Drunk In Rockport

This is the infamous story of seven girls, one house, much beer, much smirnoff, a stolen sign, and many drinking games. It is the story of "forgotten, unforgettable memories." It is the story of the "Rockport Roadtrip and Subsequent Drunken Tales."

It was the beginning of the summer when the idea began to emerge. It appeared that one of my close friends had a house in Rockport that belonged to her grandmother. It also appeared that her grandmother would allow us to use it for a 'girls only' weekend. It appeared to be a good idea.

Summer was long. Hot. Humid. Boring. Class sucked. Work sucked. Our love lives sucked (for the most part). So it was decided on one particulary long day that we would take off on Friday and drink ourselves into Rockport. And that's all it took. Well, that and a trip to Sam's for sixty 'Stones. 24 Coors, 24 Wine Coolers, 24 Smirnoff, a gallon of Carlos Rossi...the list was extensive.

Friday 2:00 -- leave College Station.
Friday 2:30 -- pull over. Exchange Sonic drinks for beer in a sonic glass. (You underestimate our sneakyness?)
Friday 3:00 -- pull over. More beer. More sneakyness.
Friday 6:30 -- long trip. Finally in Rockport. Time for good Cajun food. Very hot. Need beer.
Friday 9:00 -- rearrange the house. Main attraction--dining room table converted to drinkin' game casino. Bust out the dice...the cards. move the beer from the fridge to the coolers locate ajacent to table for maximum "lack of effort drinking." No walking required. This is good. Later on in the night there will be NO walking. Lots of crawling. Lots of stumbling.
Saturday 3:00 am -- last dice falls. Last round of cards is played. Last girl stumbles to her bed.
Saturday 4:00 am -- at least one of us learns the comforts of the bathroom floor as a bed.
Saturday 11:00 am -- we awake from our drunken coma to find that there are little men kicking the insides of our heads. Several of us have little men kicking our stomachs as well.
Saturday 12:30 -- on the ferry. Ugly man tells us we cannot wear our cowboy hats. Pisses us off. Dumbass. Need beer.
Saturday 1:00 pm to 6:00 pm -- Port Aransas. Bikinis. Too many ugly boys. No beer. Time to go back. Meet cute guys. Somewhat better.
Saturday 8:00 -- much better. Have had beer. Have had offer for free meal from old guys. No thanks. Off to eat.
Saturday 9:00 -- more beer.
Saturday 10:00 to 11:00 -- more beer. Holes in memory. No memory.
Saturday 11:30 -- old guys show up. Get them drunk. Kick them out.
Saturday 12:00 -- decide we need the street sign two blocks away
(Murray st). Drag my drunk ass to the truck. Get my drunk roomate to drive. Fall out of the truck. Stumble to the pole. Shimmy up pole. (amazed at my own shimmy-ing ability). Knock the signs off the top using nothing other than my great strength. Other friend tries to flag down roomate who is still driving around the block (side note: this is the middle of the street, there is traffic. She is wearing flip flops and CANNOT run. My roomate will not stop. I'm standing there, stupidly smiling, holding a complete street sign in my hands. We are no longer sober enough to try to be sneaky.) Back to the house. Bang on signs with hammer to seperate. Not working. Screw it. More beer. Sunday sometime after 12 -- time to drive around town. Why not? All of us drunk. So the least drunk drives. No parties. Back to the house.
More beer.
Sunday sometime after 2 -- someone went to What-a-burger. I don't remember this. Or trying to walk on the railing of the porch. Or being drug back inside by my drunken roomate. She doesn't remember either. Sunday sometime before 5 -- many drunken calls. No memory what-so-ever. Attack anyone who tries to sleep. Have pictures. Looks fun. Sunday around 11 -- must clean house. This is no good. Dice stuck to table. Kitchen looks like the a recycling center for alcoholics. Sunday around 12 -- go our seperate ways. The little men have not shown up yet. hmmm? No hangover. Strange. Must still be drunk.
Sunday 2:00 -- yep. Was still drunk. Little men start showing up. They bring friends. My head has become a construction site. My stomach is a jungle jim. Make it stop.
Sunday all night -- my liver hates me. My friends livers hate me. I have named my the little man that is kicking my head in. It appears he is going be here for an extended stay.

And all for just two drunken nights? Oh don't you get me wrong. It was worth it. And it will be repeated. Any one up for a roadtrip?

-Charlsea