Of-age? Have boobs? This one’s for you. Giving free alcohol to the ~fairer sex~ is the one time when society collectively turns a blind eye to the incredibly blatant sexism of corporate America, putting down our pitchforks and donning our tightest fuck-me jeans in a drunken celebration of frat culture. It’s everyone else’s way of telling us,“sorry we took the fun out of being a woman. Here, have a vodka-cran to ease your feminine woes.” The following is a written account about the only good thing that happens on Thursday nights.
Stage 1 — The party don’t start ‘till you walk in:
You’ve been getting ready on and off since your last class ended at 3:30 p.m., but before you know it, it’s 10:25 and you’re taking five shots in a row and trying to forget about the explosion of various clothing options now strewn across your bedroom floor. Whatever, you’ll deal with that later AKA sleep on top of it; right now it’s time to summon your Lyft driver (or walk, you peasant) and emotionally prepare for what’s to come.
No worries, though, you’ll have plenty of time to mentally prepare and become decreasingly excited while you wait in that long-ass line behind some group of girls who are obviously going way harder than you are. When you finally cross the threshold into the sweaty darkness, you immediately grab your squad and get organized. A few of you elbow your way to the bartender, while the rest form a small circle inches away from the bar to shove free drinks down their gullet as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Stage 2 — Wildin’ out:
Depending on your preferred rage style, this phase can differ dramatically from one drunk bitch to another. But if the weather is decent, then your night will for sure include your entire squad pointlessly walking up to the roof, and then, after seeing that some dudes are already using the giant Jenga blocks and remembering that you wouldn’t be caught dead playing cornhole at a bar like some kind of freak, you’ll conference with your ever-shrinking squad and head back downstairs.
After scoping out a different bartender to hassle for another free drink (like the oh-so-clever girl you are), you’ll channel your inner J.Lo as you strut onto the dance floor to shake your booty to some throwback jams like nobody’s watching (because literally nobody is watching).
Following a few grind-worthy Usher songs reminiscent of your peak years in middle school play, you and your girls will mutually agree that you all have to pee at the exact same time. You’ll yell at your male friends to “stay right here,” while you venture off to girl flirt with other girls standing in the bathroom line.
Stage 3 — “I am not here on my own free will”:
You’ve taken the stereotypical bathroom selfie (wait until the morning before you post that shit, sweetie), taken a completely incomprehensible Snapchat video of blue lights and loud music to show everyone that you’re out-and-about, and have began to sober up enough to realize that this really isn’t that fun and no one in college knows how to dance without looking like a fucking nerd.
You’d rather be sitting on your couch, drunkenly complaining to your roommate about how much your shoes hurt, but your friends sort of look like they’re having fun, so you’ll look that way too. And then, finally someone casually mentions something vaguely related to going home, and everyone pounces on the opportunity, making this the only not-complicated decision the group has made all evening. You’ll soon part ways, sing-songing some bullshit about how this was so fun and it was so good to see everyone. You retire to your bed, which is still covered in more-comfortable versions of the outfit you’re wearing, only to wake up surrounded by mysterious Cosmo’s boxes.
Ahh, another eventful yet somewhat disappointing night at the bar. It almost never happens like you think it should, but the important thing is that it always happens. Nothing will ever stop us, and free booze, no matter how watered-down, will always win us over. So go to bed, you sleep-deprived and over-served youngster. Ya done good, kid.
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