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New Year’s resolutions very often revolve around obligation more than actually seeking some form of self-evolution, betterment, or whatever bullshit cliché tag you want to attach to it. Resolutions are also far more prevalent with the female half of our population, but nonetheless when the New Year rolls around talk of resolutions always come about, regardless of gender. For college students, they usually leave us standing in front of the mirror, the exact place where the original resolutions were documented via a 2:35 a.m. iPhone note, “sotp smpkinh cigareytes and dtink less,” one month later, thinking to ourselves, “what the fuck was I thinking?”
You’re not going to be drinking any less, and really, why should you? You shouldn’t be waking up to a sticky note reminding you to decrease the unthinkably awesome times you and your friends share. You should be fully taking advantage of your sweet, blissful and incredible existence. A state of living that can be epitomized in no other way than what every post-grad I’ve met at any bachelor party ever refers to as “The Life.” You’re in college. Why do we want you to go out drinking with us tonight? Because it’s Tuesday motherfucker. And we CAN. “You’re still in college, man? I bet you still just get drunk all the time and slay, huh?” That we do.
For some it’s about that time when those practice LSAT scores are making their way back and real life is setting in. You have to prepare for the rest of your life, and as fraternity men, we know that working hard now is going to pay dividends in the future. When we’re all 35 year-old politicians, lawyers, doctors and businessmen sharing houses in Colorado in the winter or vacationing in the Bahamas it is going to be badass, but there’s a time and a place. Do work but remember when you’re asked, “do you REALLY need to write your paper tonight?” that Wednesday night boozing will only be a possibility for another year or so. Plan well and party accordingly. Just please don’t be a pussy.
Your friends have convinced you to go out and you find yourself at the bar ordering your fifth whiskey coke, discussing with your pledge brother about how working out five times a week just isn’t going to keep happening, MAYBE three, maybe. Then the sudden urge to have some of that whacko tobacco hits you. So what if you dip outside for a cigarette or two with your pledge brother? It’s fine. But like any solid athlete you should have a good game plan. Blow that smoke away from the both of you, throw in a stick of gum or two, head back inside with a big fucking grin on your face and your tongue out because you’re about to dunk it from the free throw line. It’s time to pose with 6.6 seconds left and do your shit.
You’ve told yourself that if you leave the bar at 1:40 and beat the rush it will be so much easier to catch a cab back home with your friends and get a head start on figuring out just exactly how you all are going to get your drunken bodies from Point A to Point B. Point B being food and vagina, not necessarily in that order. But that just isn’t how it goes sometimes. Sometimes the jump from 1:40 to 1:41 occurs when you’re workin’ on the dance floor, with three buttons removed on your Polo oxford, letting God knows who grind up on you. Even better, and obviously the more fortunate of the two, that beautiful new girl you’ve been talking to is beginning to realize just how much of an ass you’re willing to make yourself look like while dancing to impress her, and she’s reciprocating. BAM. That seventh whiskey is down and before you can decide who is going to win the battle for next drink, Budweiser number 5 or whiskey number 8, the Heavens, or at least someone who sounds like an angel, calls your last name from the bar, followed by “Shots!”
Being beckoned you take her hand, hop off the dance floor and take heed of the lyrics of the music playing, “I’m the fucking man, y’all don’t get it do ya?” That’s exactly what you’re thinking walking to the bar and all of your brothers grin and give you the slight head nod as you make your way, all the while being mugged by plenty of cock suckers that want nothing more than, in the words of Kenny Powers, to be you. Fuck you. Just because his Thursday night hookup loves you and hugged you earlier when you walked by or because you fucked his girlfriend before he got a hold of her doesn’t mean he has to throw on the hater vision and passive aggressive button-up. But really, who gives a shit? Make your way to the bar, enjoy a great toast with your buddies and lady friend, and start thinking about making your way home. Try not to think of the pack of cigarettes in your pocket or the LSAT practice you need to get done the next day because by God, you’re livin’ the life. Party on, my friend. Party on. Fuck the resolutions and resolve to rage.