Beware the root beer-flavored vodka, my friends.....

It all started innocently enough.

Throw myself back into the social scene. Conclude my nearly-two-month "sabbatical" from bars and lounges and what not. Elect a club in Manhattan as the venue for my rebirth, of sorts.

But then, Mother Nature intervened. Send buckets of rain down upon us, forcing yours truly to relocate the festivities. Hoboken, good ol' Hoboken, now. No worries, though. Staying local prevents me from shelling out wasted-money for overpriced entrance fees, and spares me that dreaded late-night PATH train ride back home, which is preceded by about 40 minutes of sitting on the 34th Street station's dirty floor, waiting for my chariot while trying to subside a night's worth of liquor ODing.

Things were going as planned. Some friends came through. We had our destination, Lounge 11, set. So far, not bad. That was, until the Three Olives brand root beer-flavored vodka was cracked open. That's when the evening spiraled into Hades.

Admittedly, the root beer-flavored vodka was my call. I'd tasted it at work a few months back when reps from Three Olives put on a demonstration for us, in hopes of earning mag placement. And the root beer one was fucking delish. I thought, "Wow, this would be the perfect vodka to do shots of....doesn't taste that bad, goes down smooth. It's foolproof."

What a fucking idiot I was. And still am. Let's just say, after three gargantuan shots of said root beer-flavored vodka, the rest of the night is a blur, an indiscernable mist. I'm guessing I actually did step foot into Lounge 11, at least, and I only know this because of the stamp on my right hand. But how long I stayed there is a mystery. And how and why I ended up at some random hotel kegger, and then projectile-vomited all over said hotel's hallway before stumbling back to my apartment, by myself, is a head-scratcher of Roswell magnitude.

Why couldn't I have been more disciplined, and limited myself to only one root beer-flavored vodka shot? How come, every time I hang out with my friend Ben, I always disappear on him? Well, that second question is simple, really---when Ben's around, the drinks flow like Niagara Falls.

I somehow managed to walk my ass to NJ Transit this morning, though, to head back here to the 'rents, to see W. with my pops (entertaining movie, yet didn't effect me the way I'd hoped it would...some pointless touches, like including the infamous choking-on-a-pretzel incident, that feel tacked on to simply show George Bush's Greatest Hits...a good-but-not-good-enough letdown, for sure. Though, Josh Brolin did a damn-fine job).

What's the point of writing about such a terrible night? I don't know, to be honest. Maybe it's some sort of subconscious effort to learn from mistakes. Like, I'll one day skim through this here site and come across this post, and think, "Right, right. That's why I can't drink root beer-flavored vodka anymore."

What a hellish morning after, and an even worse night before. Fuck.