Euphoria. Bliss. Exhilaration. All of these feelings course through your body before every birthday, but your 21st is different, especially when it’s in Tally. There’s a sense of hope that there had never been before. You can physically smell the piss, vomit, and bad decisions that lay before you, and the thought of alcohol poisoning is something to be proud of. If you haven’t turned 21 yet, don’t fret, because The Black Sheep is here to break it down for you.
Hour One: You’re nervous. You’ve been waiting for your waltz since you were seven years old and you saw your mom blacked out dancing on the patio table to “I Love Rock N Roll” by Joan Jett.
Hour Four: Your anxiety has turned into excitement. Once you’re twenty-one you will be invincible. No undercover cops lurking around The Strip can kick you out for underage drinking. No bouncer can take your ID. You can get into Bulls. You’re basically going to be just like The Titanic before the iceberg.
Hour Nine: The Warchant has been on repeat since hour six and your friends won’t let you stop chopping until you promise them you’ll do all 21 things they laid out for you on your waltz sign.
Hour Fourteen: Unbridled optimism has taken over. Your friends will get more trashed than you- but you’ll drink just enough to be hammered without blacking out. You’ll do a bunch of stupid shit, like jump in Westcott at 3 a.m. with no towel or way home and everything will be fine.
Hour Seventeen: Mom calls and cries about how her baby isn’t a baby anymore and how she is going to die soon. This lasts a while.
Hour Twenty: The shakes start. Are you nervous or excited? Maybe both? The only thing you know for certain is that the night will be legen – wait for it – DARY. It’s party time. You grab some condoms, a portable Rohypnol test, and your dancing shoes and prepare for the turn up.
Hour One: Where the fuck are you?
Hour Three: Is that piss or sweat you’re drenched in? Wait; maybe you’re still wet from being thrown in the fountain by those dudes you met on the Nite Nole.
Hour Four: You throw up the next hour and a half.
Hour Six: 112 seconds worth of Snapchat stories. You watch, cringe, watch again and laugh, save the videos, and then delete from your story. Too bad you can’t delete the video of you doing a boob luge at Recess from the FSU Snap Story. You check all previous texts and calls from the night before and begin some mad Sherlock Holmes shit.
Hour Nine: You’ve showered, brushed your teeth, and located various friends. It’s cleanup time.
Hour Eleven: You’re famished and decide to head to Gordo’s for a nice Frita Cubana with extra Gordo’s sauce but your car is gone.
Hour Twelve: You just spent $80 to get your car back from American Eagle Wrecker Services and true to their name, you feel absolutely wrecked.
Hour Fourteen: Now that you have time to process your feelings, you’ve fallen into a coma of despair. This is not what was supposed to happen. Or was it? Should you feel ashamed or proud? You’re learning towards proud. Yeah, you killed it. Best party of the year. You Project X’d that shit.
Hour Sixteen: Nope, definitely ashamed.
Hour Eighteen: Wow you’re old. Weren’t you sixteen like two days ago? When did you develop crow’s feet and a receding hairline???
Hour Nineteen: All of your friends that you promised to buy alcohol for “whenever” won’t leave you the hell alone and it hasn’t even been a full day.
Hour Twenty-Two: You’re in bed clicking through pictures from your “Baby Nole” Facebook album while crying and eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Drinking is overrated, especially now that the thrill of doing it illegally is gone.
So there it is, the truth behind turning twenty-one. Enjoy being young while you can, because once you hit that magic number there’s no turning back.