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Bill Brown

A complicated man.

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Last night my wife and I had our New Year's Eve tradition where we invited her best friend over for the night and played games to ring in the new year. This go 'round, Sandi decided that we should have some peach Bellinis.

My experience with champagne was unwaveringly bad. I begged my parents for a drink of it when I was really young, like eight or nine. They gave me a swig and I promptly threw up. Then I had a whole cup of it when I went hot air ballooning my first time and I yakked something fierce. I decided to give champagne one more try since childhood drinking is definitely not the same as adult drinking.

One side note for those who don't know me well: I am generally a teetotaler. Post-high school, I had two mudslides on a cruise in Mexico and two martinis at a friend's thirtieth birthday party. In my entire life, I've been drunk twice: once on account of said martinis and once in high school after downing an entire bottle of root beer Schnapps at an after-work party. So I thought I'd humor Sandi and have a few drinks because it was New Year's Eve.

Fast forward to 10:30. One bottle of champagne consumed entirely by me, save for a few sips by the ladies. I was drunk as a skunk. Let's skip over the entertaining, had-the-girls-in-stitches inebriation part and go right to the part with me over the kitchen sink, horking up more spew than I ever have before. I blew at least three good chunks. Went up to bed shortly thereafter and emptied out my stomach four more times.

Champagne: never again.