Some people say that the way you act when you’re drunk is a reflection of your true personality. Partially repressed parts of your soul bubbling to the surface of your booze-addled brain. In vino veritas, and all that. Whether that’s totally accurate, or 90% accurate and really hard to admit, one thing’s for sure: Anyone who drinks has a drunk personality type. Your drunk personality may just be a louder, more naked, and less funny version of sober-you. Or maybe you’ve got some intense Jekyll and Hyde shit going on. Either way: your drunk personality emerges when you’re maximally inebriated, oft-blacked out, and it’s the heart and soul of your drunken self.
Here are some of the most common drunk personality types (and when you’re done reading this, check out Part II):
The Big Spender. He’s not just getting rounds for the table—he’s buying shots of Patron for the whole bar. And then he’s buying everybody lap dances at the Gold Club. In the VIP room. With bottle service. Sure, his internship in the mail room of the insurance company doesn’t exactly pay well, and he’s only on a three-month contract—but he’s got tomorrow’s due rent in cold, hard cash, some almost-maxed out plastic for “emergencies only,” and he knows how to use it. What could be more important than treating his new, best friends to a night on the town they’ll never forget? Suite at the W? Where else would we have the afterparty? Limos home for everyone? So much better than cabs or walking! Plane tickets to Jamaica for all the mailroom interns? I’ve always wanted to go there! The Big Spender can be easily spotted: He’s the guy screaming, “what have I done? What have I done??” in the lobby of the W any given Saturday morning.
The Oversharer. It’s the second time you’ve hung out, and by the time she’s snacking on the olives from her third dirty martini you know all about how her parents divorced when she was nine, and how her mom ran off to Arizona to join a yoga cult and sends her messages about how her auras are diseased and only Master Dahn can help. And how her dad’s new wife is a gold-digging, wig-wearing, fake-tittied bitch that forced her to go to all-girls boarding school in fucking Maine where she ended up dating the 40-year-old tennis coach for two years until Mrs. Jones’ husband found out and she was expelled and started cutting again. And all because that dumb “blond” bitch didn’t want to compete with her for her dad’s affection—which is actually so, totally creepy if you think about it. And she has IBS now from the stress.
Or maybe he’s your doubles pool partner who doesn’t say a word until “I just got these teeth put in—don’t they look real? I lost all my original ones to meth.” Just smile and nod.
The Lonelyheart. His body sits on the bar stool across from yours, but his heart is elsewhere. He pines for his absent soul mate: the petite, dark-locked beauty who let him into her life and bed for one blissful month, and who he inexplicably and unfairly lost. During junior year of college. Seven years ago. How did he let such perfection slip through his fingers, like water, like…like the bourbon in this glass? Each passing round—even the one the Megan Fox-lookalike behind the bar gave you both on the house, with a wink, after yanking her shirt down a lot in the front—emblazons on his mind’s eye a more paradisaical image of the One That Got Away. He’ll text her. Don’t let him call. He’ll either end up going home with another drunk lonelyheart who is extremely forward regarding her intentions, or else he’ll come home with you.
Mr. or Ms. Handsy. She’s the life of the party, and she wants to make out with you. She smacks your ass, screams “yeaaaaa!” then looks deep into your eyes and tackles you to the ground. Your back hurts, and so does your front, because she’s pinching your nipples a lot too hard. You can feel the entranced eyes of 15 wasted, heterosexual men glued to your writhing bodies as you struggle from beneath her surprising strength to stand and walk to the bar, leaving her to hoist herself onto the pool table and wrap her legs around whoever’s trying to shoot. Suddenly, your ass is getting fiercly groped from behind and you realize your new best friend is done ruining the pool game. She wants to make out, again.
Mr. Handsy can be found dry-humping your dude friends; giving shirtless, unsolicited piggyback rides down the block and picking you up in a seemingly-harmless way, until you realize he’s copping a feel.
The Liability. The lights are on, but nobody’s home. Nobody you want to meet, anyways. He started the evening out cheerful, polite and mild-mannered, but after that last Jaeger bomb, a switch flipped. Did the bar just get like, 20 degrees colder? Did you hear something that sounded a little like…like some kind of demonic cackling? The guy at the end of the bar is looking at him weird, and he’s about to go fuck him up. Did you see this bitch spill her drink on me? I’ll show her what it’s like to get a drink thrown in her fucking face. You look away for a second, and he’s gone. For two hours. He returns with a black eye and a couple vials of crack. He’s grinning. The vials are covered in blood. Hey, come outside with me a second—there’s something I want to show you… Don’t go.
The passed-out guy. He’s passed out.
Big Spender image courtesy of Corey Ann, flickr.
Oversharer image courtesy of Air In, flickr.
Lonelyheart image courtesy of Luciano Consolini, flickr.
Handsy image courtesy of Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL), flickr.
Liability image courtesy of Meredith_Farmer, flickr.