boy’s clan is present, except for Hairless Yancy (apparently his stomach did not agree with the combination of tequila and Skittles).  They, along with AJ, pile out of the car with much excitement.  I wait for them to exit because I need to change into my board shorts.  I had previously warned them that I was not wearing any boxers and that they would be doing themselves a great justice by letting me change privately.  My legs flail about as I try to rapidly transfer from jeans to board shorts.  Finally I’m ready to rock; I hop outta the car (most members of the clan have waited for me, nice group).  As I gimp (yes, foot still hurts) across the 4 lane road (which we treat as if we have a protected crosswalk, not the case) towards the beach, I ponder whether or not to give Sarah a call and see if her UNC crew wants to meet up.  I deem this to not be the best idea, for I’m still not certain if I left an embarrassing (lost-any-chance-I-had) message on her voicemail.

We stroll over a jagged wooden bridge and into the sand.  We have reached paradise.  I look left, and then right; my eyes are overwhelmed with the sight of college Spring Breakers, lots of them.  Smathers Beach, particularly plentiful in college women, will be our home away from home for the next 2 afternoons.  We take a right, find a good spot next to a volleyball net, and post up.  This will become home base for our time spent at the beach.  We take notice of everyone, as they take notice of us, on our way to home base.  Once the cooler has been dropped, I can’t help but ask for a beer.  Nick, a member of the crew, says they’re for all of us.  I light up like a fucking Christmas tree.  It is going to be a great day; I can feel it (and the Skittle).  AJ and I have a discussion.

AJ  “Dude, I’m almost out of money, and it’s day 2.”
Me  “Yeah bro, me too, I’ve got like 60 bucks left and I’m saving $20 for gas.”
AJ  “Yeah, minus gas money, I’ve got about like $10 to my name.”
Me  “Whatever, we’ll just mooch.”
AJ  “Yeah, we’ll see how long we can make it.”

Sensing the urgency, we have 1 of 2 decisions.  1, we can spend another night, and then leave tomorrow afternoon, a day ahead of schedule (fuck that).  Or 2, the ever so dreaded “call the folks.”  At this point in time in my life, due to certain legal troubles, I’m on my own when it comes to a disposable income.  Like I mentioned earlier, I owe $7500 in lawyer fees that my dad fronted; oddly enough he expects reimbursement.  At the same time, I still have enough money coming in from scholarships to keep food in my stomach, and alcohol in my liver.  Ok, time to sack up and realize I could use the help.  Also, the fact that I’m calling my folks for hotel money so I don’t have to sleep outdoors is a little different than asking them for a 20 spot for a bottle of Jack.  Now, even after I have made the decision to “make the phone call,” I have one major problem.  My parents are in Spain, so cell phones are a no go.  Email is going to be my only shot in hell of reaching my folks, and that all depends on whether or not they are even going to check.  Seeing as Key West is not exactly stocked with Internet cafes, this becomes quite a task.  I call my cousin in Gainesville, ask him to email my parents, and call me when he hears back.  I also add to immediately tell my parents that I am NOT a) in jail or b) deceased.  As sad as it might be, if he doesn’t stipulate this right away in the message, this will certainly be their assumption.  If you have grown up with me or even heard the stories of my life, you wouldn’t blame them.

After hanging up with my cousin, I decide I’m not going to let our current financial situation compromise our Spring Break.  I jump right back into things with a big gulp of Johnny Boy’s hunch punch (comprised mainly of Van Gogh Vodka).

Side note: In the original document, I wrote, “with a big gulp of Johnny Boy’s magic juice.”  Only after rereading this did I realize how bi-curiously awkward that statement was.

Day 2 – 1:30pm

My friends and I are volleyball junkies.  Them, more so than myself, but I too enjoy the sport, especially after I’m feeling a little sauced up.  Unfortunately, I’m on the injured reserve due to my foot impediment.  I still don’t mind watching, but there seems to be much confusion in the order of who is to play.

AJ (talking to Random Volleyball Dude #1) “Hey bro, who’s got downs?”
Random Volleyball Dude #1  “Um I dunno dude, I think one of those people (points in every direction).”
AJ  “Um ok, well we got after last?”
Random Volleyball Dude #2  “Bro, it’s getting kinda busy, I think we should start a sandal line.”
AJ  “A what?”

Allow me to digress for just a moment.

Ok, as drunk and retarded as Random Volleyball Dude #2 sounded, this is one of the most brilliant schemes I have ever heard.  Maybe this is common knowledge and I’m just catching on late, if that’s the case, oh well, I’m a dumbass.  Anyways, think about playing pool at your local watering hole, or even darts for that matter.  You line up your quarters to signify your place in line.  This is the same idea, except you put one of your sandals in the line.  Brilliant, I know.  Back to the story.

After placing on of the crew’s sandals down to hold our spot, we scan the beach for familiar faces (friends) and very attractive (good enough) college chicks.  AJ spots a buddy of his, Krets (we’ll get back to him), and hustles over to say what’s up.  I stay behind with the rest of the clan, still perusing the beach for potential.  All of a sudden, everyone around me bursts out with laughter.  I quickly check to see if I have been “shanked.”  Pants are still knotted at the waist, we’re good.  I look around and realize that an unsuspecting chick has been hit in the head by a vicious volleyball spike (this is one of the dangers of making your home base near a volleyball court, but as long as you don’t get hit, the location is an auspicious one).  Nothing will ever make you laugh harder than watching an unsuspecting victim get pegged by a volleyball.  This assault on the unsuspecting chick will be the first of many.  From behind me I hear…

Rachel  “Who needs lotion?”

Realizing that I do not wish to look like the Italian Americans mentioned earlier anytime soon, I quickly step up to the plate.

Me  “Me!”
Rachel  “Come on over!”
Chewy  “I could use some too!”
Nick  “I agree.”

We all form a line and await the rub down.  With my arms out to my sides, Rachel sprays my front and tells me to rotate.  She even takes the time to flip my dog tags (bottle opener around my neck) after I rotate.  She sprays my back.

Rachel  “Next!”

Chewy steps up to the plate as I rub in my sunscreen.  This might not sound too comical on paper, but imagine watching a line of college boys, one at a time, getting sprayed with sun screen from a mothering member of the crew.  It’s quite hilarious, I assure you.  It also happens to be extremely windy, so our angle of attack must be executed perfectly as to try and minimize the lotion debris that will interfere with other beach goers.  After getting all lubed up, I take notice of a very tan, very cute girl to the left of our home base.  She stands up and reveals totem poles for legs; I immediately retract my previous statement.  We spot AJ talking to several buddies near the wooden bridge entrance, we head over to converse, and blatantly stare at any and every attractive female we step over on the way (I had left my sunglasses back at headquarters, rookie mistake).

Me  “What’s good, this place is fuckin loaded up!”
AJ  “I hear that, hey, have you ever met my friend Krets?”
Me  “It’s possible, but I’m not sure. (to Krets) What’s up man?”
Krets  “Hey man, nice to meet ya brutha (as he throws me a high five)!”

After his use of the word “brotha,” I instantly like this kid.  I’ll try to give you a good visual of this man, Krets.  Ok, imagine Fabio.  You got that?  Ok, now imagine Fabio after taking down a liter of Jager to the head.  Perfect, now you’re all caught up.

Me  “What’s the deal fellas, what’s goin down on the streets (beaches)?”
AJ  “Chillin, yo we were talking to this guy about taking one of those ‘booze cruises’.”

If you are not familiar with the term “booze cruise”, allow me to digress for just a moment.

Basically, it’s a 2-hour event where you and a bunch of friends meet at a port, get on a boat, putter around for a couple of hours, and come back.  The hook is that the entire time you’re on the water, it’s open bar.  Beer and wine only though, so if you just said “ah weak, fuck that” in your head, we’re on the same page.  If for some reason you can slam wine like I can Goldschlager, then this might be for you.  You pay Captain Ron (who makes the Italian Americans from early look ghostly pale) $30 dollars, and then 2-hour adventure begins.  Back to the story.

Side note: At the time this story took place, I hated wine.  Most 20-year-old men (straight men) aren’t really into it.  Now, at nearly 24 years of age, I have a much different outlook.  Once you develop the acquired taste needed to enjoy it, getting drunk off wine is amazing.  It’s a completely different drunk feeling, and it’s also socially acceptable.  If you drink 15 shots of Jager, you are a degenerate.  If you drink 4 bottles of wine, you are a sophisticated degenerate.  Go figure.

Me  “30 dollars?  So what did you mean earlier when you said you had no money?”
AJ  “Naw dude, he said if we get a bunch of people, like a group of 20 or so, we get on for free.”
Me  “We?”
AJ  “Well me and Krets talked to him, but I’m sure if we got 10 more we’d all get on for free.”
Me (as I quickly did the math) “This makes sense, I’ll look into it.”

Noticing the conversation was running dry and lacking much (any) depth, I announce “shotgun time” and retreat back to home base with Johnny Boy, Chewy, and any neighboring ears that have become interested.  As we suck out all the goodness and slam our now vacant cans violently on the ground as if expecting them to detonate on impact, I burst out into laughter.  Victim #2 of the volleyball aerial assault has just been chosen.  She didn’t stand a fighting chance.  She was laying face down with a daiquiri in her hand, and an iPod in her ears; Hiroshima had more of a warning than this poor chick.  After impact, everybody claps for her involuntary bravery.  After killing several more beers and drinking gulp after gulp of Johnny Boy’s hunch punch (again I edited “magic juice”), we decide to take a stroll and see what the rest of the beach has to offer.

Day 2 – 3:00pm

We get together a posse of 5 or 6, and prepare for the roundtrip trek.  The volleyball nets are located at the far right of the beach, so we have much more territory to the left that needs exploring.  We each grab a brew or 2, Johnny Boy gets his potion, and we start the stroll.  Now, a general rule of thumb at the beach is as follows: The people sitting stationary at their respective home bases do all the staring.  The people walking by pretend to be uninterested in anything else except for their own exclusive conversation(s).  I don’t like following social norms, especially ones that interfere with my viewing of possibly gorgeous, probably promiscuous, and most definitely intoxicated women.  If a girl ever tells you she hates it when guys check her out, she is lying.  If that were true, all girls would be voluntarily husky.  It is plausible that they don’t like it when older, weirder, creepier dudes check them out, but then again I wouldn’t either (lie; I love all attention).  Besides it’s Spring Break, which if you trace those words back to their origins, they literally translate to “you can eye-fuck whoever you damn please.”

So as we stumble down the beach, tripping over each other and passing around Johnny Boy’s potion like it’s crack and we’re addicts, I see our first obstacle up ahead.  A raft, atop of which sit 2 very attractive, although very inconsiderate ladies.  I don’t care how hot you think you are, you don’t put your raft in the middle of the “stroll path;” that’s just poor beach etiquette.  I’m sure you are all aware of this type, and have probably fallen victim to their selfish ways at least a handful of times in your career as a “beacher.”  Clearly a crime like this cannot go unpunished.  As we come within several feet of the girls, groups are parting like the red sea for these divas.  Not me, not today, not ever.  I step over the first bitch, plant my foot in the middle of their raft, and then step over the second bitch, returning to level ground.  I think out loud (I do this a lot, it often leads to trouble), “Outta the way toots.”  No need to look back; all my comrades do it for me.  We have a good chuckle and continue the hike.  In the distance, I see a familiar UCF face.  Holy smokes!  It’s Erica from The New York City Chronicles (coming soon).

Erica  “Heyyyyyyyy!
Me  “What’s cookin good lookin?”
Erica  “Not much, just hanging out.”
Me  “Who ya with, anyone I know?”
Erica  “Well David (boyfriend, nice guy though, he gets the seal of approval), and some other friends, oh and Mere!”
Me  “Oh no shit, where’s Mere at, I’ve been trying to get a hold of her all day (true).”
Erica  “She went back to the hotel for a minute (points across the street to the Sheraton).”
Me  “Why doesn’t she answer her phone?”
Erica  “She lost it.”
Me  “Shocker.  That’s why I love her, she makes me feel like less of an idiot.”

I notice the wrecking (strolling) crew is familiar with some of the other Spring Breakers surrounding Erika.  Her and I stumble over to eavesdrop and contribute our two cents.  After we all part ways, I tell Erika I’ll see her as we pass by on the way back.  We rock out, continuing the journey.  The potion is no more, which somehow spurs some randomness out of me.  I stumble over to AJ.

Me  “Sir, what’s the Skittle count?”
AJ  “4.”
Me  “4?”
AJ  “4.”
Me  “4!”
AJ  “4.”

Earlier in the previous night, I had warned AJ not to bring out all the Skittles.  Reason being, we’d wake up in the morning realizing we chewed more than necessary (sometimes I hate it when I’m right, this is one of those times).  Guess we’ll be saving the rest for tomorrow.  No big deal, we will just have to drink ourselves retarded tonight to make up for the lack of candy.  As we near a formation of rocks heading out into the water, I glance beyond this point.  I see nothing but little kids and people who dress like they don’t know they’re fat.  These are two things that I have no desire to be surrounded by, ever, much less on Spring Break.  Finding this to be a good pivot point, we turn around and head back towards home base.  We pass Erika’s campground; I notice they have already packed it in.  As we continue walking, I recognize someone who I’d never thought I’d be able to recognize in a million years; it’s Sarah and all the UNC chicks.  My daytime and nighttime memories never work together; it’s either one or the other.  The girls recognize all of us from the night before, and vice versa.  To my delight, even in the daylight, Sarah appears to still be good looking, amazing.  We converse…

Me  “Hey there, how are ya’ll (trying to mimic her accent)?”
Sarah  “Good, just hanging out, getting drunk (Sarah if you ever read this, marry me).”
Me  “True, yeah I called you last night, I think it may have been a little too late though.”
Sarah  “Are you a 272 number?”
Me  “Actually 727, but it’s probably the one you’re talking about.”
Sarah  “Yeah, sorry I was passed out.”
Me  “I figured, I didn’t realize what time it was till after I called.”
Sarah  “No worries, where you going tonight?”
Me (now realizing I didn’t leave an embarrassing/incriminating message) “Probably the same place, some bar(s) on Duvall Street for sure.”
Sarah  “Ok, well call me before you head out and we’ll meet up.”
Me  “For sure, so when you see a weird number, that’s me.”
Sarah  “Sounds good!”

I pry away all the other predators from their respective pray.  We keep walking down the beach making retarded sexual advances at anything that looks good (anything).

Me (to hot girl) “I love you.”

Yeah, that’s my goto line; inspiring, I know.  Finally after what seems like forever, we see the oasis of home base in our near future.  We are all out of fuel (alcohol) and desperately need a refill.  Once we reach home base, the refueling begins.

Day 2 – 4:00pm

After returning to home base and refueling my tank (putting beer in my stomach), I grab a sandy seat next to Nikki (1 of 2 females that are part of the clan; the other being Rachel).  I think it’s a great idea for the both of us to check out and rate the Spring Break women who stroll past us.  Nikki, being a cool ass chick, agrees.  After the first group rolls by, I realize this is going to be more entertaining than expected.

Me (pointing at girl) “She’s hot.”
Nikki  “Yeah, but her left ear looks weird (I don’t think that’s exactly what she said, but it was something that obscure).”
Me  “Wait, what?”
Nikki  “She’s hot, minus the ear thing.”

This is going to be great.  See, for me it’s always been a fairly simple analysis of a girl.  Face (thumbs up or thumbs down), rack (large or small, no such thing as medium, I consider that size “needs to be large”), and ass (flat, perfect, or bundunkadunk); these are the only attributes on a female I have ever been able to recognize, but apparently there’s more to a girl (physically, that is).  As the next girl walks by…

Nikki (blatantly pointing) “She’s hot.”
Me (mocking Nikki) “Yeah, but her right heel looks a little more square than it does round, no go.”

We share a laugh and continue to rate the oblivious (actually they probably knew, we were sitting about 5 feet away, speaking loudly, and pointing at them) females.  Finally, the beer begins to run dry, the hunch punch (magic juice) is long gone, and lobster backs for everyone; it’s time to pack it up at the beach.  We didn’t really meet any promising groups of women (that will change tomorrow), besides the UNC chicks.  Often, I notice myself losing focus on women and concentrating more on partying.

Side note: That above comment becomes more and more true as I age.  When I was a freshman in college, if someone had ever told me that someday I’d enjoy a pint and good conversation over trying to get laid, I would have laughed in said person’s face and called him/her a home-schooled virgin.  It’s scary to think that those magazines are right and men really do peak sexually at 17 or 18, but it might be true.  At age 17, I would (did) sell my soul to get laid.  Nowadays, if it comes down to Taco Bell or sex, I choose the Bell.  Don’t get me wrong, getting laid is still and will always be awesome; but its underlying importance has fizzled just a bit.  Maybe it’s because as you get older you don’t care about impressing your friends by increasing your “number,” or perhaps it’s because you’re just not willing to subject your ears to hours of useless girl-babble in exchange for 20 minutes (5 minutes) of bliss.  Bottom line: Booze 1, Girls 0.

We gather our belongings, somehow leaving with more stuff than we arrived with, and head to the van.  As I drag the cooler to the van, it too feels heavier.  Perhaps we have the Skittles and the contents of the cooler that now reside in our stomachs to blame for this misconception of weight.  The family piles in, and we hit the road.  Monnin kindly agrees to drop AJ and I off back at headquarters (this later proves to be a horrific mistake, for them that is).  It’s hot, and we are all burnt out as we travel back to headquarters.  A drive that should have been no more than 10 minutes took over an hour (or maybe it just felt like that).  Johnny Boy swings the van door open to help with the flow of air.  I suggest we kidnap someone to lighten the mood.  By this point, even I’m too zombied out to enjoy my own warped sense of humor.  We arrive at headquarters, hop out of the van, and give our thanks.

Day 2 – 5:45pm

AJ suggests we take our recovery period (the time between when you stop drinking in the afternoon until you start drinking again in the night; it usually falls between 6pm and 9pm) at the hotel beach (the same beach Soft Ass had tossed me out of previously in the early morning).  Since it’s a decent hour, a short rest here shouldn’t be a problem.  We grab 2 chairs in the sun, flop down, and close our eyes.  For me, it’s always hard to fall asleep unless I’m super tired (apparently AJ does not have this problem; he’s already snoring).  I toss and turn for a while, and maybe grab about 30 minutes of actual rest.  I notice that we are both as white as we are sober (sun burnt and shit-faced) and I shake AJ, warning him to go pass out in the shade as I am about to do.  He refuses.  Either because he enjoys feeling like he spent the night in a toaster, or because he is partially incoherent, I’m not quite certain.  I leave him be and move my chair in the shade.  Finally, it’s time for the power nap.  Oh wait never mind, as I hear my name being yelled in the distance.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 4