The Biggest Bitch at the Party: The Brownout
The night starts off like any other: shots, flip cup, pong, more shots. You’re at that perfect level of drunk where everyone-wants-me-on-their-pong-team meets I-really-couldn’t-care-less-about-playing-pong-right-now. After shotgunning a few more beers, you’re on the verge of black-out. One more bud light and you’ll be so gone you can’t remember where you live. But you don’t have that last drink. Instead, you find yourself teetering on the edge of awareness, doing and saying whatever comes to mind, because, well, YOLO. You’re having a great time and you want everyone to know. And then, suddenly you wake up the next
It starts out with your typical “where am I?” sweep across the room. You’re in your bed if you’re lucky; you’re alone if you’re extra lucky. Then you think back on the events of last night. You’re trying to figure out what happened, how much you drank, and where you were, but you have little luck except maybe a few foggy snapshots of screaming at the bartender to play Wagon Wheel just one more time. You look through your phone trying to find more evidence and after the 5th “comernr jhere and fffuyck me,” it hits you like a big yellow school bus. You remember every “but I just wanna daaaaaaaance!” and “you’re like, my best friend,” and “I wanna fuck you” that came out of your unrelenting, embarrassingly shameless mouth. You remember insta-vomming that shot of tequila. You remember how that ten was actually a four.
By this point, you would sell your soul go back to your blissful confusion but it’s too late. The more you try to forget, the more vivid your memory becomes. You immediately text everyone you may have interacted with last night apologizing for whatever you did, timidly joking about how you’ll never drink again. You’re miserable for hours, and not just from the headache that’s making you want to die. And then, after a day of stress and bargaining with God, the sun sets and it’s time to start again. But this time, you remember to have that extra beer.