It’s last call. In fact, it’s past last call. The lights have turned on. The dance floor has emptied. The bouncer has threatened to physically pick you up and carry you out of the bar (and you know he’s not kidding, because he’s done it to you before). So you beg him to let you suck down the 3/4 of a vodka soda with lime that you have left, and you’ll be on your way. You’re pretty, and he doesn’t feel like arguing, so he allows it. Now what? The absolute last thing you want to do after a perfect night is go home, and drunk you makes sure everyone within an earshot knows it. What’s the only thing that can make your night better? A post-game.
Coincidentally, the boys who were buying your drinks all night are hosting an epic night of post-party raging at the fratcastle. You think this is absolutely fabulous. You look great tonight, and you weren’t done being seen, plus you haven’t made out with anyone in this fraternity yet. A post-game done right is the best part of your night. Everyone’s already drunk, and it’s a smaller, fun setting. It’s always so easy to meet new people. You might even get to be proud of yourself for befriending someone who is a GIRL. The rest of your night is enjoyed with drinking games and heavy flirting, which is a perfect distraction from how hungry you are due to the fact that the last thing you ate was a piece of toast instead of dinner at 7 o’clock. You end up smoking a little. He lights it for you because he’s a gentleman and you don’t really smoke too often, and the night ends with some kissing and you fall asleep in his arms without making any bad decisions such as eating an entire pizza, or shacking with this perfectly good stranger.
Yeah fucking right.
The chances of this happening are like one in…Idk…like just one. Ever. There is only one chance of this ever happening. Post-games really only occur with people you already know, but the mere possibility is enough to make me fall for the lie of the post-game pretty much every single time. Here’s what really happened…You wouldn’t shut up about how you wanted to keep drinking, so he gave his buddy the look, and they decided to lure you back to their home with empty promises of more alcohol. Because you, for some reason, got the bright idea to pregame with Everclear, probably to commemorate this special occasion of I-haven’t-MO’ed-in-like-three-weeks. All your sisters are just as drunk as you, and you think going to this boy’s house at 2am or later will be a good idea. When you get there, not only is there no post-game, but they don’t even have anything good to drink. Welp, whiskey on the rocks it is. It’s not like you can taste it at this point anyway. Shit. There’s no ice. You take a second glance, and your friend got the cute boy…you did not. So you drink up, pretend to fall asleep on the couch so this creeper doesn’t try to make a move on you (he may or may not try anyway), and hope you’ll still be drunk for the walk of shame in the morning, but at the very least, you’ll have someone to walk home with and a story to tell.
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