An Argument With My Drunken Alter Ego

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My head hits the pillow. 5:42 AM. I’m uncertain of how I’ve spent the last six hours of my life, but at this point I’m falling deep in the lulls of a whiskey induced near coma. All that matters now is this pillow is mine, and for the next 6-14 hours I will shun my impending hangover in a painless lucid state.

The instant I fall asleep I find myself in a velvet lined room surrounded by five topless Kate Uptons. Just as I reached out to juggle my first pair of Double D dynamos, I awoke in a cold sweat with the unmistakable desperate urge to piss.

Shit.

I sprint to the bathroom, piss in the tub (this is no time for accuracy), and vault myself back into my bed, hoping to awaken in the same lustful dream glory. As always, it didn’t happen, and the Upton quintuplets were never to be seen again.

The dream puts me in the giant white void from the original Matrix movie, with a familiar figure. It’s me, just not a me I’m very familiar with. My hair ruffled, my eyes strangely wide, and beaming with happiness without any reason to.

My blackout alter-ego, an untamable beast rarely seen but never forgotten. Waving with the telltale sway of a hard liquor supernova, just on the verge of imploding into an unstoppable wave of destruction and assholery.

“You should get some sleep.” I call out across the void in a condescending tone. His eyes (my eyes?) make contact for the first time, as if he just noticed I was in the room.

“Thafuhhyousay?” he shouts with the grace of civility of Gary Busey, while making a slightly aggressive stumble in my direction.

“I’m just saying, maybe you should recognize when this is happening, and, you know, pass the fuck out.” I try to reason with the monster. Rookie mistake.

He takes the bait and I am reminded of the scene in Jurassic Park where the T-Rex eats the guy taking a dump. In my most vulnerable moment, the drunken cyclone cascades upon me.

He lunges, arms flailing, while alternating heavy breathing with an incoherent babble of speech. Luckily, he’s so drunk he can barely stand, and somersaults helplessly to the ground.

“You pissed on our living room floor. The toilet is ten feet away but you whipped your dick out and went R.Kelly on the fucking floor.”

“It…gives it…character,” he pants, still sprawled across the ground face-first. “Plus… TheDapperDipper cleaned it.” I chuckle to myself, thinking he has a pretty good point, and also that I might be an asshole.

“What about the time you took us to the hospital?” I remind him, trying to sway the drunken lunatic to peace.

“What about it?” he asks while rolling over and attempting to stand. His balance is practically nonexistent. “That nurse definitely wanted my dick. She took my shirt right off of me.”

“They had to cut that shirt off because it was almost ripped in half when we got there, douchebag. I had just fucking bought that shirt.” My desperation turns to hostility.

“Whatever, man, it was fucking yellow. You look like Big Bird in that shirt,” he responds in a sluggish but douchey tone, while pulling a Keystone Light out of his back pocket.

I am at a loss for words, and in my speechless daze I think of how furious I am to have awoken from the potential Kate Upton orgy. After the brief moment of silence, he pops the tab and takes a deliberate gulp from the aluminum can of lukewarm mediocrity.

“Wanna beer?” he offers peacefully. I accept, and he somehow pulls another Keystone out of the same pocket. I pop the tab and tilt my head back, anticipating an aggressive chug. When the beer touches my lips I taste a mix of toothpaste and whiskey-ginger.

Confused, I put my beer down and notice that my drunken alter-ego is fading in and out of consciousness. Just as I think he’s down for the count, he stiffens up significantly and stares dead in my eyes.

“LET’S GO MAN! IT’S FUCKING SATURDAY!” he screams while loud reverberating gunshot noises echo through the endless expanse of white. “THERE’S A POOL PARTY! FRESHMEN SLOOTS!” he continues, and I instantly realize what I’m hearing.

I awake violently, sit up, and recognize a fierce pain in my shoulder. A quick scan in the mirror reveals a violent bruise resembling a mutant eggplant.

“I’m up, shitheads, hold on,” I respond to my roommates insistence. As I prepare for the Saturday rambunctiousness ahead of me, my hands pass over my mini-fridge and I hesitate. As a coy grin comes upon my face, I slide open the door to find a fresh four pack of Keystone Light 16oz. tall boys.

“See you soon, I guess,” I say to myself, both figuratively and literally, as I taste the mediocre-but potent brew that I’ve grown so intoxicatingly fond of.

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StuffFratPeopleLike

StuffFratPeopleLike (@StuffFratsLike) is a writer for Total Frat Move, and due to his crippling OCD and functional alcoholism he can only understand and write text when presented in a numbered list format. So you're all jerks for calling him out on it. He is a self described Huguenot, and commands a secret sexual fetish for angry internet comments. All shameless praise can be directed to: joe@grandex.co

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  1. 1
    The_ChiIis_Guy

    I almost wish I cared enough to write my own articles about nothing. I have a whole lot in my head that could make for some entertainment. Due to my lack of attention span, however, I will continue to lurk in the depths of the comment sections, while you miserable surface-dwellers sit through more boring and fruitless attempts at compelling writing, as there is plenty of it to be found here.

    ^ ThisTake a lapReply • 2 years ago

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