Jun
03
2011

Drunk personality types: Part II

—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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Jun
07
2010

Drunk of the Day

Let’s travel back a couple years, and to a place its locals occasionally refer to as “San Diego.”

It was somebody who may or may not also write for this blog’s birthday, and he may or may not have been turning a year that was one shy of a quarter century. What better way to celebrate, he might have mulled, than crashing for a weekend at a friend’s home in California’s most stereotypically sun-filled of cities? A perfect venue for copious daytime-beach into nighttime-bar-hop booze binging.

The birthday eve began as many had before, with a promise among several present to ingest a certain number of drinks that equaled the years that this possible-future blogger was aging towards. Sharpies were located and stuffed in jean pockets, for keeping semi-permanent tally.

Twenty-four increasingly wavy, lengthy, and/or jagged lines snaked around the forearms of the participants’ arms before the clock ticked past three hours prior to West Coast last call. And the night, she was young yet.
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