Recently I celebrated my dirty 30th birthday. It was a lavish and decadent affair filled with music, drinks, laughter and good times… Well so I have been told. I remember none of this. My last clear memory of the evening, was actually welcoming guests early on in the night. No, I didn’t pass out. I was not roofied. Wasn’t sick. And was there all the way till the end.
So, who is this person that inhabits our body when we are blackout drunk? It certainly isn’t me. I mean, if you cant remember.. then how can you be certain that it’s really you? I have had plenty of blackout moments in my career. Probably more than the next person. And although I should probably be used to it by now. Its still scary when you wake up the next day and you cannot remember the events of the previous evening. Its still, damn right frightening. What would happen if something bad happened whilst you were blackout drunk? What if you hurt someone? Or..What if your blackout alter ego killed someone? Would this hold up in court? What if your blackout alter ego decided to slide down a handrail instead of walking down the stairs? Can you blame your alter ego on the consequences?
It would appear the answer would be no. By all accounts my blackout alter ego (and yes i’ve named him. his name is horatio) is actually not too bad of a guy. Fun. Outgoing. Confident. Loud. Always keen. Up for anything. Good for a laugh… I personally, do not like him. Well actually I haven’t met him. And never will. But I hate him. With a Passion. Horatio is the worst kind of human being. Selfish. Arrogant. Careless. He basically takes over the best part of my night/day/party. Has all the fun. Runs a muck. Then kindly leaves me with the ensuing repercussions. Hangover/comedown/injuries.. Worst. Bloke. Ever.
Once at a festival, I blacked out at about 1ish in the arvo. And then came to at about 7pm. On the dance floor. In the middle of a thousand people. Dancing. With a drink in one hand. And a cigarette in the other. What the fuck had I been doing for the previous 6 hours??? How the fuck did I come to have this drink in my hand??? And who the fuck lit this cigarette!?? Its kinda scary if you really think about it.
Which leads me to the coma incident. The best way I can explain the coma incident (see previous posts) is that its exactly like a blackout episode. Just with greater repercussions. I remember up to a certain point. Then it gets vague. I remember getting to the hotel with my brother in law and mates. Having drinks. Having shots. Then I remember being chauffeured in an ambulance from hospital to rehab. A full month later. I do not remember the strippers. Nor the chasing of the strippers. The sliding of the handrail. The fall. Nor the ensuing month in hospital.. I remember everything before and everything after.
And this is why I hate Horatio. The guy has such a good time, dancing with thousands of people, chasing strippers, sliding down handrails. And then he’s gone and leaves me to pick up the pieces after. Prick doesn’t even leave me a postcard. Or thank you note. Its been over two years, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about that coma incident. Not so much the actual accident. But the aftermath. The impending grief it caused everyone. And the rehab. And the rehabilitation. And how it took 6 months of my life. Fuck Horatio.
Does this mean we will never see Horatio again? Apparently not.
He’s not ALL doom and gloom. Once, coming out of a blackout, I was actually in the company of a girl. Mid pash. And she was hot. Smoking Hot. I’m going to go with a 9.. So perhaps, Horatio isn’t such a bad guy after all. Perhaps hate is a strong word.
I really.. can only hope that Horatio and I, ONLY cross paths like THIS from now on..