I was never that girl who got drunk and wobbled around like a newborn foul, spewing yellow gunk from my nicely lip-lined lips while hurling insults at strangers. The worst that I’ve done is to bolt, never to return again. My friends found me later that night sitting on a curb as a police officer in tight biker shorts scolded me for being an idiot. Other than that though, I’m a fun, happy-go-lucky drunk.

When I’m on dates, I like drinking a lot with the guy because a) it relaxes them and if they’re nervous, it calms them down, b) it relaxes them and if they’re fucking boring, at least I’m drunk, and c) it’s a lot more fun when the walls come down and alcohol makes anyone brutally honest.

I went on a date with this Italian lawyer (let’s call him the Italian Stallion because I just watched Rocky II and III, so I’m feeling sentimental) and he was going ON AND ON about his own life and how wonderfully handsome he is, and I kept taking shot after shot because I wanted to drown out his voice with the pounding that my liver was taking. Finally, we finished and took a walk, and no surprise, he was STILL TALKING. All of a sudden, he grabs my head and tries to kiss me. I screech and say very eloquently, “You kidding me?!”

His eyes were wide and dumbfounded as I admonished him for talking my ears off and then trying to take advantage of my clearly drunken state, but it was probably funnier that I tried to come off high and mighty while standing there awkwardly with my high heels and hair slightly disheveled from his eager hands.

He apologized and offered to buy me a McRib.

So I made out with him.