-What's the average age at which people stop playing drinking games? I'm always guessing it's right around the corner, and I'm always wrong. I've never played a drinking game in my life, except for card games and quarters(into an empty cup - beer in different cup), because I don't understand the point. It's people who
want to get drunk who play. But the loser of the game has to drink. The reward system is backwards. Where's the logic? If you want to get drunk, shouldn't the winners be rewarded with more drinks? This was a system devised by losers. Smart losers. If you're good at the game, you stay sober.
The games are either boring or nasty. Beer-Pong makes me question people every time I see it played. One of my friends has an official Beer-Pong table. It was made for Beer-Pong. Not a kitchen table that occasionally hosts the game. People gather around it. Dozens... and here's the thing. I'm so competitive that I annoy myself, but I can't play this game. I can't even guest toss for anyone, because I don't want to contribute to the bad idea. It's disgusting. The balls hit the pavement, dirt, grass, kitchen floor where 30 people have been working. Then they pick up the ball, rinse it off in a cup of water that rinsed the ball off after every other errant throw, and still contains all of the bacteria from the previous rinses. Then they throw the ball into a cup of beer and drink it. That is fucking disgusting. I want to know where I can buy a Petri dish, so I can check the bacteria on the ball. And conducting a science experiment at a party will surely enhance my image as a party animal.
I'm going to start writing monthly letters to the surgeon general, urging him to condemn this game. I'm sure we'll see some movement from the government on this. "Surgeon General's Warning: Beer-Pong increases the magnitude of beer-shits fivefold. Just drink the beer."
Flip-Cup is the other 'tardo game. I just don't understand this game. It's like that Howie Mandel game show with the boxes or briefcases. I've seen it plenty of times, and still have no idea of what's going on. You drink beer, then flip a cup. Why?
-I went out to dinner with some friends on Friday to celebrate a friend's birthday. I was sitting with Quincy, my friend Matt, and his girlfriend, Sarah, who is also my friend. It was there that my life changed. I don't remember how it came up. Wait, now I do, but I'm not going to tell you why. I'm also not going to delete the previous three sentences.
Hamburger.Alright. I was convinced, and had been for about 7 years that every girl I dated for about 2 years was crazy. My friends always said that I'm "picky." I thought yeah, I'm picky in that I don't like shitty people. So, I started telling a story about one of the crazies. Here's the reason: my roommate is talking to a Persian girl. He mentioned that I briefly dated a Persian girl in college, but I broke it off because she was annoying. I had forgotten the exact reason though. Quincy started laughing really hard and asked if I remember why I stopped talking to her. Then he said, "You stopped talking to her because she said 'That's crazy!' too much." I defended the decision with the argument that she said it about things that aren't by any means crazy. It's warm outside. "That's crazy." No it isn't. It's the summer. I'm thirsty. "That's crazy." No it's not. I'm an animal. That was it. I actually cut the date off halfway into it because I couldn't take it. She said that things were crazy at least once per 2-3 minutes. Matt and Sarah found this funny. We all agreed that this girl was crazy.
I then said that every girl I had anything to do with for a couple years was like this. Quincy started laughing again. He said, "Fantastic." I had forgotten about that. I was talking to a girl at a party, and she said "Fantastic" in a way that was just, it was horrible. Like "Fan-taaaastic!" So I told her I had to go to the bathroom. Instead of going to the bathroom, I left the party. She was clearly a psychopath.
Wow, this wasn't even part of the Friday conversation, but I just remembered it. At a college party, around the same time, a girl wanted me to dance with her. I don't dance. Not now. Not ever. I stopped talking to her because she was too forceful in trying to get me to dance with her. In other words, she was a lunatic.
Back to the actual list. I mentioned a girl, whom I met at my gym. We had a brief conversation in the gym. When I left, I found a note on my windshield that she had left. This creeped me out a little. How did she know which car was mine? I'm still slightly creeped out. But I ran into her the next night. We talked for a little while, swapped numbers and were supposed to hang out that weekend. It never happened, because she called me the next day and told me a story about absolutely nothing for 45 minutes. Finally, I had to tell her that I was at Outback, my table was ready, and I would call her right back. I didn't call back and changed my gym schedule. The girl was insane. I wouldn't be surprised if she ate boogers in kindergarten.
Then there was the girl whose name I forgot but was way too interested in something. I don't remember what it was, but it was off-putting. So, I started making up stories about being a porn addict to completely derail everything. I had no choice, she was a basket-case.
Once I told that story, Sarah cut me off and as if she had just solved a riddle, said, "Wait, I think the problem is
you." I laughed for about one second, until my face straightened up and I had no choice but to agree. "Shit. You're right. Oh my god. For years, I thought all of these girls were crazy..."
She cut me off, "But it was you. You cut people off after they annoyed you once. It's all little stuff too. But one strike. That's tough."
"Fuck." My world was crumbling. It was all 100% my fault. I was the crazy one. I just realized that me leaving after going to a football game, and before dinner because a girl called too many things "crazy" is my fault. Fuck. Maybe she wasn't crazy.
Sarah asked if these all happened in relatively the same time period. "No," I said. "One was in November. Another was December through February. Another was October... Shit. Yes."
Then I set out to defend my record, somewhat successfully, and somewhat more damningly.
I said, well some girls broke things off with me, and although they didn't specifically cite this, it was because they thought I was weird. And they were always the really hot ones. One used to date the lead singer of a popular band, and soon after we broke up, she became a stripper. And the girls who thought I was weird were all kind of dumb. And I gave them a break on that, because they were really... Shit. That's even worse. Fuck. Now I'm crazy
and superficial. And that was the way I described them.
The only case which was a proper defense of my record was, and don't judge me for this, a girl whom I "dated" for two and half months during my senior year of college. I say "dated" because I never once saw her during daylight hours, or outside of her house, and I never knew her last name. I "broke up" with her because she was an avid reader. But she only read J.D. Salinger, over and over. Every novel, on a loop. In three months, she read Franny and Zooey twice. That's fucking crazy. You can read nothing but Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Shakespeare, countless others. But if you strictly read Salinger, you are unbalanced. But she looked like Joaquin Phoenix's sister in Gladiator, so I let it slide.
Later, I saw a stack of boxes in her closet. I asked why she kept her shoes in boxes. She said they aren't shoes, but costume wigs. No more than five minutes later, a girl I had never seen came to her room, knocked, and without prompting asked, "Is this your boyfriend?" You can't really use that word for someone who doesn't know your last name. So, I broke things off a few minutes later. Not because of the b-word, but because of the Salinger-Wig-b-word combo.
Everyone agreed that was deserved.
She was still cool, overall (aside from what I mentioned above). It was February 13th, and I didn't want to leave things on bad terms. The next night, Valentine's Day, I came by with flowers (friendship flowers) and Godiva truffles. I walked to her bedroom door. Her male roommate (she lived in a big house with 6 people) said she was in her room with one of her friends (female), drinking vodka, and "doing their wig thing." I listened through the door for a second to see what this "wig thing" could be. It's what you're guessing. There will soon be a Constitutional Amendment proposed to ban Wig Things. Now, if you're a woman reading this, you're thinking, "Good thing you broke up with her. She's a hussy." And if you're a guy, you're thinking, "You're a fucking moron. You better have knocked on the door." Hindsight tells me I should have knocked on the door, because I'm not gay. But if you could only imagine the sensory overload that goes into that situation, you would understand why I shuffled back to my car, and sat in silence for about 48 hours. No one can accept that situation if they don't even remotely see it coming. You just can't do anything about it. It's like if someone surprised you with a million dollars and gave you 10 seconds to spend it. After about 48 hours, I received a call from her, asking me to come over and "Talk things over." I told her I couldn't go, and promptly deleted her number. Detracting more from my straight-case is the fact that when she called, I was eating ice-cream with my mom. In retrospect, this was a dumb, principled thing to do. Very dumb. Extremely dumb. Just stupid. I'm an idiot.
It was at this point in telling the story that I regained the respect of Sarah and lost the respect of Quincy and Matt, and I'm guessing everyone who will read this, especially guys and women who have penises.
My friend John ran into her about a year later. He called me at the end of the night to tell me I wouldn't believe who he just ran into. He told me and said, "She's really hot." I know she's hot. "She told me to tell you to call her." Fuck yes. Because after a year, you forget about wigs and J.D. Salinger. And it takes roughly three months for those things to push you to your threshold of acceptible craziness anyway. Hell yes I'll call her. What's her number? "What?" I'll call her. What's her number? "I didn't get her number?" What do you mean you didn't get her number? "She tried to give it to me, but I figured you already had it." You idiot. What's her last name? "I don't know. I think it starts with a T or an L. I think it's Italian. She was your girlfriend. You don't know her last name?"
And that's it. I discovered that I used to be crazy.