Partly Cloudy, 64°
I've seen you, EMS'd kid. Sweatshirt and pajamas in the Ratty, take-out box full of eggs and tabasco, Sigg bottle full of Powerade. Swaggering around like you're the most exciting thing to happen to alcoholics since pocket-sized breathalizers.
Yeah, I've seen you, EMS'd kid. Teetering from side to side as if the one-two punch of stomach pumping and charcoal ingestion didn't take your BAC to a flat .00 quicker than you can say "Yeah.I went to the hospital last night."
I've seen you, EMS'd kid, and I've got some choice words to wipe that smarmy grin off your face. You didn't win.
Now I'm not talking about those 12 beer pong games (in a row). You won those, and we were all impressed. You won at flip cup, set a new house record for keg stands - hell, you even won Down By the Banks of the Hanky Pank, which is a real accomplishment given the state you were in.
You won all of these games, EMS'd kid, but you lost at the most important game of all - binge drinking.
For some, drinking is a pasttime. But for people like you and me, EMS'd kid, it's a sport and, like all sports, it has its cop-outs. Nobody applauds the soccer forward who grabs the ball with his hands and runs willy nilly down the field and into the opposing goal. Nobody cheers on the pinball champion who tilts the table or the PGA master who takes a mulligan. Nobody expects any of these charlatans to proudly announce their failings the next day, and no one would know how to react if they did.
No one, that is, except for me. I won't make a big deal of it though - I've clearly been there myself, and I know what you're going through. I'm just going to offer a few words of encouragement.
You'll make it next time, Steven. I believe in you.
