To Chuck or Not To Chuck: That is the Question!

I have a problem.

They say the first step is admitting it.

I've done some good work in the last few years, or so I thought. I quit smoking, that was supposed to help with the hangovers. I also thought that I was toning the drinking down a little. Let's face it, I'm not 18 anymore. However, I'm noticing that while I'm not drinking as often, I'm certainly making up for it with the quanity when I do drink.

Shots? Yes please!

I used to accuse my friend DSP of being an enabler, but he moved to Michigan last summer...so me thinks I need to have a heart to heart with the man in the mirror. I'm asking him to change his ways.

For some reason, I remembering less and less of my nights out. Sadly, this involves going to a late night watering hole that we now call "Chuck's".....solo. There was a time when this used to be a fun group effort. We'd all go and dance like rockstars, lose eachother, then laugh about it in the morning.

That all changed when DSP moved and AC Slater has decided that he can't stay up past 1AM to babysit me any longer- leaving me to my own devices. I somehow feel it necessary to cap off my evening at Chuck's so I walk (stumble?) there, pay my $5 to get in, and find myself hanging out in the bleachers for awhile. The bleachers you ask? Oh, it's an area off to the side of the dancefloor reserved for the observer waiting to make his move. For me it's a holding tank so that I can chew on my tongue for awhile after partaking in the required Sambuca shot that I do as a reward for checking my coat and making it to the bathroom successfully.

DSP yelled at me for being a bleacher-dweller (not for my solo Chucks missions, which is the real issue, let's focus)...so I've now taken to the dance floor. At 2AM, the glitter cowboy boot lowers from the ceiling, and the smoke machines begin their assualt and I fear that the pointy fingers come out and I look like the above photo. Worse yet, when I wake in the morning (unclear of how I got home - we'll just assume it was a cab) I rarely remember what I did for those few hours. That's right, I'm a Britney Spears album: Blackout! Maybe that's for the best - but come on, if I don't remember it, what's the point of going in the first place? My mentor at work (who must be getting sick of this "Groundhog Day"-ish Monday morning conversation) has suggested I tie string around my finger to remind myself to not go to Chuck's alone anymore. I don't see this working - a string around my finger probably wouldn't go with my outfit.

I've yelled at my friends that I cannot be held responsible for my actions, but it's of no use, they say that I cannot be convinced otherwise. I say, "c'mon people- get creative!" Friends don't let friends make complete asses of themselves!

So, this isn't so much of a cry for help as my own version of the string around the finger: putting it out there that I will no longer go to Chuck's alone. It's war against myself. May the best man win. Those of you who have met Derick (my drunken alter-ego)- say farewell, I'm burying that bastard deep.

But if you see him at Chuck's - don't tell me about it. Chances are I don't remember and it's probably better that way.