Levels of drunkenness.

I've done some stupid things.

Hilarious, but stupid.

About 95% of these mishaps are the direct result from me being wasted. That being said, I thought I may let you know about what it's like in the mind of Chris Miller when he's becoming drunk.

Tipsy is the stage when the room begins to get warmer and I start getting bored no matter what my friends and I are doing. That fat girl in the corner is slowly losing weight and I loosen up and talk to people. I can never hold in my shots, but this is my stage where I begin to think I'm invincible, therefor inevitably causing me to get sick later. Honestly, the nicest mood you'll ever find me in is probably in this stage.

Drunk is the stage where I begin to become loud. I begin picking on people, no matter who they are. I am now shamelessly flirting with the elephant in the corner as a backup in case the hot girl doesn't work out. It is at this point that I begin to bother people and piss them off to the point when they go away. Basic motor skills are deteriorating. No matter what alcohol is set in front of me, I am downing it like I need it to fucking survive.

Fucked-in-half is a term coined by Tucker Max, and a great one at that. Now not only am I loud and disruptive, but I make goddamn sure everyone around me knows that I am Chris fucking Miller. In this stage, I become a superhuman asshole. I have laid waste to parties and egos alike. As much as my friends may warn me about things, I tend to simply reassure them that I am God and everything will be okay. Unfortunately, this is hardly ever the case, considering that I usually continue drinking. I can no longer walk correctly and all basic motor functions are essentially shot, not to mention driving. Typically, it is about this time that I find a place to vomit.

Blacked out or Chris Miller drunk (as my friends have come to call it) is the most advanced stage of my drunkenness. This can only be achieved through one specific way- giving me too much alcohol over a short period of time when I am in my "Fucked-in-half" stage, where I then vomit. Believe it or not, not once have I blacked out without first vomiting, so it is apparently a very vital part of the process. Immediately after puking, I am gone. The bars are off, and I could do anything. My friends have made a nasty habit out of making bets after I throw up on what I will do next. Here are some examples of what I've done on some nights of my life I will never remember:

-Wandered around Lake Sommerville, falling in at several places and inviting myself into at least a dozen R.Vs looking for more liquor.
-Lost my pants only to find them 3 hours later.
-Woken up in several cars, not to mention beds, that weren't mine (sometimes naked, mind you).
-Slipped and fallen in my own urine and vomit, only to lay there because I couldn't lift myself up.
-Attempted to shower, only to get naked then pass out on the toilet. Two hours later, my friends would get worried and come in after me, then run away horrified that I am naked.
-Wrestled with random housemates, bashing my head against wall.
-Made fun of everyone within my range of vision, which has gotten me hurt many times, though I don't remember any of them.
-Puked in many houses, only to frame other people and get away with it.

I won't lie. Things tend to get out of hand when I have to much to drink. But hell, what is college for, right?

Proof that I'm better than you. (The Baby Story.)

About a month and a half into my first semester, me and my friends were hanging out one sunday afternoon downstairs in the lobby of our dorm after a good weekend of partying when one of our invaluable members came through the door. "Chicho" is our token mexican. That being said, he's also a theater major. The first night I met this crazy bastard, he was tapdancing drunk on a table. He had gone home to party in San Antonio for the weekend and was just getting back in, so we helped him get his shit upstairs and headed back to the lobby to hang out. After we had been talking for a few minutes, Chicho starts shaking his head and acting like someone had died or some shit, so being the courteous guys that we are, we asked what was wrong. In retrospect, that was a terrible idea because he began freaking out because a girl he had fucked two months prior told him over the weekend that she was late and possibly pregnant.

Don't get me wrong, I look out for my friends, but there are places even I don't like going. One is a baby scare. Nothing is more pathetic than a man who thinks he's about to have an illegitimate child.

So back to the story... Chicho is freaking the fuck out and we're trying our best not to be our normal asshole selves and make fun of him mercilessly. I first scold him on not wearing a condom. He's dumb as shit not to, but what can you do? After my lecture, I begin telling him things like:

-"You know, most back alley abortionists are real nice."
-"For a price, I could push her down the stairs. "
-"It's okay man, maybe it'll be black!"

When I found that my comments weren't making my friend feel any better, I offered to go with him to eat at our local cafe, where I would make fun of everyone I saw till he felt better. Being as awesome as I am, he agreed.

We met our buddy McNasty over there and sat down. I began making fun of random people, but the only one that I genuinely remember was a fat girl that walked by, to which I felt screaming " A WILD SNORLAX APPEARED!" was a fantastic response. She was so fat she couldn't even turn her head to bitch at me. Good riddance.

Anyway, we get our food and sit down, thinking the worst of Chicho's bitching has passed. We were sadly mistaken, because almost immediately he started burying his head in his arms and saying incredibly obscene things. Finally he lifts his head and begins praying to God. I personally found it hilarious, but he did it anyway. When getting to the end of the prayer, literally right before he said "Amen", I interject and remind him that "I only accept prayers in the form of Catholicism". He looks at me dead in the eyes and sings the amen, and I'll be damned if his phone didn't go off right then. He walks outside to take the call, and comes running back in, screaming, "CHRIS MILLER IS GOD!!!!"

Yes.

Yes I am.

Ninjas.

That's right.

Ninjas.

We've all heard of them, we all fear them, but none today have truly ever seen one.

Now, if you know anything about the history of Ninjitsu then you should know that ninjas were trained in the art of espionage. What do we call espionage in today's day and age? Well children, we call it vandalism.

Unfortunately, my many stories cannot accurately be told without first addressing the precursor that led up to Crawford house's reputation. So here we go-

It all started one Tuesday night about three weeks into our freshman semester. A good friend and mentor to our little group (we'll call him Dick) told us a story of running across campus as shirt ninjas and getting into all kinds of shenanigans. For those of you who are unaware as to the definition of a "shirt ninja", I will be glad to enlighten you. Pulled straight from Urban Dictionary, shirt ninja means thus-

"one hides his ninja identity with a shirt over the head. bad ass mother fuckers. " A perfect definition.

Now this sparked an idea into my head. Dick had told us about an RA across the street named Donnie, who had been in a relationship at the time and was being a total fuckhead. That being said, the plan was hatched. We had about 20 kids in our lobby at the time, all happy to be included on this epic adventure, so I gladly let them in on the plan. Dressed in all black, with the shirt wrapped appropriately around the head to mimic a ninja, we were simply to sneak across the street, knock on this kid's window, and scatter like a bunch of Mexicans caught by the border patrol. The plan itself sounds simple and stupid, but it's within the ridiculousness of the plan that the beauty lies. Imagine at 2 in the morning looking outside your window to see twenty legitimate fucking ninjas staring into your window then darting in every direction. Yeah.

However, the plan was soon developed into a slightly more complicated arrangement when one of my good friends "Jinx" informed the house he had smoke bombs. I didn't know Jinx too well at the time, and it alarmed me that the kid had the things lying around, but what is a ninja horde without smoke bombs? Soon enough, we gave into his idea... which, little did we know, was about to turn into a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

The plan was set in motion. Twenty ninjas, dressed in black with masks and hoods, darted across the street and crouched below the first-story window. The smoke bombs were lit, and we knocked on the window. The time between the lighting and the knocking seemed like a lifetime. It was dead silent, save for the annoying sounds of the fuses burning down to the smoke bombs in our hands. Suddenly the most ungodly gaddamn noise happened and two of the four smoke bombs we were holding exploded like M-1000's. Of course, we all shit ourselves and started running, dropping the flaring smokes and leaving Donnie to his fate. None of us were exactly sure of what happened besides that Jinx was a fucktard and ruined our plan. What was worse was that the smoke bombs had started a small fire, apparently neccessitating a whole legion of fucking firefighters.

I know what you're thinking too. We're retarded. Yes. We have no problem admitting that we like to fuck with people, and we do stupid shit. What was ridiculous was that none of us were under ANY kind of influence. The whole plan was ruined due to Jinx's dumbshit idea.

Regard this as the first chapter in the Chronicles of Crawford.

Myself.

I go by many names where I live, but you might know me by God. Truly, my name is Chris Miller and I attend a hereby nameless college in Texas, where I live in a dorm called Crawford. I am a smartass with no morals, no reputable characteristics, a low tolerance for stupidity, and a high tolerance for alcohol. My life here in a college town takes me on many wild and drunken adventures, several of which are full of hilarity. From here on this blog is dedicated to the awesomeness that is Chris fucking Miller and his friends. This is not intended to be a joke, nor a fraud, but to enlighten those to who I am and what I do.

Enjoy, for those of you with the testicular fortitude to read into my life.