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You ever notice how people's dance moves change drastically after a few drinks? It's like we all become accidental choreographers. I was at a bar the other night, and this guy was dancing like he was auditioning for a music video, but the only music playing was the distant sound of someone trying to play "Wonderwall" on the jukebox. It's like we're all part of this uncoordinated barroom ballet. We should call it the "Drunk Shuffle." You know you've nailed it when you can spill your drink and turn it into a spin move. It's not a party until someone accidentally does the worm on the dance floor.
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Let's talk about mixology for a moment. When someone says they're a mixologist, what they really mean is they've memorized a list of fancy-sounding drinks and can throw in a couple of twirls with the shaker. I went to this hipster bar the other day, and the mixologist handed me a cocktail that looked like a science experiment. There were herbs I couldn't pronounce and a garnish that looked like it was foraged in Narnia. I took one sip and felt like I had just licked a pine tree. I miss the good old days when the most complicated decision at the bar was whether to have your beer in a bottle or a glass.
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We've all been there—those late-night text messages that seem like pure genius at the time but turn into cringe-worthy regrets the next morning. It's like our phones have a direct line to our subconscious after a few drinks. I once sent a text to my boss telling them I had a "sudden case of tropical fever" and couldn't make it to work the next day. Tropical fever? I was on my couch eating pizza rolls. And don't even get me started on autocorrect. My phone thinks I'm trying to type Shakespeare when I can barely put together a coherent sentence. Drunk texting should come with a built-in breathalyzer test before you hit send.
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Hangovers are like the Olympics of adulthood. You wake up, and suddenly everything hurts. It's a competition to see who can piece together the events of the night before. I once woke up with a traffic cone in my living room. I don't even have a car! And why is it that the mornings after a wild night, even the sound of a spoon clinking against a cereal bowl feels like a jackhammer in your head? It's the Hangover Olympics, and the gold medal goes to whoever can make it through the day without vomiting, wearing sunglasses indoors, or swearing off alcohol forever—until the next weekend.
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