As the clock struck the thirtieth minute of the hour, I was awakened from a state of dormancy to realize that the telephone resting on my guitar amplifier had started ringing. I was then made aware that Javier was in his basement with a 700ml bottle of Jose Cuervo, and began the first step of the ten hour journey that I now reminisce upon. I decided this night that I was going to attempt sweep picking excercises in the proceeding moments of inebriation. I grabbed my guitar rig and ventured into the night in search of the basement door to the temporary land of altered consciousness.

I played a few riffs as I made my way through the darkness to the front of the Cortes household, comprising of a pseudo-driveway followed by a jagged hill leading to a porch. I went past the porch to the back of the residence where I knocked on the basement door and awaited an answer. Not long after, I was greeted with a dislodging of the door's locking mechanism; I opened the door and entered the basement, kicking the door shut behind me. I traversed the curtain separating the laundry room from Javier's lair. As I brushed the curtain aside, I noticed that Roger was already present and made my way to the couch to my left. I began examining the bottle as I sat down. No longer than it took to read "40% alcohol by volume" did I begin inquiring about the night's festivities. Javier retrieved a shot glass, the size of which could be approximated in length to a typical skateboard wheel's diameter, and 3/5 the width.
I started off slowly, taking a shot and relaxing for ten minutes. The tequilla was sweet in the initial moments of pre-numbed consumption. I didn't wait long enough for the burning sensation to dwell in my mouth. The burn began rather unpleasantly in my upper throat, subsequently running down my esophagus in an inflated sensation of warmth and ending with an interesting yet persistent burn in the bottom of my stomach that I'd later equate to "burning in the deepest pits of hell". No longer than a couple minutes did the placebo as a result of the perceived burn began convincing me that I was in the early stages of drunkenness (although I'd later realize that this was not the case). Roger and Javier amused themselves with my guitar as I bided my time, estimating when I' take my next shot. I had no idea that I would drink fifteen more shots and stumble about in a park by the night's end.

The next five shots went by almost disapointingly slowly, and by the end of my sixth, some level of confusion struck me. Surely I would have felt more than a mild buzz by this point? 45 minutes had gone by, so I decided that a fifteen minute break was in order to see whether the alcohol's effects would begin before resuming my pace. I decided to test my dexterity with some low-tempo sweep picking; all seemed normal, so I filled the remainder of my break practicing palm muted sixteenth notes.

By the end of the break, I was experiencing a mild form what I like to refer to as "pseudo-crossed-eyes"; the sensation that one's eyes are crossed whilst looking straight ahead. I was pouring my seventh shot when I complained of the slow inebriation proccess to Roger. He hypothesized that I should start taking shots two at a time. In my almost-constant state of skepticism, I cited my preference for a slow ascension to drunkenness as I declined. I took my seventh shot, and suddenly changed my mind after reaching the decision that "I'm not fucking getting drunk fast enough". The eighth shot was poured and gulped down in a lust for perceptual distortion.

A short break later, ands I resumed my one-by-one tactic of intoxicating myself. I decided to take another fifteen minute break after shot ten, when pseudo-crossed-eye mode began reaching a comfortable level. After looking around, I noticed the second sign of the night that I was becoming increasingly drunken. A mild blurring sensation developed in my eyesight whenever I moved my head any farther than thirty degrees. I decided to test my balance after a few minutes spent watching Roger strum a single chord in repetition. I noticed my center of balance narrowing and subtly swaying from side to side.

It was at this point that I reached level three, referred to as "couch mode". This level begins when I find jumping onto a couch to be an interesting experience. No longer did I perceive the process of jumping, falling, and landing - one moment I find myself flopping into the air, and the next I find myself hitting a couch at what feels like great speed in a very unfamiliar body orientation. I repeated this several times (much to the annoyance of Javier, whom I requested stand up every time I decided to do this) before resuming my shots.

It was around the twelth shot that I began experiencing a loss of short-term memory. This was unlike cannabis, however - instead of completely forgetting something, I'd put it out of my mind and think of something else at which point I'd often ask a question that had just been answered before realizing that I already knew the answer. I marvelled at the bottle before me, at the seemingly gargantuan quantity of alcohol I had consumed judging by the pure number of shots consumed.

By now, Javier and Roger too began drinking in fairly small quantities. During yet another break, I repeatedly badgered Roger for not drinking fast enough. I decided that now was a good time to test my sweep picking capabilities. By now, I could no longer perform repeated sweeping with any degree of accuracy. I could still perform sweeps in one direction due to the general lack of manual dexterity involved.

Approximately two hours after beginning my drinking session, I now raised my "What the fuck?" flag high in respect of the almighty alcoholic beverage. My recollection of the basement events is very vague, although I do remember both Javier and Roger vomiting at some point (Roger vomiting off of the couch he sat on, Javier outside). My last six shots were poured shakily and often overflowed the shot glass due to my inability to pour with any significant level of precision. I reached my sixteenth shot with a sense of accomplishment, as I'd just out-drinken my own age.

Traditionally, drinking sessions end in a trip to the park and back before falling asleep not long before sunrise. Tonight was no different. Javier brought the now-empty bottle of Jose Cuervo with him as we left his basement and made our way to the park. He broke it by throwing it into the air nearby a sewer grate that I typically enjoy f/s 180ing over whilst skating my flatground lines. We formulated an action plan in case of police patrols chasing us (which never happens, seeing as how police patrols are practically nonexistent in the neighborhood of the park) consisting of "Follow Javier". We reached the park, and I began to swing. After enjoying the disorientation of moving rapidly back and forth through the air, I jumped off and noticed Javier lighting a fire made from dry grass lit with a butane lighter under the monkey bars whilst flying through the air.

I ventured towards what I recall acknowledging as "the campfire side" (in reference to Korpiklaani), and noticed Roger in a state of semi-consciousness as Javier kindled the fire. I then decided that finding more grass to burn was essential for completing the night's festivities, and proceeded to stumble about searching for fistfulls of grass to throw upon the flames. After returning from my third fire-grass expedition, I noticed Javier was nowhere to be seen. I woke Roger, stating "Javier epically gtfo'd (pronounced "get the fuck outed"), let's go find him".

We began the walk back to Javier's basement after a brief search of the playground and reaching the conclusion that he went home. He suddenly appeared from behind a bush a block away from the park, and we began trekking back to the basement. Upon reaching our destination at 4:00 AM, I flopped onto Javier's couch (I vaguely recall a comment of "he's fucking drunk, can't wait to sleep") and descended almost immediately into unconsciousness.

I was awakened from a state of dormancy to realize that the telephone resting on my guitar amplifier had started ringing. It was 9:00 AM, and I woke to a somewhat drunk and surprisingly hangover-less sensation. After answering his telephone, Javier decided that he wanted me to burn The Black Dahlia Murder's most recent album, "Nocturnal". A glass of water and a couple hours later, I was pleasently sitting at my computer chair and recalling the events that unfolded earlier that day. An amusing night indeed.