While it’s true that tequila can mysteriously sneak up on the best of us at the end of the night, you actually like to start off with tequila, which automatically makes you a masochistic weirdo. However, it also makes you impressively goal-oriented: you don’t drink to get drunk, you drink to get cray, and how are you supposed to get there by sipping on weak ass cocktails for three hours? Who has that kind of time? If you’re serious about getting loose enough to do lines off a Belizean male stripper later in the night, take that double shot of Cabo to the face and quit complaining. You’ll thank it later.
Honey, you are fabulous. So fabulous, in fact, that you’re probably perched at your antique vanity right now, wielding a pewter cigarette holder and sipping Veuve Clicquot from a crystal flute. Or J. Roget from the bottle, whichever. Lucky for you, champagne is the only alcohol socially acceptable to drink at any time of day, thus enabling you to maintain around-the-clock fabulousness from brunch until last call. As if that weren’t enough, it also gives you a body buzz comparable to flying into the Titanic sunset and the sudden ability to see auras.
If you are what you drink, you, sir, are Captain Jack Sparrow. And I don’t mean you’re a dreadlocked proto-pirate in eyeliner with an undecipherable accent and billowing shirtsleeves — merely that you are a simultaneously smooth, spicy, and sexual (like that alliteration?) proto-pirate in eyeliner who — to put it mildly — knows how to stretch the truth, about everything from where you got your degree to how much you like the person you’re flirting with. A night out with you is not complete until you drunkenly propose to at least one person and/or walk out on the tab.
You’re a delight to have around, if by “delight” you mean “liability.” Though you outwardly hate the whiskey drinker/fight starter stereotype, you know deep down that it’s true: physical, verbal, or emotional, every possible field is ripe for conflict if someone pushes the right (or wrong) buttons. And unlike those armchair philosopher gin drinkers who merely pound their fists into the table, you’ve been known to get straight violent. I’m pretty sure Khia was thinking of you when she sang “Got problems? I’ll solve ‘em. I’ll just hit that bitch with a bottle.”
Pina coladas/daiquiris/other sugary frozen “drinks”
Live, laugh, love! It’s not easy being a princess but someone has to do it! Please God, if I can’t be skinny, make all of my friends fat! You say “bitch” like it’s a bad thing! Sorry boys, the only things I blow are kisses! Okay we get it, you’re classy and fabulous. Next.
Obviously you are a first-semester college freshman or high school student, but don’t let that petty label get in the way of who you really are — one hell of a daring drinker. After all, you’re basically playing Russian roulette with every refill of the red plastic cup. Depending on the particular blend, your delicious fruity beverage could possibly contain DayQuil, NyQuil, Robitussin, Drano, vomit, apple cider vinegar, Four Loko, codeine, Everclear, or some form of mild laxative, but whatever. Get wasted, don’t taste it.
You’re Old Gregg.