I have a party every 13 months called The Millionnaires' Ball, where we all dress up in formal attire and get totally lobstered via wine, champagne, and fine cheeses. One time me and a friend, drunk in our fancy suits, decided to start punching each other in the face for fun. He tore my lip right through with my tooth, about an inch up, and I gushed blood all over the carpet, my suit, and especially my mouth. I told everybody that nobody could leave the party until every girl gave me a kiss goodnight, and all the girls screamed and bolted.



And one time me and a friend decided to have a drinking contest. I weighed about 150 pounds and he weighed about 250 pounds. We each had 22 shots and blacked out and puked everywhere. People figured I won though, because I made it to a toilet and he just fell over in the grass and puked on himself. My friends found me puking in the toilet, and then slamming my head into the toilet tank to try to knock myself out, and apparently I said "Don't cry for me, I'm already dead."

At my friend's cabin. There were only nine of us, but the party just went plain crazy. Me and two other guys were on acid, and everyone else was drinking. Four of us finished half a handle of Johnny Walker, and then later on JUST TWO guys finished the rest of it. It was such a blast, except for the one guy who got ridiculously sick.

With party's is the quality, and not the quantity.