There really are only three constants in life: death, taxes and you talking loud enough in our 9 a.m. class on Mondays, telling everyone just how hard you partied this weekend.
I know you were really only telling the pair of like-minded girls seated next to you, but trust me, we all heard it. To be clear, we didn’t really want to hear about your wild trip to Molly’s. We didn’t need to, either. The smudged X’s on your hand told us all how cool you are.
Maybe it’s just me, but if I was detailing my drunken walk down Fourth Street at 1 a.m., I’d probably make sure the room full of mostly strangers couldn’t hear me. And if I was whispering about how many times I threw up this week, I’d whisper a little softer.
And of course your Friday night adventure was mostly only a prelude. You had to walk home and get a tight six hours of sleep before waking up to start drinking again, pregaming for the tailgate, tailgating for the game you left early and leaving early to start pregaming for Saturday night.
Gosh, that sounds like a vicious cycle. I feel bad for your liver. I feel bad for your roommate. I feel bad for every Saferide driver you have ever interacted with. I feel bad for your Snapchat friends — I really can’t imagine what your Friday night stories look and sound like.
Drinking is fine. Talking about it is fine. But bragging about it epitomizes the phrase “weird flex.” Literally all of us drink.
Somehow, through your endless flexing about your weekends, you’ve made drinking in college seem uncool. I’m normally pretty progressive, but you’ve made me reconsider my stance on prohibition.
I’m not against drinking by any means. I’m not even against you specifically drinking. I’m just sick of hearing about it every Monday morning.