I got a little tipsy last night. And by “tispy” I mean dancing, double-fisting drunk.
Seriously, though, there are few joys in life as great as getting bombed. First of all, it makes you happy (unless you’re one of those dicks who starts crying the second the Keystone is cracked). I mean, what? Magic liquid that washes away sadness? It’s like something out of a geeky fantasy book.
Secondly, name one thing that isn’t improved with alcohol. Add “drunk” to the beginning of any activity and it becomes 1,000 times better. Sledding = drunk sledding! Dinner with the parents = drunkenly listening to old people’s stories! I mean, which sounds better to you, dancing or drunk dancing? I thought so.
Of course, this might be my raging alcoholism talking, but even though I got pretty hammered last night, I think that might be in the cards for this evening too. And, let’s be honest, tomorrow as well. Life is short, and I would rather spend my precious minutes in a Midori-sour-induced haze than any other way.
Plus (thirdly? Fourthly? I don’t know, my brain is floating in vodka instead of cerebrospinal fluid) it gives you lots of good stories. When you’re old, would you rather tell your grandkids about how you stayed in every night and played Battleship, or would you like to start stories with, “When I drank that bottle of Jack…” I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be a legend. (Whoa nelly, that sounds a little epic for a post about how much I love to drink. But you know what I mean, Internet.) Whatever, go mix yourself a little something sweet (with about 40% alcohol by volume).