The Drinking Games we Play

There comes a time in a person's life when they must enjoy becoming drunk. This isn't a certified saying or anything, but I think that it is sort of an underlying cultural fact, one that sort of makes me feel like a stunted failure for disliking drinking.

I guess it's not really my fault that I hate alcohol. The first time I tried drinking I got busted by several sets of parents, and my grandpa died the next day. I've always been suspicious that my mother killed him just to teach me a lesson. Anyways, I now associate alcohol with shame and regret. This is probably why I rarely get invited to parties.

Anyways, not long ago I decided that it was time to get over my aversions and grow to love something that is dangerous and unhealthy. 

F. Scott Fitzgerald's drink of choice was a Gin Rickey, which is just gin, lime, and club soda. I hate gin, club soda, and am only lukewarm towards lime, but the name Gin Rickey is super appealing. It oozes charisma, and I'm sure that drinking one ups the odds of writing a masterpiece that will be turned into various movie adaptions, one of which will star Leonardo Di Caprio, who will be alive long after the rest of us are gone.

Refusing beers became a lot easier at this point. I just told people that I saved my alcohol for Gin Rickeys, which made me sound like a bad-ass mixologist instead of the killjoy that I am.

Because I am true to myself, I got really into this drink that I hypothetically adored. I went over to a friend’s apartment before a party, and instead of taking apple pie vodka shots like a normal white girl, I insisted on making everybody Gin Rickeys.

The last time I tried to mix drinks was at a sleepover when I was 17, and I spilt grey goose all over my friend’s sleeping bag when I forgot to screw the tumbler shut. When it came to making Gin Rickeys, my confidence in mixology was very high, but completely unfounded.

My friend didn't have any gin, but she did have whisky. I insisted that it didn't make a difference. She also had no club soda, but she did have tons of limes. I made up for the lack of carbonation by squeezing double the amount of lime juice, and adding just a splash of tap water.

I decked out the Gin Rickeys in coffee mugs, and served them like the gracious guest I am.

They were terrible.

But my friends were not. They politely pretended to adore my Gin Rickeys (although because of the alcohol substitutions, I had started calling them Whickety Wacks).

This act of unconditional kindness was most likely meant to satiate me so I would stop mixing drinks, but all it did was inflate my ego to gargantuan proportions. I was just getting started.

My friends, however, decided to do shots. Like normal people.

I forwent this activity to instead make Vegan White Russian con Meil. This consisted of warm almond milk, tequila, cinnamon, and honey.

It was terrible, and no one pretended otherwise.

Except for me.

Not only did I drink this concoction, I continuously forced my friend to drink from the mug as well. This was partially to prove to her that I was actually a gifted bartender, but it was mainly because I needed someone to help me finish it and there were no dogs around. I really just don't like drinking.

When my friend nearly choked on a glob of tequila-congealed cinnamon, I knew I had flown too close to the sun.

I hung up my bartender hat and took a shot of vodka.

It was terrible.