Cameron’s St. Pat’s Miracle.

As many of you have noticed there have been no stories on my site for over a year now. When asked why my response was always “that kind of crazy shit just doesn’t happen to me anymore.” I chalked it up to maturing and becoming an adult as I watched the aura of my former self fade over the horizon like a winter sunset. It was strange to release that part of me in exchange for more adult activities but I just assumed it was time. That was until March when from the ashes of a break-up a Phoenix rose more powerful than ever.

I have been on fucking fire this month, rock stars have had less fun than I have. Almost non-stop drinking, partying and women. All of a sudden “that kind of crazy shit” did start happening again and luckily for me it started right around St Patrick’s Day. Here in Chicago, especially this year St. Patrick’s Day lasts a week, literally. The actual day fell on a Friday but the previous Saturday was the Downtown Parade, Sunday was the South side Irish Parade, and no one really seemed to take a break. Between the first streak of nice weather and a build in excuse to be an alcoholic this town turned into a week long college kegger.

The day of the Downtown parade I, like our entire staff, worked at the bar but by 11:00 P.M. everybody had drunk themselves retarded and I was cut. I took this opportunity to talk to a girl with who I had hooked up with a few years earlier, Melissa. I’ve always kind of had a thing for her but nothing ever really happened between us for various geographical and relationship issues, but at this moment she’s here and we’re single. We were bullshitting when all of a sudden she asked “Do you have weed at your apartment?” Of course I did. “Who do you think your talking to?” “Well if you want to go smoke I’ll make it worth your while.” And were off.

We smoke a bowl, make out and things are going well. I excuse my self to take a piss and give myself a pep talk. When I return however I find her passed out on the couch. I try to wake her and she explains her immediate need for a trashcan, in which she absolutely unleashes her stomach contents. When she’s finished I try to move her into the bedroom and after some arguing and struggling I finally get her in bed where she almost immediately rolls off the mattress hits her head on the nightstand, falls to the floor and again mutters “trashcan.” As I bring her the almost half full bucket o’ puke I begin to wonder if this is what she meant by making it worth my while. I give her a pillow and blanket and almost get kicked in the face trying to take off her shoes. I take a quick survey of the situation and realize that this is clearly going nowhere, it is only midnight I have a good 5 hours of drinking to do. I make sure the trashcan is with in reach and tell Melissa that I’m going out. She grunts something and passes out.

Confused by the turn of events but happy the puke didn’t end up on me this time, I wander to my local late night bar and it is packed with tail. I ignore my friends who are there and immediately go to work on a tall brunette with bright blue eyes. I’m funny, she’s drunk, and I know what happens next but suddenly I think, “Wait. What’s my plan here? Take her home and say ‘yeah, just move the drunk chick out of the way she’s passed out. It’ll be fine we’ll make it a two-and-a-half-some.’” I seriously consider it for a moment but decide instead to go to the one place I can be guaranteed there will be no attractive women. I head over to my bar

I belly up to the bar and begin to tell the story of what happened after I left. Some laugh some are sympathetic and others call me an asshole. I have a few beers and am just about to leave when one of my random hook-ups walks in. She sits next to me and after a little small talk I decide it’s the bottom of the ninth I’m 0 for 1 and it’s time to swing for the fences. If I’m going down it’s swinging. I turn to her and say “I’m going to the back bathroom, come blow me.” With out another word I get up and do exactly what I said I would. 10 seconds later there is a knock at the door. “Cam? You in there.”

It could be. It might be. It is. A homerun.