Everyone has their tequila story. Mine begins with me and a boyfriend sitting on the livingroom floor in front of the fireplace with a cutting board, some limes and a bottle of Jose Cuervo between us, and ends with me waking up still sitting upright on the livingroom floor with an empty bottle, some lime rinds and one last, undrunk shot between us.
That was years ago. I don't drink tequila all that often because of that night. Sure, I love a margarita now and then. But two or three maggies and I'm done.
So why I can't remember any of this when someone breaks out a bottle and asks "Wanna do some shots?", I have no idea.
Because, like the dumb ass that I am, I inevitably will respond with: "Sure! What can it hurt?"
What it comes down to is that I hate being left out of the fun. I'll participate in just about anything at any time, even if it comes close to killing me. That's not necessarily a winning trait.
I guess what I'm saying is: Don't be surprised if someday you read about my demise on the annual Darwin awards list.