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It’s 2:00am. The bars are closing, and everyone is pouring out onto the curb to make their next move for the night. Your pledge ride is on the way, and even though most of the people you are with are “non-smokers,” everyone seems to be sucking down a cig like they’re interning at the White House. The collective mood is chipper, and the night seems to be going just right. As you wonder why it is taking your pledge so fucking long to pick you up, you look down at your phone and notice that it has only been 4 minutes since you called him. At that moment, the same not-so-sobering thought we’ve all had time and time again comes screaming through your head.
“Oh…my….God. I am SHITFACED.”
That’s right pal. You don’t seem to remember, but you slammed enough whiskey ginger to euthanize a Shetland pony. Your judgment isn’t merely impaired, but has been completely obliterated, and because of this you are going to do some horrible things. Things that are not only detrimental to your health, reputation, and dignity, but will also make a great story you will never tell your grandkids.
Lowering Your Standards:
After noticing that you had literally just hung up on your pledge not even 5 minutes ago, you notice the name “Jillian (followed by whatever bar you just left)” in your recent calls list. This is when you do the booty call litmus text. If you shoot her a text, and she responds with either “Heyyyy!” or “HIIIII!” or anything with a smiley face, you are pretty much golden. After weaving yourself a patchwork of drunken jokes and unsubtle innuendos, you manage to get invited to her place. Upon waking up next to your late night conquest the next morning, you roll over and discover that Jillian was not exactly what you would call a “keeper.” She wasn’t even an 8. Congratulations, you just bagged a solid 6. Now go home and gargle that mouthwash until you can’t feel the inside of your mouth…and maybe pick up some Plan B on the way…you don’t want to see what those kids will look like.
Another possible scenario is that you can always just bail on the pledge ride and walk back to the frat house. Never mind the fact that the bars are 16 blocks away and it is 35 degrees outside, your oxford and khakis will surely do the trick. While belligerently contemplating all of the different ways you are going to haze the “late” pledge driver once you arrive at the house, something catches your eye. Did 7th avenue always used to intersect with Reagan Street? Regardless, you have seen the sign, and now you must own it. The process of stealing things like signs, restaurant memorabilia, and other fraternities’ composites on the walk home is an activity many indulge in and by the time you arrive back at your house, the stealing spree will have snowballed to the point where you have enough shit to decorate the inside of an Applebee’s.
There are few drunken decision making processes quite like deciding what you are going to eat after a long night. In all honesty, the things I’ve seen people put in their mouths and call food can be anything from genius to downright disgusting. From the ever-popular “McGangbang” which consists of a chicken sandwich stuffed between a double cheeseburger, to people scavenging their fridge for whatever combo they see fit, I’ve seen it all. One of my roommates used to get so fucking hammered he would actually melt muenster cheese on eggo waffles and cover them in honey. Seriously, it was gross.
Drunken antics, although the bane of my blackout existence, are some of the greatest memories you can take from college. I’m sure there are plenty of other interesting drunk stories you have to share, so send them to me on Twitter: @TheDapperDipper