Last year, on the 20th anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attacks (it's crazy how they can legally drink this year), I wrote a blog about how the English language needs a word for negative anniversaries. It feels weird to use a term associated with positive things for adverse events and whatnot.
I lead off with that because the story I'm about to tell you certainly constitutes a "negative anniversary," or "oops-a-day-see," as I called them in the 9/11 blog. Due to the content of this story, the 30-year-old man that I technically and legally am is a little apprehensive about telling this tale and submitting it to the internet super highway; I don't need to rehash this and open myself up for ridicule. Then the kid in me and the content side of my brain is like, dude, it's hilarious and also a little educational. Nobody died (barely); it's a great learning experience and fun to reminisce. Share your truth and laugh through the pain like always. It's no secret the last few years have been hard on your boi, and I haven't written as much about myself and my journey through the human experience as I did in the early days of DOL. I want to start doing that again. What better way than to tell one of the most embarrassing stories of my life that completely altered my high school experience?! Content > I'm 30 years old and have been since December 15th, but despite being the biggest I've ever been, and incredibly unhappy lolz, I don't feel that old. I understand how math works and that time does indeed pass, but it's crazy that 2007 was legit half a lifetime ago. For essentially the entire year, I was 15 years old. 2007 spanned the end of my freshman and the beginning of my sophomore year of high school and was a seminal time in my life. I don't have any older siblings, but a solid chunk of my friends do, so my class had much more exposure to booze and weed than the sophomores and juniors at the time. Not to say they didn't also break the law like us or that everybody in my grade did, but due to my high volume of friends with siblings in the class of 2007, we were partying a lot. I'm not trying to brag; it's just a fact. Nobody fucking cares; it isn't cool. It was literally half a lifetime ago. The first time I ever smoked weed was in January 2007. I remember it vividly because it was one of the handfuls of times I remember my dad and his wife getting into a big fight, and he told me to leave the house. So I met up with two friends and ended up smoking some reefer out of a little bong in a tree house which sounds like a Madlib but did happen. That set the wheels in motion for an absolute bender of a 15th year. Since it was winter and I wasn't playing a sport, I'd sleep at a buddy's house almost every weekend, and we'd drink some beers and/or smoke a little weed. This underage partying went on practically every weekend. My grade was full of little savages with access to this stuff because of older brothers, sisters, and cousins who'd let us go to parties where seniors were, but there were plenty of occasions where it'd be only freshmen. It wasn't my whole grade, but I went to a small school, and I'd say like 1/3 of us were drinking warm beer or Burnett's and/or throwing down a few bucks to get a 20 sack and smoke a blunt most weekends. My grades never suffered, and I seldom came home on these nights. If I did, I was very secretive (I'd throw my hoodie under all my dirty clothes in my hamper, thinking that'd mask the smell of weed) to avoid getting caught. So let's fast forward to September of 2007. School didn't start until the 4th, and I had gone nearly the entire summer without getting caught drinking or smoking. I thought I was invincible (not to be confused with the movie from the previous year). Summer '07 was incredible; it was the last summer of my life where I didn't have a job and when one of the most influential movies of my formative years was released.
Apart from training camp for my sophomore year of high school football (where I got serious playing time, NBD), that summer was a blast. There were beach parties where 50-100 high schoolers drank in the dark, tons of sleepovers, the Sox were fantastic, and the internet was still in its infancy, so it was a much more innocent time. Sure, we had Facebook, but I also had a flip phone where you had to text with t9. To any younger readers, you were charged per text and had to listen to ringback tones, and if the person didn't renew their ringback, it turned into a static-y rendition of Beethoven or some other classical trash. Eventually, the phone companies gave in and stopped those archaic practices.
On Saturday, September 1st, I did some of the summer reading that I had put off until its final weekend, caught the end of the App St. upset over Michigan, then went to a friend's house to chill. This night was significant because Clay Buccholz pitched a no-hitter. I remember watching the 9th inning on an old 32-inch box TV in a basement where we frequently drank old beers that year, but I don't think we drank that night. Details are fuzzy as it was legit half my lifetime ago, but the next night I went to a birthday party for a girl in our grade with this same group of friends. I'd assume on the 1st we talked about plans for that party and who's parents would give us rides for what would end up being the last non-school night of the summer since school started on Tuesday. There were four of us, and we were all on the football team, which still had practice on Labor Day. This is a crucial detail to remember for later. My last words before venturing out for the evening on 9/2/07: 
Oh man, was I ever.
I should mention that I went to a public high school. I've probably said it on my blog before, but I will not today as I'm trying my best to avoid doxing any people or buildings. What I will do is explain the dynamics of my high school life. There was the public school I went to and a private high school like 10 minutes away where a couple of my friends from 8th grade went to that we'll call "The Trout School" for anonymity's sake. As young, pubescent boys, there was a certain allure to the girls at The Trout School because they didn't go to our school. Everybody in America can understand that. At the time, we referred to these unknown private school girls as "Trout Biddies."
Well, wouldn't you know it? The same night as the birthday party I was supposed to go to with my football friends that I caught the 9th inning of Clay Buccholz's no-no with, there was a big Trout party that I debated going to instead of this one. So I was at the birthday party for a little while when another friend group asked me if I wanted to go to the Trout Party. Since I wasn't having a great time at the girl from my high school's party, I decided to ditch it and go with them to this unknown private school event. My football friends warned me not to because we had practice the next day, but my brain was an entire decade from fully developing, and I didn't care. I wanted to try to make out with some Trout Biddies since the public school girls didn't give me the time of day. We were only 15 then, so we got a ride from one of the two dudes I smoked in the tree house with's cousin. It was me, the two tree house boys, and the guy who owns the house where I currently rent a room. On the ride there, I remember seeing a handle of Captain Morgan in a brown paper bag that I could get down on as long as I threw down. I didn't throw down, but I sure did throw up and much, much worse. We get to the house, and it is fucking incredible. I lived in an affluent town, so some of my friends had impressive homes, but nothing like this. Excluding who I came with, I knew maaaybe five people who'd be there. Two of them went to my public school, and one was the guy I'd consider my closest Trout School friend. I'm just assuming I knew two other people there, but the point is I was a fish out of water at the Trout school party. I remember walking into this place with the three guys I was with and being blown away by the spread. There was sooo much food and like a tower of hors d'oeuvres, but I was drawn to the boxes of sauce bread pizza (a Rhode Island staple) and the fact that Rock of Love was on their big screen HD TV (something that was far from commonplace in September of 2007. For reference, we didn't get one until January of 2008 during the week between the Conference Championship Games and the Super Bowl, but this story isn't about picking the 18-1 scab that made the rest of my sophomore year even worse than the events of this night). Despite the date not matching, I have a few pictures from that night via Facebook so you can see that even though I had a terrible Supercuts haircut at the time, I wasn't an ugly 15-year-old by any means. Sure, I was a little chubby compared to everybody else, but I'd cut off my leg to be this skinny today. On paper, I should've been making out and touching developing boobs. 
It's not water in that bottle.
You can see I was wearing a blue and white striped American Eagle polo shirt. What you can't see is the cargo shorts and white boxers I had covering my bottom half. They were the only white boxers I had and the last ones I'd ever own.
Again, this was 15 years ago, so despite already writing over 1500 words, the details are grainy at best. I remember walking around the party, sipping on some Captain Morgan. I know I took a shit before any of it hit the fan (literally). It could've been 20 minutes or an hour and a half after arriving, but the last thing I remember is being on this girl's massive deck with one of the guys I came with. I poured probably four ounces of Captain Morgan into a coke can, walked inside, and unsuccessfully tried to talk to some Trout Bitties. From this point until the following morning is all second-hand information I've heard from friends there. Apparently, some junior or senior from another private school, let's call it Mendrickin that I have zero issued doxing named "Bo" (sick half name) dared me to chug the remainder of the handle of Captain that I didn't throw down for (sorry guys) and I did like the beast I was/am. Since I was only 15 years old and probably like 220ish at the time, this did not end well for me. I ended up throwing up and shitting my pants at the home of a girl I'd never met before in front of dozens of Trout Bitties and dudes I'd also never met. It was chaos. Girls were scared and crying. Some even tried to help me and as a blacked-out 15-year-old, I mistook this for affection and repaid them by trying to kiss them while covered in my own vomit and feces. Not ideal, to say the least! I am sooooooo sorry. I think the people there tried to keep this information hidden from the girl's mom, who was home (maybe the craziest part of a party where 50+ teens were getting shitfaced, and the walls were getting shit-stained). Eventually, someone rolled me down the stairs to get me out of the house (as I was passed out), where understandably, we were no longer welcome. Trout Bitties were crying. Dozo was nearly dying. This is a great time to tell any children reading not to chug Captain Morgan, as you will turn into a newborn baby when it comes to regulating bodily functions. I didn't touch it for at least six years after 9/2/07. My friends were worried I was gonna die, or at least my future landlord was and called an ambulance as well as my father, who at this point had no clue I was party rocking so hard. Surprise, dad! The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed strapped to it because I was causing a scene and seeing my dad, who was holding my hand (sus). The only part of this I remember is the pain of a catheter stretching out my lil 15-year-old dick and saying "I'm so sorry" to my dad no less than 50 times. I was so scare. I had no clue what had happened, including that I had shit my cargo shorts. When I was eventually discharged, I saw that my cargo shorts and white (well, now mostly brown) boxers were cut off while I marinated my own excrement. I don't remember a word from the drive home, but I found out that I had my stomach pumped. I thiiiink I took a shower when I got home; I hope I did, but tbh I'm not sure. I just know I passed the fuck out whenever we got back, but it didn't last too long. I don't know the timeline and probably should've asked my landlord for some details before spending three-plus hours writing this in the wee hours of 9/2/22. I couldn't have gotten that much sleep before getting woken up by dad to go to football the next day when I had alcohol poisoning like 45 minutes earlier. I had never missed a practice at this point in my career, and my dad sure wasn't about to let me start now. I know part of this was punishment (I was also grounded for a month), but I had the worst hangover in my entire life. By this point, my football friends I watched the no-no with a couple of days before had heard the news and asked me what happened like I had any fucking clue. All I can remember at the beginning of practice was feeling like I was going to die. I was probably still drunk. I got through like the first stretch of warm ups before I said something to one of my coaches about not feeling good and tapped out. Shockingly, he didn't go off on me. He even said something about me never missing a practice or tapping out, so it must've been legit. I'm glad society is progressing (or at least trying to), but you must remember how different life was in 2007. Our coaches (two who were teachers) called us bundles of sticks without blinking an eye. God forbid you ever put your hand on your hip. Hazing was just on its way out, but you still had water withheld from you as a sign of manliness, and the last thing you ever wanted to do was pull yourself out of practice and sit on the hill of shame. Players and coaches alike were ruthless toward the "pussies who couldn't take it." One time during my freshman year, a coach asked a fat kid if he was having "a heart attack or a Big Mac attack?" At this point, I was terrified about getting in trouble and possibly kicked off the team. Still, like a quarter into practice, my defensive line coach/English teacher (who I was relatively close with) asked me what happened, and I told him the truth because I'm just an honest fucking guy. Also, I legit thought I was going to die from the hangover, so I wasn't thinking straight. Surprisingly, the coach was cool about it and even gave me some hangover cures like teachers do. I should mention he'd get fired later in the school year for telling our principal to go to hell. #legend. He told me to have two grilled cheeses and some tomato soup, which doesn't seem like the best remedy. Grilled cheeses, sure, but tomato soup seemed wild for someone in my condition. I'm sure my friends busted my balls at practice, but the next day, the first day of sophomore year, is when life became a living hell. I was top-tierish in popular guys in my grade, but instead of Dozah, I was "the party pooper" for most of my sophomore year. The shit was out of the hole. Everybody knew. I got, for lack of a better term, shit from everybody. I get it; I was ruthless back then too. I would've likely done the same thing had it not been me, but it was, and it fucking ruined my sophomore year of HS. I couldn't win an argument because everybody had the tr*mp card that I shit my pants. Girls did not see me as a potential make-out partner because I shit my pant. Even teachers knew that Ole Dozo (not that I was called that back in '07) was "the party pooper" because they'd hear people call me the "supa dupa fupa poopa." Over time, the name-calling died down, but it never died for good. The following year on September 2nd, the scab was reopened, and my senior year, on the 3rd (because they forgot the day before), someone painted our senior rock "Happy 2 year +1 day anniversary to 9/2/07 (read as nine-two-oh-seven) Party Pooper." Luckily, I was not the last person in my high school to get so drunk that they shit themselves, which definitely took some of the heat off ya boi. But I'll tell ya, running into the girl (who was still essentially a stranger) whose party you ruined dropping a shit tornado will make you yearn for the days you run into an ex, even though I didn't know what that was like at that point in my life. Now, why did I spend close to four hours rehashing this now 15-year-old night of a 15-year-old boy? I guess cause it's a funny story and therapeutic, but mainly to think how lucky I am I didn't fucking die that night and to tell all my high school-aged readers to think twice before chugging Captain Morgan. Could you imagine if Ole Dozo was one of those kids who died in fucking high school? Yeah, I would've probably gotten a sick spread in the yearbook, but I'd be a dead teenager. I would've died a virgin who fucking OD'd on fucking Captain Morgan. What a lame way to go. How embarrassing for my parents? Sure, I wouldn't have lived to see 18-1, which would've been a nice bonus, but I legitimately could've been that cliche who died at 15 from succumbing to pier pressure and chugging half a handle of Captain. I've gotten down a lot lately from the state of the world and my inability to stop eating my feelings, but I am so, so, so happy to be alive. I had a blast in high school and don't regret partying; I just wish I had stayed at the "lame birthday party" that night.
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