The best kind of friends are the ones that make you a better person, and if that’s true, well then I think by now I’m literally Gandhi. My friends are such drunk, misbehaving idiots that they force me to be the responsible one. It’s not a job I want to do, but nevertheless, it’s a job I have to do for the safety and well-being of the group. Yeah, I would much rather be tossing back shots instead of prying them out of my friends’ hands, but I know my friends too well and I know if I let them run wild without proper supervision, all hell would break loose. Bottles would be stolen from behind the bar, boyfriends would be groped, and pizzas would be snatched right out of the hands of paying customers. Mass chaos would ensue, and quite frankly, I’m not financially stable enough to deal with the ramifications of letting the girls (and gays) go wild. So I put my own selfish desires aside and play babysitter for a few nights a week.
I’m not totally bitter, though. Over time, my role as Head Drunk In Charge has taught me a few invaluable life skills, and if you share my struggle of being the only responsible drunk in your group of friends, you most definitely have these skills, too.
How To Facilitate The Mating Process Of Two Animals
You know those endangered pandas who need human help to procreate? That’s pretty much every single one of my drunk friends. In their tipsy states of mind, they lose all texting abilities. The keyboard on their iPhones just starts spitting out random words in a sad attempt to guess what they’re trying to say. They’ll mean to say, “after party at my place,” but they’ll type, “Aye roads at many plane.”
That’s where I come in. I’m the designated drunk texting translator. I’ll write her texts and make sure they’re going to Greg Sigma Chi, the guy she’s hooking up with, and not Greg Science, the nerd she cheats off of in her O-Chem class. Without me, my friends would never get laid.
How To Care For A Bundle Of Toddlers
If I’m ever forced to babysit a few toddlers (the ones who just learned how to walk but haven’t quite gotten the hang of it just yet) at a time, or god forbid, have quintuplets or sextuplets, I’m confident that my experience taking care of my drunk friends will have prepared me for the job. They’re essentially the same thing — stumbling, mumbling, crying little people who like to take their clothes off, get into trouble, and cannot be left alone.
Caring for six toddlers in heels who are all having boy problems makes looking after a few miniature humans look like child’s play. The only way to get my friends to sit quietly in one spot is to drag their asses to the nearest greasy fast food joint. At least toddlers you can pick up and carry.
How To Wrangle A Herd Of Cattle
I plan on becoming an assistant to the Kardashian family (which basically just means I get paid a hefty sum of money to be their friend), but if that doesn’t work out, I know I have a promising career in cattle herding. Why? Because if you’ve ever managed to move a gaggle of white girls from one bar to the next, moving a bunch of cows from one pasture to the next must be a piece of cake. It’s an orchestra of events each time. Finding everyone, making sure no one gets distracted in the process, weaving your way through the crowd to the exit, checking to see no one was left behind, and keeping everyone on track to go to the next place.
And if we have to wait in line, forget about it. At least one member of the group is bound to wander off when she sees a boy or drink special she’s interested in. It takes some work, but I’m usually able to get her back with bribes of shots and empty promises that the cute guy she’s had a crush on for months is at the other bar, asking where she is. I’m still holding out for the Kardashian gig, but at least I have a backup.
How To Clean Up After A Murder
I don’t anticipate ever having to use this skill, but it’s nice to know I have it, just in case my boyfriend cheats on me and I have to pull a Gone Girl. Kidding, kind of. None of my friends have ever drunkly murdered someone, but they have throw a few afterparties at our apartment, which is basically the same thing.
When I wake up the morning after one of these parties, it’s like walking into the middle of a crime scene. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, is sticky. The floors, the ceilings, the dog — there’s a thin layer of booze covering nearly every surface of the apartment. Of course, my friends are far too hungover to care about anything besides their throbbing headache, which leaves me to clean up the mess. I mop, scrub, and douse every square inch of our place until it’s back to normal and throw away any and all incriminating evidence of said party in my neighbor’s trash cans.
Thank you, degenerate friends, for teaching me everything I know. .
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Cristina Montemayor
Cristina is a Grandex Writer and Content Manager. She was an intern for over two years before she graduated a semester early to write about college full time, which makes absolutely no sense. She regretfully considers herself a Carrie, but is first and foremost a Rory. She tends to draw strong reactions from people. They are occasionally positive. You can find her in a bar as you're bending down to tie your shoes, drinking Dos XX and drunk crying to Elton John. Email her: [email protected] (not .com).
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