It’s not all the time. Hell, it’s not even that often. But there are just those days, and you can feel them from the time you open your eyes in the morning. It’s been a long week. It’s Friday (or possibly Thursday, let’s be real). Work has been tough, your social life has been nearly nonexistent, and you can’t remember the last time you really raged. You have a few friends who are in a similar boat, and conditions are ripe for devolving into hot little puddles of regret over the course of an evening full of debauchery and pizza eaten on the sidewalk.
I’m not here to judge you — we’ve all been there. You keep it together for so long, paying your bills, calling your parents, going to the post office, flossing your teeth. But there is a monster boiling just beneath the surface, a monster that is looking to do those Jager bomb trains you start with your tongue whilst rubbing up against a stranger in a popped-collar polo shirt (oh god why) to the sweet sounds of one David Guetta. You want to be everything that usually makes you vaguely nauseas, because we can’t be all intellectual and serious all the time.
It’s the night to be the person you mostly try to convince yourself that you’re not. It’s time to start conversations with strangers across the bar about the color of their hair and end up crying into their shoulder later on because you think your friend left you and will never speak to you again (really she’s just waiting in line for the bathroom). It’s time to get free drinks off the bartender and make him do enough shots with your group that you’re left wondering how he’s still performing something resembling a job after all of it. It’s time to smoke cigarettes, even though you don’t actually smoke.
When these nights come along, you can’t fight them. I mean, technically you can stay home and sulk on the internet, but you know that you will end up hating yourself. What you must do is declare to yourself and whoever else may be around you at that moment (likely your laptop, but again with the non-judgment thing) that you are just trying to get white girl wasted and dance all over someone you never intend on seeing again. You are fully aware that you are likely going to end up calling your ex outside of the bar around 1:30 AM and saying something along the lines of “Hey what’s up how are you I’m just out here at the bar what are you doing did I wake you up what’s up?” before promptly hanging up and pretending not to remember doing that the next day. But that’s okay — it comes with the territory. It’s all going to wash over you like a wave of apple vodka, let the undertow take you out to sea.
And yes, this may force you to be the person who is irritatingly pumping everyone up and bringing them the shots and throwing minor tantrums until everyone is as wasteyface as you are. You may encourage people to get “slizzered.” This is simply the role you have to take on. It’s just one of those nights, and everyone has to be the Bad Decision Fairy every now and again. (Try not to make out with too many of your friends, though — set the cap around three and you should be fine.)
Go forth and get drunk, and don’t feel the need to apologize to anyone for doing you. Just don’t look at your bank account in the morning, it is only pain and suffering in there. 
