Photo by crossfirecw / CC BY 2.0
Listen here, friend.
Now, I may have just taken five or six or maybe fifteen shots in succession, but I can assure you that I, a freshman, am not too shitfaced to be at this party. I'm no weenie.
Oh, I know that I've been crawling around in circles for half an hour and that my eyes have rolled back into my head several times, but it's all in good fun. I've been drinking wine since my bar mitzvah, when I became a man. So don't you worry about me, bud. I can handle my liquor.
What's that? I've vomited and/or peed all over myself? Sure don't think so, man. It must be a warm can of Natural Light that I probably spilled at some point while getting rowdy with the boys. Unfortunate coincidence, that. But I can assure you with every fiber of my being that I am not shitfaced. A little tipsy, I'll admit. But shitfaced? Obliterated? Blown to smithereens? Not I.
You think I need to go home? You think I'm too drunk? I'll show you too drunk. In fact, I'm going to down this entire handle of Bankers in one painful swig. I'm going to become a hurricane, an unstoppable force, the likes of which have never been seen on this campus. I will die before I pay that two-thousand dollar hospital bill.
So I am going to puke my guts out until I literally become an empty vessel of my past self, escaping my corporeal prison and transcending my human form. I will rise like a phoenix from the ashes and smite anyone who ever doubted me or my ability to metabolize a beverage that tastes concerningly like napalm. How dare you make me miss the second half of Mr. Brightside?
I assure you, pal, that if you take me home, you will rue the day you ever decided to walk me back to Stouffer. So don't worry about me, or the fact that I can no longer make myself stand with my feet and legs. I'll be just fine.