Having a fake ID has behooved me in countless ways. Instead of going to a party, ravaging the cheap beer selection, and drinking as much as I could at that single location (because who knows when I’ll be in contact with more alcohol), my friends and I can pick our poison for the night, albeit gas station poison. It usually consists of a few Mikes Hard lemonades or Twisted Tea, but it gets the job done and does it right.

The night the fake ID came into my life was over Winter Break. My friend Christina invited her roommate to come to town to visit. Kara, being the advanced drinker that she was, had three fake IDs. One night, we were all feeling like procuring some alcohol, but we had no way of getting any. Kara didn’t want to use any of her three fakes, so she asked me to do it. I had never seen a fake ID in my life and aside from a few speeding tickets and underage drinking, I considered myself a law-abiding citizen. However, this bold and risky move was what our night depended on.

The only similarity between my appearance and the picture of Kara was our brunette hair; the ID was from a different state and said Kara weighed three pounds. I agreed to do it after much deliberating, and walked into a gas station feeling the legal age of twenty-one. Doing my best to smile wide like Kara did in her picture, I grabbed what I needed and checked out. Everything went well the first night.

The second night was a little different. Kara offered to give me the ID since it had worked for me the first time. I couldn’t believe the magic behind the fake ID; I had all the power of a legal drinker tucked away in my wallet, and I couldn’t wait to see how it would affect my second semester of college. Having gained more confidence since my first alcohol exploit, I agreed to purchase more for me and my friends the next night. The cashier working was not the younger man from before, but I overlooked it and casually walked over to the freezer stocked with Mike’s and Bacardi. Sliding my ID across the counter, I tried to remain as unsuspecting as possible. The cashier stared at my ID for what seemed to be a decade, and after looking at it questionably, he opened his pamphlet of state IDs and stared at that for another decade; what a long time to be stressed out and not have a drink. In my mind I was pleading and begging that he would accept it and that it matched the picture in the booklet, while scouting out the best route to escape should my mission fail. After a few more minutes of glancing at the ID, he slid back across the counter and I stuffed it into my wallet. Relieved, I raced out the door with my alcohol and scrambled into the getaway car, ready to continue my night of illicit activities.