Memorial Day Water Camera
Many moons ago, in the dead heat of Texas summer during May 2012, I participated in my first ever float trip. "Float trip?" everyone not from Texas or any part of the south just thought to themselves. "What. Like, you travel across state lines to rate the best ice cream floats in America?" No, guys. This isn't Oprah and I'm not Gale (although, I wish both were true).
A float trip is wherein willing participants travel to the river in Austin, Texas to spend a long-weekend literally floating on tubes down the river, all the while ingesting copious and, very often, dangerous amounts of alcohol. That's it. That's literally all it is. You go sit in a plastic inner tube in your swimsuit and see just how much beer and other undisclosed types of alcohol you can consume without dying. Basically, blacking out is your only "to do" for the duration of your float.
Some people are champs, and do this once a year. Others, ::cough cough like me cough cough:: do it once and that's enough to last a lifetime. Don't get me wrong - I had a hell of a time. However, I suppose I'm girlier than I like to admit in that I wished so hard each and every night that I had a real bed and real shower to call my own. I tented it, I roughed it. I had no choice. But had I had a choice, I wouldn't have necessarily chosen the halfway deflated air mattress in a tent route after, say, the first night.
But I digress.
This past Memorial Day, I remembered something pretty hilarious. I remembered that, two years have gone by since this infamous float, and I have yet to develop my last remaining waterproof, disposal camera from the trip. Waiting that long for a chance to laugh at and post hilariously entertaining footage from a very blurry trip is so unlike me, one might think I fell on my head in the past few years. But I didn't. I'll tell you the real reason behind the delay: because I know almost half of those pictures are of my boobs.
Yes, my breasts. And everyone else's breasts on the trip, for that matter. Because alcohol made us do it. Alcohol made us think it was hilarious to just continuously flash our ladies at an uncontrollable rate to the rest of the group. Now, mind you, most of the group was female and gay men, so no harm no foul. However, how am I supposed to take my 2-year-old waterproof disposal camera to the local Walgreens knowing that, when I return to retrieve it, this random Walgreens employee is going to know what my breasts look like and maybe have even gotten a boner because of them? All they'll be picturing while I stand there, being an incredibly acceptable customer, are my areolas and nipples and breasts in general. They'll already have judged me for being a wasted mess, and won't care to hear my explanation that this was from years ago, and I have since matured. We've already been to second base and they haven't even taken me out on a proper date. This is what my mom would refer to as being "fast."
Below is the only actual river picture of me from that weekend:
I want the other pictures. I need them to blackmail myself. The gay men on the trip claimed they could effortlessly draw my lady lumps from memory after being exposed to them so many, many times. And I'm happy to say, I think I've devised the perfect plan to the get the incriminating evidence in my possession once and for all.
Drop it off myself, of course. But have one of my friends who never had anything to do with the float trip be the one to pick it up. The Walgreens staff can look her up and down, judging her six ways 'til Sunday, and she won't give a damn because THOSE AIN'T HER TITS.
I have a candidate. I'll let you know how it goes. Can't wait to see my boobs again.