Hard alcohol is the only thing you put in your body that actually comes with a story. It's like, 'You want some tequila?' 'No, dude, the last time I had that....' It doesn't happen with anything else. 'Do you want some jelly beans?' 'No. The last time I had jelly beans, I ended up with my pants around my ankles, face down in the mall. Seriously, dude, I can't even smell the black ones. Just get them out of here.'

How true is this?

Being shit faced every weekend lost its appeal for me a long long time ago but the memories remain. Even if one attempts to forget them, there is always a so called friend that shared the evening that is more than happy to remind you for their own amusement and that of others.

One night in particular stands out for me.

I was in my late 20s and single again after being married to number one son's father for five years. I had a work friend that was also single and we had our partying routine down to a science. We would start on Thursday night which was ladies night in town, get drunk, stumble into Denny's at 2am, drink coffee to sober up, take a cat nap and go to work.

Only to begin it all again Friday night.

It is only now that it occurs to me that the reason all my terrible stories happened on Friday nights instead of Thursday or Saturdays was because the lack of sleep combined with the infusion of alcohol contributed greatly to my idiocy.

One Friday night my friend and I decided we would head downtown to Church Street Station. At that time it was still a hot spot with the street blocked to traffic, many drinking establishments as well as performers and kiosks along the sides of the road.

There was also an old train that served as a historical monument of sorts.

Somewhere between kamikazes and jello shots, I got in my marinated mind that I wanted to see if I could start the train. Or at least sit in it and play engineer.

If you glance up, the picture of the train I posted is very similar to the train I attempted to break into. Notice the very narrow front windows.

In my wasted state, I must have thought my ass was less narrow than those windows.

It wasn't.

And I got stuck.

Of course initially that was the funniest thing in the world to us. Although my friend continued to laugh, it soon became clear that I was in quite a fix. To make matters worse, the laughter was drawing a crowd.

Since my friend had yet to concede the idea, she starting pushing at my ass still trying to get me IN. Not only that but she recruited a couple of guys from the on lookers to assist.

I am laughing, they are pushing and then...silence.

Apparently a cop on horseback had come over to find out what all the fuss was about.

Fortunately, he was able to pull me out by my feet without having to call for any kind of assistance. He scattered the on lookers and notified me, in a big scary cop way, that if he spotted me on or around Church Street Station again, he would take me to jail.

I have never gone back.

That is my story and I am stickin' to it. Anyone else want to share their drunken adventures?