I loved drinking because, frankly, I had ZERO inhibitions and absolutely NO fear of death—or dignity, apparently. Case in point: one fateful afternoon, nearly blackout drunk, I decided I’d become the Tony Hawk of Duluth and longboard down 21st Street. Now, for those unfamiliar, Duluth isn’t called “the city on a hill” for its charming incline. Oh no. The roads here make roller coasters look like kiddie rides. Driving a stick shift? Thrilling. Longboarding drunk? Darwin Award material.
Anyway, there I was, fully committed to my vision of being the coolest chick alive. I made it a whopping two blocks before physics—and my lack of coordination—had their say. The dreaded speed wobbles hit, and bam: I flew off the board, somersaulted across some poor soul’s manicured lawn, skidded across the pavement like a human cheese grater, and finally crash-landed into a parked camper. It was like Evel Knievel meets Walmart parking lot chaos.
Things got fuzzy after that. I vaguely remember waking up in my bathtub, surrounded by four drunk friends who were equal parts giddy and horrified. “You’re alive?!” one slurred while holding what looked like my left shoe. Then they decided my shredded arm—resembling fresh cottage cheese smothered in ketchup—needed “disinfection.” Their brilliant medical plan? Pouring vodka on it. Genius. It hurt so bad I think I blacked out again just to escape the pain.
When I came to, I was in a wheelchair at the ER, my arm wrapped in enough gauze to make me look like a mummy cosplayer. How did I get there, you ask? Oh, just the herculean effort of four drunk dudes trying to shove my 5’5”, 125-pound, bloody body into a car without calling an ambulance (because, obviously, I couldn’t afford it). Fun fact: the car still had blood stains years later. Vintage me.
Apparently, one of the guys passed out in the ER lobby and ended up being admitted for alcohol poisoning. So now it’s a two-for-one ER story. Oh, and did I mention my blood alcohol level was .37? It wasn’t even 5 PM yet. I’m honestly shocked I didn’t win some kind of award for this performance.
This event went down in history as “The 21st Street Incident,” and for years, people retold the chaotic legend of my drunken longboarding escapade, complete with lawn carnage, vodka-fueled first aid, and the aftermath of four dudes proving why drunk logistics should never be a thing.