Young Drunk Stories
Your twenties are a decade of detours and debauchery. It is also a time filled with the advisement of direction. Here are the constants:
A: “You need to get your life together”; as if we don’t already have the pressures of negative bank accounts, yearning flashy lifestyles of richer celebrities our age, demanding parents, and the rising prices of “food” weighing us down.
B: “You’re in your twenties, go out and have fun”; Alright, so when I go out to get drunk and wake up in a room that is not mine with a hangover, should I expect a high five as I walk through the door of my childhood home with last night's attire?
This brings me to my story: It’s Friday night and I’m standing outside a pirate themed bar with the brother of my ex (not my smartest decision but we’ll get there later). I was recently paid 200 bucks for two weeks of hard work, which was a very good paycheck for me at the time.
My ex’s brother is arguing with the bouncer about getting in with a pair of name-brand running pants. This results in him taking them off and walking into the bar with a pair of leggings (by this point, we’ve had about 4 shots of Captain Morgan while walking up the street). As we enter, I can see the friends we were meeting waiting at a table with a round of whiskey sours, brightly colored tube shots, and a large plate of honey barbecue sauced wings.
The birthday girl is on the dance floor double fisting it with a beer and a vodka shot. At that point a shot of tequila makes it’s way into what I would argue are NOT my hands. “You need this”, my ex’s brother says, a saying I’ve heard many times to get me over the 3-year relationship between his sister and me. I feel the burn of a five-alarm fire down my throat and the burn of my regrets are rebranded into my mind.
Suddenly, my ass buzzes and I see a text from my boss. She’s asking about a report that I may not have sent in. As I make my way to the corner of the bar, the birthday girl grabs me and shoves a bright colored lime green tube of vodka into my mouth. I begin texting, then I look up to see the most beautiful drunk woman in front of me. Unfortunately, the birthday girl looked up to see me glancing at the drunk woman sitting a seat right from me. She walks up to me and says “I got you”, then takes the seat between me and the drunk woman and pulls the ultimate wingman move: “Hi I’m 'birthday girl', this is my friend, bye.”
She walks away and I can’t help but feel a mixed feeling of despair and appreciation. The girl looks at me and proceeded to speak in a way that is best described as a “slurred, Long Island Italian mob wife” voice, saying “you know how to pop and lock it, baby?” Suddenly the drunken strength of this girl lifts me up and begins to break into a 90’s Britney Spears dance routine, while my face is frozen trying to figure out how she is not on the floor by now.
She slows it down, reaches for me and pulls me in. I know exactly what is gonna happen, and how it’s gonna taste. The kiss is full of the taste of vodka, tequila, and quesadillas. When I believe she’s done, I pull away only to discover her ability to bite down on my lip and lockjaw me. At that moment I have a choice: kiss her again or lose a lip. I made my choice and the taste will never leave my mouth as long as I live.
She finally lets go and I make an excuse for a bathroom break. “You gotta peepee”, she says with the look of hunter ready to kill. “Yes”, I say, making my way to the bathroom as the girl follows me only to stop and dance by the restroom door. “I need a diversion", I texted my ex’s brother. To my surprise, he left with two girls from the bar, so I go for the next person, the birthday girl. I message her, “CODE RED, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, INSANE IN THE MEMBRANE”, all our regular text code words for “crazy girl”. I have no answer, so I proceed to look out the bathroom only to see the girl dancing to Rihanna while looking at the wall next to the door.
I step out and try to make a move for the front of the bar. I look for my friend, my savior, my “have my back buddy”, my friend who is grinding and making out with some guy she met an hour ago. She sees me and says “Did you bag her?” I laugh and say “No, she was drunk out her mind, I don’t think it was gonna work”. She nods and leaves the bar with me, but not without saying the statement that shamed me and made me laugh harder than anything I’ve heard that night, "Maybe it’s you, 'cause she would have fucked me”. Laughing, I pulled out my phone and saw a message from my boss with a question mark. I erased my long excuse and instead wrote: “Monday, off the clock now”.
So your twenties aren’t perfect. It’s a mess of underpaid jobs and crazy drunken nights. It’s about broken hearts coupled with experiences that make you laugh. It’s about knowing that when it comes to choosing between A and B, I choose me, and all of the above that comes with it.