We’ve all done it. The night starts out like any other, but then you slam back a few too many and you turn into Captain Ahab hunting the not-so-elusive White Whale. Before you know it, you wake up next to a girl who, in the immortal words of my grandma, “could fight off a good cold.” Immediately, you have to figure out a way to justify your decisions, much like she justified scarfing down that late night pizza by washing it down with a Diet Coke. But first, you have to run away from there faster than she runs to…just kidding, she doesn’t run. On your walk of unparalleled shame, you will subconsciously begin the journey through what psychologists refer to as the Five Stages of Grief.
Step 1: Denial/Isolation
You arrive home and immediately separate yourself from your brothers. If nobody remembers it, it didn’t happen. Besides, in your drunken blur that easily could’ve been two girls, right? Right?! All too suddenly, this fantasy begins to melt away, as brothers begin to filter into your room smiling wider than Rob Ford on Free Crack Day. You spout off defenses like, “I just walked her home!” but those are swatted away Mutombo-style by the dozens of eyewitnesses who saw you finger blast her at the bar. But just because these morons claim they saw you priming this girl’s engine in public, it doesn’t mean you rode it all the way to pleasure town, does it? Well, maybe it does, but they’re assholes for pointing it out!
Step 2: Anger
Somebody’s going to pay for this, and it’s not going to be you. Haven’t you already suffered enough? You’ll direct your anger at friends (the brothers who should’ve stopped you), loved ones (the whiskey that should’ve crippled your manhood before she did), and even inanimate objects (walls, empty bottles, and pledges). Unfortunately, there are only so many unbroken walls and bottles left in the house, and you’re pretty sure these guys got initiated last week. Maybe you shouldn’t be this mad about it, maybe it wasn’t that bad.
Step 3: Bargaining
This is where it gets sad. You attempt to justify this nuclear strike on your standards by saying stupid things like, “More cushion for the pushin,’” “She’s not fat, just big-boned,” and “She had a great personality!” Unfortunately, clichés aren’t going to un-fuck that fat girl, so you’ll have to dig a little deeper. While you can rationalize “a blow job’s a blow job,” it’s hard to justify returning the favor by going down on Susan Boyle’s uglier cousin for 25 minutes. A dry streak, no matter how long, is never a justification for shoving it up the butt of Jabba the Hutt. You can always take comfort knowing that this was like using the donut in batting practice — it’s no fun at the time, but it’s only going to help you hit harder in the future. Who are you kidding? You screwed the 200+ pound pooch this time, and it’s going to hit you hard.
Step 4: Depression
You start questioning everything. What if you’ve already reached your peak and you never get back on top where you belong? (Note: by “on top,” you mean on the bottom, doing none of the work). You start worrying about your stand-up legacy being tarnished over one egregious misdeed. Are you destined to be the Bill Buckner of your fraternity? No, you’re better than that. At the very least, you’re Dick Nixon. You collect yourself and decide there’s no use crying over spilt dignity.
Step 5: Acceptance
She may have been overweight, repulsive, and smelled like used dental floss, but you survived it. In fact, you’re pretty sure her bacne spelled out the Chinese symbol for redemption. So crack open a beer and prepare to do it all over again. Tonight. Keep it to yourself, but if all else fails, hell, you even have a back up plan now.