Image by kimsdinner via Flickr
New Years Nineteen Hundred and I Don’t Remember. I said “Goodnight” to my girlfriend and I headed home. While driving, I kept thinking about my younger brother. I remembered that he had just broken up with girlfriend a few days before the Big Ass New Year’s Bash. Something inside me told me to check on him. So, I did a u-turn and headed towards the scene of the party. Most of the guests’s cars were gone, but the lights were on even though the sun was almost up.
I opened the front door to a frightening scene. My younger brother was on the floor passed out with blood all over his t-shirt. His jeans were covered with vomit and he had no shoes. Two of his drunk-ass, dumb-ass “friends” had black sharpies and disposable razors. They were staggering towards him ready to start writing God Knows What all over him. I easily pulled them away from him.
I heaved my brother up onto his bare-feet and slapped his face until he awoke. He could barely talk. I lifted his shirt and checked for stab wounds, but found nothing. I supported him as he stumbled to my car. I repeatedly asked him if he was OK, poking and checking to find out if he had any pain anywhere. He just gave me bewildered gazes and kept saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine…” Other than being wasted drunk while wearing a blood spattered shirt, he didn’t show signs of injury or pain.
When I got him home, I could see that he was OK–no signs of blood loss or anything else sinister. I told him to shower and sent him off to bed.
That afternoon, I asked him about the shirt.
“How did it get the blood on it?”
He burst into a fit of laughter. “Dude, ” he said through tears and giggles, “Never mix tequila with Cherry Koolaid” (I was thinking more along the lines of NEVER mix my younger brother with tequila.)
