8 Alter Egos Every Girl Has While Drunk

1. Incoherent compliment machine.

It doesn’t matter if you’re on the dance floor or in line for the bathroom, you just can’t stop laughing and hugging and telling every girl how beautiful she is and how much you love her hair. Groups of 10 disparate girls suddenly become the best of friends, all questions of logistics and personality put aside for the united front of taking some cute-ass pictures together. This is the time when you start prolonged conversations with those acquaintances you’ve talked to three times, tell them how much you love them and respect their work (even though you don’t really know what their jobs are???), and make plans to invite them to your hypothetical wedding. The group of you do a slizzered photoshoot together, you text each other your numbers, you hug while doing shots, and then promptly never see or speak to each other for three months after that.

2. The girl grinding on stage with the artist.

Sober you mocks her. She laughs at her. Sober you promises herself that she “would never dance on stage like a floppy thirst bucket,” or at least that’s what sober me says. But drunk you is filled with jealous rage at the idea of someone else getting to go up on stage and shake herself like a dying fish for the entertainment of the crowd, within 10 feet of Diplo himself. Being a drunk stage dancing girl is a privilege and an honor, and she lives within all of us, waiting to be called up for duty.

3. This face.

What.

Is.

This.

Face.

4. The ‘touch the floor’ grinder.

Sometimes you’re grinding like a lady, and this is a Catholic high school homecoming, and the nuns are walking around telling you to leave some room for the Holy Ghost. It’s a light grind, a back and forth of crotches that barely even counts as dancing. But then a certain song comes on — for me it’s “Bubble Butt,” but for you it could very well be “Hot In Herre,” and all bets are fuckin OFF. You turn into this panty-showing, floor-touching, bent-over-at-the-waist grind monster, and everything is a blur of rubbing body parts and pulling up on your strapless dress. In the interest of #FullDisclosure, here’s a pic of me in the rookie year of my Touch The Floor career. (Please excuse all sartorial choices, this was 2007, the world was a different place.)

5. Mrs. Piggyback.

Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter when. You are piggybacking on some cute dude all the way back to the metro station, and you don’t care who sees it. Taxi drivers are yelling “I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR” out of their cars, and you’re yelling back “YOU’RE WELCOME” as you whip the poor man carrying you whilst saying “Ya! Ya! Mush!”

6. The “I will grind on anything in a baby blue button down.”

Douchebags in baby blue button-down shirts are the nightlife’s most endlessly renewable resource, but only your drunken alter ego self is not completely repulsed by them. At once point you’re talking about how gross they all are, traveling in packs and smelling like Axe and dancing to Pitbull, and then it’s suddenly 1:30 AM, and you are doing this:

7. Photoshoots McGee.

Nothing better than a good drunken photoshoot that you feel is really chic and artistically-directed in the moment, but looks like boiling hot trash when you look at the pictures the next day. The key, though, is that you’ve put them on social media in your drunken stupor, so the damage is done, and your better judgment never had a chance to intervene.

Hot mess photoshoots

are the best thing

in the world.

8. An affair to remember (with caramel apple empanadas).

Nothing can stand in your way, nothing is more important than ending the night with some chicken fries and/or a giant stack of pancakes. When it arrives — whether from someone shuttling your drunk ass through the drive-thru, or you sitting yourself at a Waffle House like a full-blown citizen — you speak to your food as if it were a long-lost lover. “This is so good, oh my god, I needed this so bad… mmmm… yessssss.” And you may be liable to do some shit like this:

But drunk you is calorie-free and judgment-free. Nothing counts. At least, not until you wake up covered in Hot Cheeto dust tomorrow.