An Open Letter To “That” Girl

Dear Drunk Girl,

Hi sweetie. Long time no see. I take that back. I saw you last Friday. Same place, same hazy look in your eyes, different black dress that falls down to expose your bra. This one doesn’t have vomit on it… yet! Congratulations.

As much as going out and drinking in college is an integral part of your experience, I don’t think you serenading a fraternity with “Like a Virgin” into your half-empty Smirnoff handle (your makeshift microphone) while balancing on a coffee table is necessarily the right way to spend your Tuesday night.

You were very stylish at the beginning of the night. Your dress hung perfectly, eyelashes were curled, hair was straightened, heels were spotless and your jewelry matched. However, after those three, four or five shots of Patron? That sexy little dress you picked up at the Saks sale is riding up and showing off your embarrassing leopard print boy shorts. The mascara you so diligently applied is now running down your face after your tearful breakdown about how much you “love everyone sooooo much” and “like, can’t wait to have you all as my bridesmaids.” You seem to have more hair in your face than in your ponytail and one of your high heels is nowhere to be found. Check yourself, honey.

Is that pimply beast of a guy you’re making out with in front of everyone your boyfriend? Hope not, because you just made out with his best friend four minutes ago when you assaulted him against the beer pong table. Yes, beer pong winner is impressive, but it’s not like he just saved a child from a fire. Speaking of, can we talk about your beer pong game? It’s called beer pong for a reason. Not “mass amounts of vodka and a splash of cranberry” pong. When you’ve reached that point where hard liquor in the beer pong cups seems like a good idea, you’ve gone too far.

No, no one wants to split a supreme pizza with you, go to the strip club “just for fun,” drunk dial the Dean’s office or add a rule in any drinking game that involves getting naked. Drunk girl, it’s the middle of the week and don’t you have a final tomorrow? And stop yelling at the poor guy who made your drink – there is plenty of vodka in there and not his fault that you just can’t TASTE it anymore.

I love you, drunk girl. Because, sometimes, I am you. But even when I’m not, I still adore you because I have a great time making fun of you and drawing penises all over you when you pass out on the floor of some random living room amidst a Tila Tequila marathon.


Melanie currently interning in NYC, taking full advantage of all margarita specials and those blonde summer boys. Stalk her on Twitter: @tinkermellie

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