—Josey

The story of the drunkest I’ve ever been is more depressing than funny. Same with the second drunkest, and the third. And maybe more than that. I’d rather not leave you feeling halfway dead inside, so I’ll tell you a different story: Let’s call it the approximately ninth to twelfth drunkest I’ve ever been.

It was spring semester of my freshman year in college in Manhattan and I was in a long distance relationship. What this means is that I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone. My story starts with such a call, one weekend night when two friends and I had plans to venture to a goth club. They pre-gamed vodka and 40s for an hour or more while I told someone 3,000 miles away it was their turn to hang up first. When I emerged, it was time to leave, and the last thing I remember is proclaiming that I “needed to catch up,” and raising a mug brimming with cheap vodka to my lips.

When I came to, 12 hours later, I was in my bed, wearing my goth clothes from the night before, covered in crumbs and crumpled slices of potato bread. It was 11am. An empty bucket was perched next to my pillow and the windowsill was littered with several glasses of water in different states of fullness. “What, uh, happened last night?” I yelled across at my dozing roommate. “Ask me later.” She mumbled.

I made it to the goth club—just not through the front doors. Unable to stand and propped between two friends, the bouncer suggested they get me some food and come back later. “But I’m 18!” I insisted.
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—Christian

Unfortunately, rampant enthusiasm has its consequences. In the worst cases those consequences involve waking up in a hospital or jail. But that typically comes from bad luck or inexperience—or if it’s a frequent occurrence, perhaps a sign your alcohol enthusiasm has ventured into darker territories. Much more common, and some say unavoidable, is when having a really good time leads to having a really bad time the next morning: the dreaded hangover.

Hangovers are caused by a variety of factors, most notably: dehydration and the body’s struggle to metabolize the acetaldehyde in your system. The problem being while your body works to process the excessive alcohol its ability to effectively absorb water is hindered—meaning, the liquids you drink tend to flush right through.

Another element that contributes to hangovers is the general depletion of vitamins and nutrients resulting from consuming nothing but liquid carbs and sugar for 8-16 hours. Not to mention the physical exhaustion that standing/dancing/walking/running/giving piggyback rides/copulating over that same period of time will exert.

So what can you do to help your body get through the pain next morning?
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—Josey

Anyone who drinks has a drunk personality type. In Part I of this post, we described 6 of the most common drunk personality types. For Part II, we’ll look at 5 of the slightly-less-common types.

Your drunk personality may 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 and it’s the heart and soul of your drunken self.

The Philosopher. (Thanks to our friend Alice for this one.) He’s a variation of The Oversharer (see Part I), but he’s not looking for any feedback—in furrowed brow form, in hugs, in speech, or otherwise. The guy sitting at the bar by himself seemed harmless enough. So when he smiled, made a totally normal comment about the sports team playing on the bar TV, and motioned for you to sit, you thought—why not? With an open mind, you belly up. And no sooner does language start flooding from your new friend’s mouth do you realize you’ve made a terrible, tragic mistake. First of all, he doesn’t want to talk about the sports game at all—the ball they’re playing with is apparently a well-made helium balloon, and the players merely engaged in an elaborate ballet. Also, they’re cyborgs. Wait, you didn’t take that literally—did you? The only truth is that there is none. It’s all a socially-constructed, collective lie we’ve agreed to reinforce for each other—like my fucking ex-wife! That bitch lied a lot. She said she’d never get fat. She told me she’d never suck my brother’s dick. There’s no “knowing.” But you’re probably too enamored of the mirage to really understand.
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