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December 30, 2017



That's me to the left. Shirtless douche promoting nothing but trouble.


“I was drunk…if I don’t remember, it never happened.”  That was my calling card whenever my ass was called out for my tawdry behavior after a night of heavy drinking and drugging.  Unfortunately, I was cursed to remember every single sordid detail with blow-by-blow clarity whenever I crawled out of bed (not always my own) with a miserable hangover the morning after.

I’ve shared my drunkalogue via articles and other venues many times.  Blackouts are not part of my story.  I’ve never been able to truthfully use the “I was drunk” card in terms of memory loss (with emphasis on the word “truthfully”).  I get it that some people need to do a panty check after a night of partying, but for the most part blackouts are most convenient whenever assholes want to get out of a jam…that they can’t remember.   Like the song goes, blame it on the vodka, blame it on the Henny, blame it on the blue tap, got you feeling dizzy; blame it on the a-a-alcohol—blame it on the a-a-alcohol (I hate Jamie Fox and I hate that stupid song)

So imagine my surprise when I got a friend request on my Facebook feed with a short massage from some random fuck talkin’ about:  “Hi Paulo. I met you a long time ago,” he wrote. “You used to flirt with me at the gym all the time.  And you made passes at me at the bars.  It was before you got sober.”

I don’t remember this guy.  AT ALL!  One look at his collection of profile pics and I immediately think he’s full of dog dookie.  HE HAS TO BE FULL OF IT!  For me to say this guy is butt-muther-fucking u.g.l.y. would be mean (yes, even for me), so let’s just say that he could be cute…in certain foreign countries…but none that I could pull out of my ass at this very moment.  I searched his profile for some kind of old redeeming JPEG—anything that would clue me in to why he’s all up on my FB talkin’ about how I wanted him “before I got sober.” And the result was nil.  At best he looks like Bozo the Clown.  To make matters worse, he’s claiming I wanted him with no mention that he fancied me in return—hhmm…maybe that’s why I found him so annoying.  It’ still doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know this guy.  Weird.  It’s not like he’s saying, “Remember me? You called me a bitch 20 years ago”—that could be ANY forgettable bitch.  Nope.  He’s saying I flirted with him at the gym.  Was I drunk at the gym?  I don’t think so.  I’m forced to call BULLSHIT!!!

Is it possible that I fucked with this person’s head many distant vodka-cranberries ago?  I remember feeling u.g.l.y. when I first came out of the closet, so I used to throw myself at random fucks and say that I thought they were cute when I really didn’t.  AT ALL.  Is that wretched behavior biting me in the ass 20 years later?  Very possible.

I accepted the guy’s FB friend request because I’m a big FB friend whore, but I never responded to his email.  What was I supposed to say—“Bitch, don’t nobody want you, but you.”

A few months later, a guy called after me on the street one Sunday afternoon.

“Paulo!  Hi!” He shouted.

“Hey? How are you?”  I responded trying not to look confused (“Who are you?”).  I leaned over to give him a light hug assuming he was sober (people in sobriety like to clap and hug like we’ve got special needs).  I couldn’t fake recognition, so he introduced himself.  It was Bozo from FB. He actually looked better in person, but still hardly resembled an object that I would have affections towards.  Drunk or sober.  Today or 20 years ago.

“I knew you back when you were drinking,” He reiterated from his FB message like I’m Frances fucking Farmer and he knew me before my lobotomy.

“Oh yeah.  The crazy years,” I offered weakly, not really knowing what else to say.

“It was back in the early 90s.  You used to want me,” He said matter-of-factly with a thin stupid smile.


“We didn’t do it in the nude, did we?” I was joking of course.

“No, I was never attracted to you like that,” he responded plainly if not painfully.  I felt my face get hot and my neck twitch (my friends laughed their assess off when I retold that part of the encounter.)

I wanted to bust out the “I was drunk card” (I must’ve been really, REALLY drunk) and put this guy in his place, but like I said, I’m not a blackout drunk.  I would remember him if I wanted him so badly—ESPECIALLY if he rejected me—we can never forget (or forgive) the fuckers that reject us, can we?  This guy is either lying, delusional, or confused by some interaction between us that he’s been latching on to for too many years.


Is this another price that we pay for our drinking?  Any random stranger can hatch up some bogus story and we have to accept it on the grounds that we were sloppy drunks?  Fuck that shit!

Of course, I let him continue playing his tape however he wants to play it.  No point in fighting him.  I made nice, did some small talk and took the high road that Sunday afternoon—yep, my ass took the high road straight home and sat down to write this blog.  If he has a problem with me calling him a liar and vehemently denying that I so much as farted in his direction then it’s pretty obvious to me that this Bozo must be a big drunk.  Disqualified.  Dismissed.  I don’t remember you.  You never happened.  Subject. Closed.

What do we think about blackout drunks?





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About Paulo Murillo,

Paulo has been writing for the gay media for over 16 years. He made his debut as a columnist for FAB! Newspaper. He has written for LA Health News, IN Los Angeles, Frontiers and The Fight Magazine. He has been featured in The Bay Area Reporter, XY Magazine, Bay Windows, Windy Times, and Press Pass Q, He has been quoted in the pages of Edge Magazine, Gay & Lesbian Times, Seattle Gay News, Fuges, and in a shitload of online news outlets and blogs, thanks in large part to Rex Wocker’s Quote on Quote – Wockner Wire.

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