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.
The Den Mother. Sure, she might have just lit the wrong end of her Parliament—but she knows what’s best for you. And everyone else you’re drinking with. She tries to wrest a bourbon soda from your grip, claiming you’ve had enough, and it’s time to switch to water. Actually, she’s going to see if they serve coffee here, because that’ll help sober you up. But first—the strange chick who looks like she might be thinking about puking needs her attention. Sweetie? Sweetie? Are you okay? Who are you here with? Do you need me to <hic> call you a cab home? Let me get you some water. At last call she checks her iPhone for nearby diners and insists everyone get some good, greasy grub to soak up the booze, she’s read somewhere it eliminates your hangover. But buckle your seatbelt in the cab. And don’t order anything too greasy, because, you know—the cholesterol.
The Submissive. Your sarcastic suggestion he should head into your friend’s bathroom and shave his head seemed hilarious—until he emerges, ten minutes later, with a moth-bitten, razor-burned scalp. No, no… I didn’t mean… I didn’t. Uh—you missed a spot? Let’s go grab those girls’ asses right in front of their boyfriends and see what happens! Yes master. Except where your hand merely grazes as you dart undetected into the throngs of dancing bodies, he squeezes hard enough to get the beefier boyfriend’s attention. Run, dude! At least he stumbles fast. Thank you sir, may I have another? Try not to feed him too many shots of your urine tonight, k?
The Stoic. He’s forever loyal and always down for another swig off the bottle of your Uncle’s new batch of ‘shine—if that’s what everyone else is having! Now who’s up for a round of quarters?! The Stoic has been suppressing vomit for the past four hours, but only a deep, sober gaze into his eyes reveals that they are silently screaming. The Stoic is passing out standing up, his bloodshot eyes forced open, and he is dreaming, desperately longing to crawl home and into bed. But the Stoic will never, ever admit he’s exhausted. The Stoic will swallow his vomit. The Stoic will take another ill-advised swig, another sickening shot. And he will agree to another bar, and another, and another, and then one more. Because this is a matter of pride.
The Machine. And after the after-party there’s the after-after party. And after the after-after party there’s the after-after-after party. And after that—there’s the Machine. It’s 11am, and you’re rounding the first-24 of a 4th of July long-weekend bender. The Machine’s not just the last one standing—the machine is the party. She’s skipping out—and back in—to the bar in time to buy a handle of vodka, and a fifth of bourbon, and a twelve pack, before the corner store stops selling. Tired? Clean the sand out of your vagina! It’s early! She knows where the afterhours club that’s still serving is, and after they kick you out, there’s the stocked bar at her place. It’s 7am: the Machine calls her limo guy. To the beach! Still clear-eyed and coherent, she toasts to the new day and pops another bottle of champagne. And all the while, the Stoic smiles through the pain.
Philosopher image courtesy of Mikka Skaffari, flickr.
Den Mother image courtesy of polaroid667, flickr.
Submissive image courtesy of Pictr 30D, flickr.
Stoic image courtesy of Karl Holland, flickr.
Machine image courtesy of sea turtle, flickr.