It’s girls’ night out (almost every night is girls’ night out). The hair is high, the hemlines are higher, and you’ve just cracked open a brand new handle of something classy, like Cranberry Burnett’s (top-tier, bottom-shelf…amirite?). You throw back about four too many and head out, but not before you and your perfect sisters magically transform into one of the following horrific drunken alter-egos.
The Super Bitch
I normally enjoy watching people freak out and I equally enjoy watching people get what’s coming to them (mainly because I’m a mean person on the inside), but the Super Bitch often takes it to unprecedented levels. She just gets mad…about everything. With her, every night is going to end in some sort of hellish bitch fit during which she shows no mercy. She’ll have no qualms about telling an uggo who tries to flirt with a guy she’s had her eye on that she’s a deformed-looking, bottom-tier, over-weight hick so she doesn’t matter, or laughing in a phys ed major’s face for trying to talk to her. Your mantra around her will be “you can’t say that!” but she can. And she will. It’s best to stay out of her way when alcohol transforms your normally pleasant sister into this she-devil, because piss her off and she’ll be after you just as easily. Verbal bar fights are commonplace because “some ensembley challenged drunk slut didn’t watch her fat ass” and had the audacity to bump into her on the over-crowded dance floor of a bar that is well-over capacity. And I feel sorry for the poor soul who decides to start with her. The Super Bitch normally doesn’t bother me, as in my drunken state, I’m easily convinced that she was in the right, but problems arise when she’s in need of some nurturing and yells at you for bringing toast, water, and a pillow to the bathroom for her…in which case, it takes everything I have in me not to tell her to go fuck herself (which experience has told me, will only make matters worse).
If the super-bitch is a force to be reckoned with, the crier is a force to be, well, to be dealt with. Chalk it up to emotional instability, but it takes just about nothing to set this girl off. And when I say nothing, I literally mean nothing. She normally actually just makes shit up. Family problems that don’t exist, being under-appreciated though she does nothing worth appreciating yet everyone tells her regularly how much they adore her, the way she destroyed the fictional love affair between her and some Mr. Nobody who is the furthest thing from her type and she decidedly would NEVER want as anything more than a friend – you name it, she will cry about it. The first few times you’ll feel guilty about the fact that she’s sad, but don’t. She’s not really sad, she’s just drunk, and crying is what she does when she gets too drunk. If she’s talking nonsense, I’ve found it’s best to just leave her to her own devices. So long as that device isn’t her cell phone, that is, because if you’re no longer feeling sorry for her, she’ll look for someone in the wireless world who will. Hopefully you’re home and she can just cry herself to sleep, and in the morning she will mention that her face feels puffy, ask you if she cried, and the only thing she’ll be sad about is that she slept all night with dried mascara all over her face which she knows can’t be good for her skin.
It’s like the moment her pallet is wet, so is her vagina. She prides herself on “not chasing shots” but perhaps it’s because she’s too busy chasing dick. Do NOT go out alone with this girl. Her entire night is a manhunt…literally, a hunt for men and the moment she finds a prospect, you’re history. Left to awkwardly find someone to dance with STAT, pretend to text someone, or slink away in hopes that someone you know will descend from the drunken abyss you’ve found yourself in (luckily, you’re in a sorority, so normally it’s not long before that happens alleviating most of the awkwardness). When you furiously approach her the next day she flippantly responds, “I’m sorry but he was so hot! And I can’t help it! Tequila makes my clothes fall off!” Yes, I know. So does vodka…and rum…gin, whiskey, beer, wine, and hard fucking lemonade. Her vagina must be so wide at this point that guys just walk in, look around, rub her nub, and leave. However, if you go out with her in a group, she’s a great asset to have. She’s an expert at the game (I mean, she’d have to be, she’s played it so many damn times), and seeing as guys usually travel in packs, there’s a good chance at least one of her victim’s friends is a potential suitor. If you do make the mistake of a one-on-one night with her, and she screws you over, try not to stay mad or get revenge, because I tend to think people get what they deserve, and if she just so happens to deserve gonorrhea, so be it.
The Wet Blanket
This is a weird phenomenon, but when this girl gets drunk, she gets effing miserable. Initially, I just assumed that meant she wasn’t drinking enough, but it isn’t so. She’s a joy during the day, but enter some liquid influence stage left, and all of a sudden it’s like she hates fun. A group of hotties come over to buy you drinks, she awkwardly declines their offer as if to say a collective “we’re not interested.” (But waiiiittt, come backkkk, I WAS interested.) On the dance floor, she doesn’t want to move. You’re all giggling about pretty much nothing, she won’t fucking speak. Who becomes MORE shy and silent when they’re drunk? It doesn’t make any sense, but she does. However, if she’s not speaking that’s still better than the alternative…complaining. Her feet hurt, she’s tired, the music is too loud, whatever the case she’s “not really having that much fun” and she wants to make sure she’s not the only one. Ok, wet blanket, you win this round, we can go home. And I promise to return the favor some day.
Everyone gets to this point on one night or another (everyone I know, anyway). You might say that you wake up the next morning filled with regret, but if you say that, then you’re not partying hard enough. You wake up the next morning filled with absolutely nothing because that’s approximately how much of the night you remember (that and because you spent a large portion of your night puking everything up). Regret sets in about an hour later once you’ve examined the contents of your outbox only to find a disturbingly impressive number of texts filled with what was an attempt at lewd messages such as “Coxle fujk me olr ill die” and (despite your plea that they stop because you’d rather not know) your roommates have thoroughly disclosed to you all of the truly life-ruining misconduct that your obliterated self thought (if that person is capable of thought) was appropriate. Normal humans have “an asshole night” about once a semester, and the rest of their nights are spent being a fun and enjoyable part of everyone’s evening. But there is always that one girl who never seems to learn. It’s amazing how she literally just will NOT. STOP. DRINKING. Which would be fine (I mean, if you want to embarrass yourself, go ahead, it provides everyone with a good laugh), but more often than not, the slopfest requires babysitting. Despite the fact that she can’t even form sentences, she almost always pukes (jealous kind of), makes a scene, sustains some sort of injury, gets lost, loses the majority of her belongings, or does something else that requires you to stop having fun in order to take care of her. And then she’s up for the same thing again the next night. I’m not really a believer in cutting people off, I think it’s rude. If someone wants to keep drinking, that’s their business, but if you’re the slopfest, we’re not telling you to take it easy for your health or your dignity…we lost hope for those things long ago. We’re doing it for the sake of our own night, so really, I think you’ve had enough.
The Drunk Eater
By far the worst comrade to have in your entourage during a night of drunken hedonism is the drunk eater. We get it. It’s 2:30 in the morning, you skipped dinner as a caloric sacrifice to the vodka gods, and the last solid thing to cross your lips was a garden salad with low-fat honey mustard on the side about ten hours ago…or perhaps a frat tongue if you were feeling particularly scandalous on this given evening. You’re hungry, and a week full of carb and cheese deprivation has left you craving something with enough fat to dimple your thighs on the spot. We’re ALL hungry, but SOME of us are not metabolic mutants, and actually have to watch what we eat. Drunken loss of inhibitions don’t really make it okay to order “one of every slice” at your local pizzeria, but the drunk eater either doesn’t know, or doesn’t care. She has one mission at the end of the night: to eat, and she’s going to do everything in her power to convince you it’s ok to eat too. More often than not, you’ll give in to her demands, perhaps you’ll even use her as a scapegoat because you secretly were looking for an excuse to binge too, but I highlyyyy suggest on most nights you lose her about 30 minutes before last call, otherwise it will become impossible to resist temptation, and out of every bad thing you do all weekend, the burrito AND cheese fries (because why should you have to choose?) that you shoveled down your throat alongside her will be the thing you regret the most.
All-in-all, it’s not that they’re not good people, it’s not even that they’re not a good time, but the Jekyll and Hyde effect tends to be an inconvenience when they get to that point, and they almost always get to the point. But it’s something we all have to deal with, and they’re our sisters so we love them anyway. Besides, the only other option is not drinking, and that doesn’t seem like an option at all.