ivyducktwilightseto I think I first realized I was really in for it when I saw the rotating cop lights in the my rear-view mirror... and then probably a little bit more when the cop asked me for my license and I was so fucking hammered I couldn't even say a clear word to him. Note to self.... it is not okay to bong two beers, take fifteen shots of vodka, and then try to drive ten miles on shitty roads to go home.

I still have no idea why I drove home that night... probably the fact that my mother is obsessed with the idea that I must be home every night before the sun rises. But... she was not okay with this. Her sister was killed by a drunk driver. I have little memory of the time between my last shot and getting behind the wheel, aside from taking a piss outside the party and tripping over a very thorny bush, ripping about ten cuts into my leg. I called my brother before I started the car, bitching about a girl that pissed me off and was the motivation behind my want/need to get absolutely trashed. I also have little memory of this.

On the way home I recognized somewhere that I was running off the road all over the place, but for some reason did not think about stopping. I remember a loud smack, a familiar sound, the sound of hitting something with one's car. I suppose it was a mailbox, based of the dent it left on my mother's car.

Amazingly, I survived the drive through town. The next place I remember is a gravel turn-around on my road, and I really have a feeling that I pulled off there on my own accord, but I have no proof behind this claim.

Breathalizers are amusing but incredibly damning. Handcuffs pinch and hurt. Passing out in the back of a cop car and waking up at the jail is also, unbelievably, a bad feeling.

Take my things, sign me in. Give me flip flops and that lovely burlap blanket. Goddammit I am still drunk. Walk me into the drunk tank. It is freezing. Sleep on the concrete slab for thirty minutes, wake up with the worst headache you could imagine. There is no comfortable. There is no warm. There is no happiness here. I close my eyes and disappear until I open them again and see how fucking bright the flourescent lights are and that there is no way out of this.

I become completely conscious at about eleven the next day, hungover and ready to eat that lovely prison meal. I share stories with all the extremely-haggard looking guys serving weekend sentences. They all laugh. I laugh. A little comic relief to take me away from overwhelming thoughts of suicide. Worse than a bad coke come-down. Worse than my lowest of low. And there's no knife here.

I finally summon up the courage to phone my dad. He's coming to pick me up, is all he says (the call costs a lot for some reason.) At last I am a free man. I can't look him in the eyes. I am the youngest to fuck up. Just barely eighteen and... of course... I blow it so much worse than I could ever fucking imagine.

I am... fucked.

by the way, .14, which is actually an owi, a worse offense.
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