If there’s anyone in this town that can go out night after night, get stupid-drunk and not die, it’s me. I’m Kat Bein, pro-rager and party journalist extraordinaire. My mission was easy: Hit the streets, get schwasted and meet people. Basically, do what I do every night, but do it harder.
Day 1: WTF is this story about?
My co-author and I met at Speakeasy Wednesday night, my usual spot. By the time he got there with some friends, I was already two shots, a beer and a whiskey sour deep into my night.
It started out allright. Conversation flowed without much trouble. As I continued drinking, I found things only became easier until around 1 a.m. when I was suddenly sloshed and slurring.
In about 20 minutes, I went from discussing Buddhist traditions and Japanese rituals to knocking over all the stools in the bar. Get it girl.
Day 2: Keep on truckin’
By around 3 p.m. I’d finally stopped puking, which gave me enough time to eat, brush my teeth and meet Rich at Alcove to get started again.
After a couple of beers, we started wandering the streets and ended up at Silver-Q where my friends were getting down. Turns out I’m terrible at pool when I’m tore up.
A few more shots in the system, a few more beers, and I start going through my phone contacts thinking, “I wonder what pair of skinny jeans is up this late.” Blame it on the alcohol?
Day 3: Where is my mind?
I’ve never been one of those people who blacks out, but by now I find there are whole parts of the night missing in my mind. I remember things from before and after, but what the heck happened in the middle? How did I get home? These are not things you want to be asking yourself, honestly.
At The Top, I decide to stick to good ole beer and conversation, which is nice and helps me keep my sanity. I learn tonight that going out doesn’t always have to focus around dancing until you’re a sweaty mess and drinking until your IQ drops lower than the dance floor.
Day 4: Go big or go home
We meet at Neon Liger where I immediately buy a Four Loko for myself and one of my new friends. (Author’s note: I’ve already had three beers.)
This is my night to shine, and I outdo myself. I dance on tables, take a face-plant to the cement, hold a cup for my friend to puke in, and (apparently) I start making out with a gay dude mid-sentence. Now, that’s what I call class.
The next morning, I look back on Saturday night as possibly one of the most fun nights but also the night with the most holes. I’m still learning new things about what happened, and yes, I’m still planning on raging 110 percent all day, every day. I mean, if I went through this week without ostracizing anyone and in fact made new friends along the way, then obviously I know what I’m doing.
Conclusions!
By the end of it, we’d all grown a little closer and (maybe) knew each other that much better. That’s the good thing about getting drunk, you get to write your own endings the next morning.
Editor's note: For the sober side of the story, click here.
