By day, I am mild-mannered (mostly) Ashley. But what you might not know is that I have an alter ego…Smashley, the heroically amusing drunk. People get jealous of other people who have had the honor of meeting Smashley. The legends of her escapades are told to captive audiences, longing for a glimpse of this creature.
Well…this weekend Smashley came out.
I went to Pismo with Boyfriend and the Rollin Dirty crew. It was a wind-blown, sleep-deprived mixture of motors, alcohol and offensive language. On Friday night, I rolled off the back of Boyfriend’s quad and nearly broke my neck. On Saturday, I sat on the beach for most of the day while the boys tried to break their necks. But on Saturday evening, I got a little brave…or stupid. I asked Boyfriend to show me how to jump. I just wanted a little one. Just a little tiny one. He chose some ridiculously steep dune and I lost momentum halfway up the thing. He told me to hit it faster. Apparently I did. When I came off the top of that hill I had the sensation of floating through the air. When I landed I looked back at Boyfriend, staring in disbelief. He showed me my tracks…I had jumped 25 mother-effing feet. I, being me, burst into tears and started shaking and we promptly rode back to camp where Boyfriend bragged to his friends and I poured myself a drink.
This was the first inkling that Smashley was lurking about. After finishing an entire bottle of margaritas it became obvious that she was present and accounted for. She danced like the little monkey for the crowd and passed out sometime shortly before dawn.
Morning came, and I got to deal with the repercussions of that crazy bitch. So, if you go to Pismo and you see a bunch of evenly spaced sand mounds near the end of the beach…beware…Smashley makes me sick…a lot.