5 Stages Everyone Goes Through When Drunkenly Stumbling Home From The Bar
Immediate frustration (1) festers as the bar doors slam shut. Your muscles tense and lips tighten—what right does this state have to tell you when you can and can’t be gouged on eleven-dollars double whiskey-rocks and publically creep on ladies?
Alone, and ignited with a newfound libertarian passion, you emphatically jam your hands into your coat pockets, fantasizing about how cool and totally cinematic your solitude probably looks. A torrent of muttered misgivings erupt out of your mouth over the friends who deserted you for assorted honeys, party-bro dude-seshs, and various other boozings.
In front of you an attractive lady hops into a taxi with a grossly overweight man wearing a grossly undersized pair of jeans. Annoyance subsides to feelings of injustice (2). It’s like the world is taunting you for tonight’s unsuccessful pickup attempts, which mostly hinged on wordplay involving “smack addiction,” and the ninety minutes of unsolicited dance-floor thrusting.
You’re fuming as the cab creeks, bouncing as his rippling muffin top lumbers aboard. Superficially, this doesn’t appear fair—that should be you in there prepping for a night of less-than-memorable sexing. The taxi leaves. You keep walking, still angry, but now rationalizing how this modern injustice basically makes you a contemporary Rosa Parks.
Ten steps later you realize what you’re equating and instantly stop. All remorse and embarrassment is instantly snuffed out by a drunken hunger (3). Drool puddles form at the corners of your sloppy, agape mouth. Any diets, self-control, or alleged gluten sensitivities are forgotten and replaced by a desire for a chili-cheese mouth orgy and a vision of a ranch-dressing-and-Hot-Pocket-filled kiddie pool.
Every take-out place is crowded. Tonight there’s no easy route to deep-fried, cheese-topped hedonism. In a moment of clarity, though, you remember there’s a personal mini-taco fiesta to be had a home, in bed, while falling asleep to the last half of Kingpin on cable.
Drunken mobs and commercial lights diminish as you stumble further. Once back in your neighborhood you realize it’s darker, more desolate, and likely brimming with lurking serial killers, human traffickers, and angry Native American spirits. You’re familiar with the stats and the given unlikelihood, but here rationality is cast aside in favor of unchecked terror (4). Trying desperately to seem calm and self-assured, you’re now nonchalantly walking faster and surveying constantly, realizing it’s difficult to act normal and not psychotic when you’re afraid and alone.
A car backfires, a branch breaks, or a garbage cat gives birth. Whatever it is, a strange noise sends you sprinting. Looking badass is thrown to the wind. Fear and alcohol power you stride after stride—you will not be just another crime and/or ghost statistic.
Adrenaline surges. Half a block later you’ve forgotten about any irrational terrors and are now completely infatuated with your athletic ability (5). Astounded, you can’t believe that you haven’t doubled over in exhausted pain yet. You had thought not working out for months and only consuming pizza-based meals and alcohol would hurt you, but all those magazines, physicians, and medical journals were wrong!
Back home and feeling powerful, delusions of utilizing your remaining four-years of college football eligibility spring to mind. Time for that mini-taco fiesta, though.