For someone who openly loathes children, I am the world’s best mother. To drunk people. Because I am often the least-drunk person in any given room. It is not my fault that I bloat easily (and thus drink slowly), and I would like to stop being punished for it. Isn’t the bloating punishment enough? Being responsible blows. But see, someone always has to do it. Because it is a proven scientific fact, proven by scientists in important-looking coats, that in any given group of people up to no good, one person must be the buzz-harshing, fun-killing, horsing-around-opposed, anal-retentive mom-type douche bag and everyone else will just be, like, hanging out doing acid off of herpes-covered dildos and why can’t you just chill, Schuman? Jeez.
I’ll tell you why I can’t just chill — because if I’m not responsible, you’re all going to die!!! And now that summer’s coming, and some people think it’s acceptable to spend all day mainlining margaritas and just WAITING for someone to have an unfortunate accident so that I can explain the head-shaped dent in my wall to the paramedics, I’m here to tell you that everyone had better shape the fuck up and get responsible immediately because the Schuman Mom Train is derailing herself, permanently!!! Pass the crystal meth.
Apparently God hates me so much for not procreating (and also not chiseling the Ten Commandments on courthouses in my spare time) that he has made me de facto Most Responsible Person in the Room for all eternity, and I am sick of it. I quit. I am officially no longer everyone’s hysterical Jewish mother just because I can judge my own level of intoxication (with the possible exception of this magazine’s Literary Upstart in 2005, and if you know what I’m talking about, you’re probably too drunk right now to tease me effectively so you should just mind your own beeswax — and make sure to take an Advil before you go to bed and hydrate or you’ll feel terrible in the morning).
This is not to say that I never do anything stupid. I do massive amounts of stupid things, all day long. My stupid thing/not stupid thing ratio of things done on any given day is generally 3:1. The difference is that I remember everything I do. Even if I’ve been drinking (case in point: Literary Upstart Aught-Five). I remember every unfortunate proclamation of undying love I make, every ill-advised grope, every rejection-fueled putting-on of moves, every regrettable drunk-dialed word. (If only I could apply such skills to my scholarship, I’d be Hannah Arendt). No matter how much I try and how many times I listen to Appetite for Destruction, I can never become intoxicated enough to blank out, and the result is that all potential future degenerate behavior is informed with the memory of past degenerate behavior, and suddenly everyone else is hopped up on PCP making sawdust snow-angels at the paper mill they broke into and I’m home watching House, drinking juice spritzers and just waiting to bail someone out of jail.
This leaves me with two choices. Either I get married immediately, and start hanging out with a bunch of teetotaling Christian fundamentalists and spend all my free time admiring goatees and X-treme Snowboarding Against Gays, or I spend the remaining three months of my twenties turning into Keith Richards. And that, my friends, is not even a real choice. So the next time someone smokes too much weed in my apartment and plunges noggin-first into my door like some sort of gangly weed-addled tree, that someone will be me. Bring on the Everclear and heroin! Fuck yeah! Whooo! Have I ever told you you’re hot? Yaargh!! (B-t-dubs, in case I don’t regain consciousness, I tattooed my stomach with a list of my food and medication allergies, my mom’s home and work phone number, a MapQuest printout of the five nearest hospitals, and TiVo instructions for House.) Now let’s make out before I puke!