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Three Months Sober: Reflections On My Eight Hours In A Holding Cell
Two things before we get this going:
1. I realize that when I write a story like this and attach it to my personal blog, someone could find it and read it and it could doom me in certain future opportunities. I know that’s a possibility, sure, but I also like telling stories — and some of the ones about myself are funny, so why not share? If someone can’t understand that this is meant to be a reflection on failure and a way to move forward, I probably wouldn’t want that opportunity anyway. Talking about failure is freeing, IMHO. It’s cheaper than therapy for me to write these things down.
2. I’ve never actually been arrested, and this story isn’t on any record of any kind anywhere in the great wide world. In fact, I didn’t even do much wrong. Read on.
This takes place in June 2001; I actually turned 21 in November 2001. Remember that in a few seconds.
In June 2001, I was living in DC (where I went to college) with some of my good friends. Most of the people from that summer are actually still my good friends; my entire refrigerator now, 14 years later, is basically pictures of their children from Christmas cards.
