Alcohol has made me do many things: some insane, some hilarious, and some plain evil. It was insane, and so unlike my somewhat prudish character, when my Puerto Rican BFF, Bacardi, unleashed my inhibitions and self-imposed rules and I slept with Johnny on our third date. In a jibaro accent, Mr. Superior yelled: Nena! Deja de ser tan cabrona y agarra ese hombre! So I did, and though I cried like a blubbering fool afterward, I felt free during those 30 minutes.
There have also been plenty of hilarious moments due to an overabundance of alcohol consumption. Like when my hard-core drinking Indian friend Janet and I stumbled down the stairs of a club in Cancun or when my Dominicanita Ceylin was so trashed she fell asleep smiling. But then there are those evil moments. Like when I gulped down half a bottle of Southern Comfort with Janet and then called Alicia, my college nemesis who was sexing Kurt, my college love interest. It wasn’t a friendly call. It was more of a “Imma-tell-your-boyfriend-from-home-about-your-sexcapades-so-don’t-fuck-with-me-pendeja” call. I scared the living shit out of Alicia and then hung up the phone triumphant. Muahahahaha!
Go to Love Trips: I Didn't Kill Susie to read the rest
