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The music sounds better, the girls steadily become more attractive, and you can’t help but step back and realize that your night is about to kick ass. Any hesitation you may have had toward your planned liver abuse for the evening flies out the window. As the first few drinks satiate your primal fraternal thirst, your internal vaginal location senses survey the room for potential hookups. It’s important to check out what the bar has to offer before moving further down your drunken spiral, otherwise that girl with “HUGE tits” you take home that night could look more like an elephant seal by morning.
Conversations begin to seem more important as they simultaneously become significantly louder. If your bar of choice has a jukebox, this is the level at which you clumsily shove a 10 inside of it to set the mood for the remainder of your evening. I would never suggest you drive after drinking, but you totally could if you needed to, despite what the creepy invisible cop Public Service Announcements may suggest.
As your balance begins to falter and your words begin to slur together in an enthusiastic frenzy, it seems that the alcohol is finally serving its purpose. This is the stage where any time a song begins to play you take the personal responsibility to remind everyone that you can recite 95% of the words. The few lines you can’t remember can be easily replaced by an emphatic “HELL YEAH!” or a nonchalant murmur that sounds somewhat similar to the actual lyrics.
From this point on in your drunken travels you no longer walk, you stumble. Any time that you can properly collect yourself to purchase another beverage, you make it your civic duty to finish the drink as fast as your curdling insides allow. Enthusiasm reaches an all-time high as every friend/bartender/game/chick/song becomes “The best fucking ____ ever.” Trying to explain yourselves to your peers becomes impossible, and your once fruitful attention span limits itself to furthering the drunken cause you’ve begun.
There comes a time in every drunken night where the pursuit of getting hammered is sidetracked by a far greater goal: getting laid by someone (hopefully) attractive, and (more importantly) easy. Exporting a flurry of “what are you up to?” texts in the late evening may not be the most subtle move, but often times it’s the most effective. At this point in the night, you may walk in circles around your drunken venue of choice for no other reason than to see if anyone attractive has walked in since you last passed.
Also known as “fuck shit up drunk.” A recklessly inebriated individual is not someone to be taken lightly. At best you’ll end up with an ice cold whiskey ginger seeping down your chest, and at worst you could find yourself in a good old-fashioned bar brawl. A reckless drunk will accept nearly every dare offered his way, and it is not uncommon for petty theft on a massive scale to occur. If you ever wonder how your fraternity house ascertained so many street signs, chances are a reckless drunk was involved.
Your mind is still working and your vision has yet to completely betray you, but at this stage any coordination between thoughts and bodily functions become next to impossible. Urinals magically shrink to a quarter of their size, and maintaining an accurate stream becomes as easy as getting away with murder (assuming you aren’t Ray Lewis). The glossy sheen across your eyes and the strange dishevelment of your hair and clothing makes your intoxicated state obvious to everyone in the room. It should be noted that this is the dreaded “point of no return,” because chances are if you’ve made it this far in your bar crawl, it won’t be considered a success until a full blackout ensues.
From this point on in the evening, your actions will be nothing but legend repeated to you in a hungover daze the next morning. Most of the choices you make will have a completely valid excuse (“Oh well, I was blacked the fuck out”), but can also come with consequences. Regrettable blackout decisions include, but are not limited to, the following: broken windows, fun with lighter fluid, hooking up with a girl that looks like a cow, hooking up with an actual cow, serious pledge injuries, broken bottles, fraternity feuds, damaged cars, and most importantly, an arrest record.
Rarely seen but never forgotten, trainwreck drunk kind of nights only end one of three ways: in the hospital, in a jail cell, or with your face intimately pressed against the toilet bowl. First of all, hospitals are creepy and they smell like rotting death, and waking up in one in a dazed blur is nowhere near fun, believe me. Jail cells are obviously not an ideal scenario, but if you pulled off an awesome stunt to earn your spot then by all means, congratulations. Far more likely, however, are the odds that a cop caught you doing something retardedly illegal, you tried to run, and tripped over your own drunken stupidity. Finally a toilet bowl night surely ranks as an unpleasant experience, but it sure as hell beats laying on cold concrete while being spooned by a 350 pound dude name LeRoy.