I was lucky enough to be invited to a lot of parties this summer. As it turns out, most of my friends had a killer year. Some graduated from school, others got married, a few moved on to new jobs or just got older. Every time we celebrated. Most of the time that involved drinking. Some of the time that involved a mess and a few times I spent the morning hungover.
We’ve all been there. Whether it was back in college or last weekend. There’s always that time when no matter how much fun we had the night before, come morning we vow never to drink again. Where with blinds drawn and Advil in hand we curse the name of the man in the bottle, crying out DAMN YOU Jack, Jose, Sam, Jim, Johnny or Bud. I will not feel thine fury again. But this promise is about as strong as a new years resolution. While taking refuge in a baconeggandcheese and large bottle of Fiji water, friends are texted, stories are shared, things are remembered, and plans are made. The cycle starts again.
We continue to drink even though no one ever has anything good to say about the process. In fact the way talk about getting drunk is almost violent. What emerges from those crazy nights out are war stories. Tales of insanity told in gruesome detail that recount every shot taken, every soldier down, and everyone left behind. Like passengers in a car accident, we don’t recount ever feeling good, only getting fucked up, wasted, trashed, retarded, hammered, shitfaced or tanked. The trauma is so bad that sometimes we blackout and emerge from our bunker all banged up.
Maybe it’s a bad thing that what becomes important at the end of the night is not why we felt the need to celebrate in the first place but that we survived. Or maybe the extreme aftermath is only a testament of how grand the occasion really was. A viking send off isn’t exactly supposed to be an orderly affair. What remains consistent is that no matter how torn up we get, we will always climb back on that soggy horse to ride again. Weekend warriors off to the fray.