In my life there have been many occasions to get absolutely whiskey bent. You know, to wake up and essentially set the goal to get black out drunk with nothing but bourbon and cheap smiles in mind. Knowing my whiskey habit, my 21st was set to be a momentous day in whiskey drinking’s fantastic history. On my 21st I blacked out at 930 and didn’t get home till 2am (last sighting at least). Apparently in my stupor (like I said, it was a great day for whiskey drinking and I put on a clinic) I invited two different girls over to my house on my walk home with my friends from the bar. It really was a great birthday, I got really drunk all day all over the place so I remember very little in nothing but fragmented blurs. And oh yeah, the only bad part was that my house got robbed latter that night. This is what I do remember: I woke up wide-awake at 7:30 am so dehydrated that I could barely move or open my eyes. I’m fully dressed with my shoes still on, laying face down on top of the sheets with my contacts in and everything on my nightstand had been thrown across the floor. Jolted awake by the harsh reality of morning, I began to try to remember what happened the night before but I can’t get past that familiar yet fine taste of bourbon that has come to welcome me in the morning as often as the sun’s light. My next move seems obvious. I should go down stairs, get wicked high and chug water to recover and start to piece together the night. Once I got downstairs I saw that my bong was missing. Still quite drunk and unfazed by this seemingly small problem, I stumbled around the house looking for it. Unable to find it I decided to roll a J instead, but I couldn’t find my grinder either. I made it into the kitchen, tripping over beer cans, and see that my back door is wide open. Taken aback by this new fold in my morning, I looked around and noticed that a lot more was