After enjoying a few shots and a few beers last Friday night in San Diego, Jeremy found himself in a situation I assume some of us can relate to: He mistakenly thought he was OK to drive.
He was torn between going to visit a girl he had been dating (wait, Jeremy’s not gay?!), passing out at his friend Tommy’s house, or going to Jack In The Box. And while I would’ve passed out drunk in the Jack In The Box (or Del Taco) parking lot after spending $35 dollars at the drive-thru, Jeremy decided to get behind the wheel.
Jeremy is now out of jail and awaiting a court date, and he tells me he’s “doing fine.” The full, forthcoming, and remorseful account is on his blog, but here’s a recap:
Unfortunately, I had not done the proper amount of math, and had not given myself enough time to fully dissipate the alcohol in my system. I may have passed all the playground games that the officer had me perform to prove my sobriety, but I did not pass the breathalyzer test, and I blew a .08.
I lost count how many rooms I was moved to in the labyrinth that is San Diego County Jail. I had no idea who I was really dealing with most of the time, but I knew that I needed to make phone calls to let people know what was going on, and to especially post bail. I mean, the fine institution that is our cities jailing systems are great and all, but I’ll take my hot assed tent, on a hot ass island any day of the week over the cold steel benches, reeking of urine and yeti, dog-piling for a semi-sleep able position atop the mountain of miscreants.
I beg, please take a cab, or make sure that you have a REAL Designated Driver for your party. I thought I was being totally responsible and safe, and I’m glad that I was called out on it. I’ll definitely be changing my ways even more, out of respect for all of you, and for anyone around me. That’s not fair for them for me to put them in that position.