Hello boys and girls. I know this website is usually all fun and games, but today I want to talk to you about an experience that changed my life. This is the story of how I hit rock bottom, and how I pulled myself up from those depths to achieve a fulfilling and satisfying life. I am sharing this story not because I want to brag or put myself on a pedestal, but rather as inspiration for any of you who feel your life is not as great or meaningful as it should be.

I grew up Catholic, going to church every Sunday morning. Both of my parents were pretty heavy into religion, and each week my family would pile into the minivan and head off to hear a sermon about the miraculous workings of Jesus Christ. I would sit there for an hour, listening to the priest talk about God and his creations.

It started off innocently enough, just a way to spend time and bond with my family each week.

But as habits tend to do, it slowly spiraled out of control.

It was pretty inconspicuous at first, just a weekly sermon and maybe a communion here or there. Oh sure, I knew I hadn’t done confirmation yet, and I shouldn’t be accepting the sacrament, but I figured, “what’s the big deal, it’s just a piece of bread.” Soon I was taking communion every week. Unconfirmed. And that’s not all. I began attending Sunday School sessions in addition to the usual sermon. As the years went on, things got worse, and I found myself skipping out on school to go to church and attend religious retreats. My grades slipped as I gave more and more of my time and attention to God. A former straight-A student, I was nearly flunking social studies. My best subject. At least three times a day, I would lock myself in my room and pray. I can vividly remember blasting “The Chronic” in order to make my parents think I was in there listening to gangsta rap, but really, I was in there praying. Praying for relatives, praying for myself, praying for world peace, praying for any and everything I could think of. It eventually got so bad, I couldn’t even make it through a family dinner or a game of Super Mario 3 without praying. I could beat Mario 3 with my eyes closed, and yet, I still prayed every game. That’s when I realized that I had become a full-blown God addict.

As a child, you often don’t fully understand the extent or consequences of your actions. Religion is such a seductive thing for a young man, and in hindsight it’s easy to see how I got hooked. There was the sacrament, oh that sweet, sweet body of Christ. The communion wine was plentiful and always flowing. Sunday School was a brothel of attractive pre-teens in gorgeous sundresses. It was such a natural high, what young man could resist? Not me, that’s for sure.

Well, old habits die hard, and soon I had completely lost control of my life. I knew I had hit rock bottom, when at the age of 17, I found myself curled up on the bathroom floor of my studio apartment, crying hysterically to no one but the rats that infested my current hellhole. You see, my parents had kicked me out of the house when they caught me praying instead of taking out the trash, a task which I had been assigned on the “Chore Board” (a whiteboard magnetically attached to our refrigerator). To make ends meet, I had begun selling bootleg Bibles door-to-door in one of the roughest neighborhoods in town. I knew it was dangerous, but I foolishly believed that God would protect me from the inhabitants of the local crack houses. One day, while peddling books, a stray bullet from a drive-by hit me in the shoulder. There was blood everywhere. I ran back to my apartment, my shirt soaked like a dark red rag. I grabbed a bottle of Sunny D that I had been trying to ferment into sacramental wine and splashed it all over the affected area. Nothing. Defeated, I grabbed a slice of 3-week old Wonderbread, the only food in the house. I placed the bread in a large spoon, and held a lighter underneath the spoon, attempting to create my own communion. In my demented mind, I thought it was the only chance for survival. I had successfully made this type of knockoff communion before, and although it wasn’t as good as the real thing, it was much cheaper and I was still able to get high if I took just a little more. Unfortunately, this particular loaf of Wonderbread was infested with mold, and the combination of moldy low-grade communion and severe blood loss sent me into a coma. Before slipping away, I grabbed the phone and tried to call for help, but sadly my phone had been shut off because I gave away all my money toward tithing and didn’t even have enough to pay the bill.

As I lay there, completely O.D.ed on God, I had what most people refer to as a near-death experience. I walked down a white tunnel, and at the end I saw a giant glass with ice cubes and a strange brownish colored liquid in it. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but as it turned out, this vision would prove to be a foreshadowing of the moment that forever changed my life.

I finally came to after what seemed like an eternity. I looked at my clock and saw that I had been unconscious for twenty minutes. Later I would discover that I had been clinically dead for 8 minutes. I got up and walked down the street to Jeremy’s house. Jeremy was my one and only friend; the only person that didn’t abandon me during my downward spiral into religion. Unless you’ve been there, you probably wouldn’t understand, but take it from me: When you get that deep into God, you lose a lot of friends. At first people say they want to help, but soon you notice that everyone is distancing themselves from you. It’s like I’ve said ever since, “when you’re taking 12 communions a day, you find out who your real friends are.”

When I reached Jeremy’s house, I tried to explain what happened, but I didn’t have the energy to get the words out. He took one look at my bullet wound and began to pour a strange liquid on it. It burned at first, but shortly afterwards I began to feel better. He then poured the same liquid in a glass and told me to drink it. Wouldn’t you know it, within an hour I felt like nothing had happened. I had the feeling of floating on air. My head felt lighter, ugly women suddenly appeared attractive, and I was filled with a feeling of love for everyone around (except for this one guy, who was a fuckin’ douche and I wanted to kick his ass). Then Jeremy took me to the hospital.

When I regained consciousness after the bullet-removal surgery, I woke up to see Jeremy’s smiling face. He grabbed me, walked me to his car, and drove back to his place. He sat me in the living room and proclaimed, “wait here while I get you a drink.” I will remember this moment as long as I live, because it was this moment that changed my life forever. When Jeremy returned, he was holding a glass filled with ice and a strange brownish colored liquid. It was the exact image I had seen in my near-death experience. I knew this was a sign. I accepted the glass, took a giant swig, and asked Jeremy, “what is this magical liquid you bring before me?” He looked at me, gave a half-smile, and said:

“That, my friend, is Bacardi and Coke.”

I was in shock. This liquid that eased my pain, that blurred my vision, that made the average-looking chick next door to Jeremy appear very do-able… this is what saved my life?

Don’t get me wrong. I had heard of Bacardi before. Oh, I had even tried it a couple times, at parties in the woods or at some kid’s house whose parents were out of town. But I had never fully embraced the idea of Bacardi before. That’s when I realized there was a massive void in my life, that could be filled only by delicious alcohol. All my life, what I had been searching for was right in front of me, up a couple feet and a little to the right, in the kitchen cabinet where my father kept his alcohol stash. For years I had tried to fill that void with things like God and prayer, but I was only living a lie. In actuality I was just hiding from what I really wanted: booze.

That day, I vowed to change my life around. I began drinking every single day, going to bars as often as possible. I got drunk frequently, met tons of new people, had lots of fun, and hooked up with a bunch of chicks. Life was truly amazing. I was doing it. I was living the dream. It was a life I never could’ve imagined just a few years back, when I was lying to my family and holding up Bishops at gunpoint just to steal a little sacrament so I could get high. Sure, it was a tough transition. I won’t lie, I thought about God a lot at first, but eventually I was able to banish those thoughts, to the point where I could go months without even wanting a communion, instead focusing all my attention toward alcohol and partying. As my liver’s capacity to function properly dissolved, so did my desire to pray. It took a lot of effort on my part, as I had to leave my old ways completely behind and commit to a life of getting plastered on rum n’ cokes. I had to leave behind all my Godaholic friends. It was difficult, but I just couldn’t be around those enablers anymore. I had to start a brand new life. But I did it. Now, I wake up every single day and thank the Bacardi Corporation for my newfound, meaningful existence. Without their succulent light rum and delectable flavors, especially Limon, I might not be here today. Hell, I probably wouldn’t be here today.

The point, kids, is that there’s always time to get back your life. A few years ago, I was an absolute trainwreck and I wouldn’t have given myself much chance of living past 21. Unfortunately it took me hitting rock bottom before I realized the error of my ways. But I made a change, and now here I am. Not just alive, but living well. And I owe it all to alcohol.

No matter how bad things get, no matter how bleak the future may appear, always remember: It’s never too late to turn things around.

If any of you are trying to change your life, hopefully this story has inspired you, and I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor. Before I go, I just want to thank my lord and savior, Carolina Bacardi. In the name of the father, son, and the holy mojito.