My Brother and I

For those of you that don't have a brother, I'll attempt to explain what it's been like over the years.


Ages 0-5
Minimally aware I had a brother, or that I even existed for a good portion of this time period. When I wasn't busy shitting myself however, I somehow found the time to get angry at Mike. My earliest memory involves him, along with some furious rage. 


Ok that might've been a bit of an overstatement, but let me explain. 


We were moving from Alton, Maine (where you ask? Exactly) to Waterville, Maine. I was a baby, something like fifteen months old I believe. I only remember a few brief seconds, but these involved looking at my surroundings, noticing a car, a big ass awesome truck, my parents, and what's this? Who's this other tiny person? Hmm, he's riding in that big awesome truck. Well I look forward to joining him shortly! Hmm, no wait mother, you've got it all wrong. No, I shouldn't be riding in this honda civic, clearly the fun lies within that other car, you know, where the other tiny person is. Wait, hey..HEY! I WANT TO RIDE IN THE TRUCK WITH THE OTHER TINY PERSON. WHO IS THAT OTHER TINY PERSON?!?! I SHALL SMITE HIM!!


I don't remember anything else. But, I hear I did not enjoy the ride. Once we arrived, my parents couldn't have me crawling around getting stepped on while moving heavy furniture, so they put me behind a gate in the living room. Here is a picture you may recognize.

Unimpressed.

All the while I was presumably still wondering why I didn't get to ride in the big truck with my brother.


Ages 5-10
Life proceeded normally for awhile. At this point I obviously was aware that Mike was my brother, and not just some dude that happened to be around a lot. Siblings tend to get along at this age, and for the most part I  remember it happening that way. I would occasionally ask him what the next grade was like since he was one grade above me. He provided me with not much helpful information if I can recall. You see, I am an analytical type of person, while my brother is much more of a "fuck it just go with it bro" type. So while I slowly and nervously adapted to my new surroundings when moving to new grades and schools, my brother seemed to take it all in stride. 


"Mike, is 4th grade at the new school scary?"


"Huh? I dunno, maybe? "


"Well what is it like?"


"Pff, I dunno. I don't remember."


As you can see, our very different personalities were starting to become evident. Soon we each found the other to be a total son of a bitch.


Ages 10-18  
At this age, we were the epitome of brothers that didn't get along at all. Let's go over the differences. 

So, to sum it up, I was a scrawny picky eater band kid that didn't like sports. You may expect someone like that to get along great with a hulking mass of strength that didn't like any of the same shit, but you'd be wrong. We fought verbally and physically all the time. Now, since I was clearly in the lacking strength department (not so much anymore, ladies) I had to be strategic when fighting. A few techniques I remember from over the years:


Getting a full 360 degrees of punching momentum before making contact.


Punching him in the throat. (Ok that sounds terrible, it was kind of an accident.)


Throwing a full glass of water in his face, slamming door, running.


Running some more.


That whole throwing water debacle ended with me running downstairs, outside, and up the street to avoid his wrath. Even after he gave up chasing after me, I waited outside in the street at night for several minutes, while barefoot, before cautiously returning. But hey, I didn't get smacked that night. 


A few of his techniques included:


Towel whipping me in the balls.


Completely overwhelming me with his size.


That second one pretty much sums it up. If I was within swiping distance, he could always easily grab me, and just lie on top of me until I submitted. This is what led to my previously mentioned evasive maneuvers. 


Ages 18-Current
Complete turnaround. I'm not sure when how or why it happened, but we have gotten along great ever since. If I may get sentimental for a bit, it seems to stem from taking each other for granted at a younger age. You spend so much time with the other that not only do you see it as a given that they're always around, but you sort of end up hating them a little.


But later on, he moved out, then moved to a different state, I was off at college etc. We were both going through some rough shit, and realized we could talk to the other without being judged, something that can be difficult to do even with your closest friends. So aside from the occasional spat, we each stopped hating on the other. Now, we both like the red sox, and share a lot of the same friends. It also helps that he is fucking funny as shit.

He's lost about 70 pounds since then.

All from the beard.

He's still got his eyes on my ice cream though...

This One's my Favorite.

Here's my favorite comment from the article so far:


Fuck you sir. Fuck you in you oatmeal hating eyes. As of this moment I am enjoying a hearty bowl of slow cooked, steel cut oatmeal. It is delicious and flavored only with my towering hatred for you and for anyone who looks like you. Oatmeal being too good and wholesome for the likes of you, i suggest you breakfast on a bag of fried dicks.

Breakin it DOWN

I'm Horrible at Laundry

At some point, "Fuck it I'll just buy more clothes" doesn’t work. The things now living under your pile of socks are only going to get stronger and smarter unless you suck it up and go get your clothes washed. 

"SSTAAAIINNSSS"

Funds
Unless you're living somewhere with a washer and dryer, in which case I hate you, you'll need plenty of quarters to fund your laundry excursion. These quarters tend to disappear around the same time your clothes start smelling terrible, so if you don't have some small bills for your laundromat's change machine, I hope you like the circus, because you're about to jump through some hoops. This may or may not involve trips to the ATM, (fucking fees) the bank, (fucking closed) or a local convenience store. This seems like an awful lot of work for the 21st century doesn't it? By now shouldn't there be a way to just tap bills and they'll go *ffttt* and *poof* perfect change? And while we're at it, how about some sort of laser hot dog cannon?

What? No. Not what I had in mind at all. What the fuck?

Washing and Drying
Anyway, now that you've wasted most of the day securing your quarters, you'll also need to secure your clothes along with the detergent, fabric softener, and if you're fancy, other products like bleach and stain remover (you disgust me). Then, as soon as you arrive at the laundromat, it's time to figure out how you're going to do this without whichever of those items you inevitably forgot. Next comes separating your lights from darks, and your delicates from the uh...from the, robusts? And by separate, I of course mean cram as many clothes as you possibly can into into the smallest available washing machine. People that concern themselves with anything besides "Will this all fit?" or "Will they let me come back after this?" probably already have a washer and dryer at home.

"Point me to your single load washer please good sir!"

After you're done cramming your clothes into an unrecognizable ball of neglect, you can relax and let the machine do its thing for a little while. This is good, you've earned a break. After a curiously long 24-26 minutes, it's time to pull your clothes out. For now we'll just ignore the fact that there's no way detergent found its way into every little crevasse of your ultra dense neutron star of a laundry pile, and transfer everything to the dryer. Oh all the dryers are in use? No worries, I'm sure once the next dryer finishes, the owner of those clothes will promptly remove them.

Look who's back.

Great! You're almost done. If your laundromat has one of those flat rate dryers for an hour, good for you! If instead you have a dryer that gets you 7 or 8 minutes for 25 cents, welcome to the world of poor decisions. While 32 minutes might be enough time if your load is say, one sock, chances are it won't quite cut it for the sentient pile of clothes that by now can probably beat you at arm wrestling. But you're going to go for the bare minimum of time anyway aren't you? Go ahead, set the dryer as if your clothes are going to come out anything besides "hot...still pretty wet though."

I'll just leave my clothes under this rocket here...

Aftermath (Or if you're from the UK/Australia, "Aftermaths")
Congratulations! Your laundry is finally done. It's time to bask in the glory of not having to do it again for "definitely no longer than two weeks" (probably closer to a month). The high you get from being responsible and completing the chore is sure to make you short-sighted, and will inspire several more bad decisions, the first of which being to not fold them quite yet. 

I'm gonna pick out my favorite shirt, and go party.

A few days will go by and the non-wrinkly benefits you would have gotten from promptly folding your clothes have now gone out the window, so you might as well just dump your shitty clothes on the floor. 



Eventually the clean clothes will mix with the dirty ones and become guilty by association. The "flip the underwear inside-out" trick will start to gross even you out, and before you know it, the things living under your pile of socks are becoming sentient once again. Oh look, it's time to return to the laundromat!


You still disgust me.

Journey to England Part VII

As you can see I've given up linking to the other parts. Just find em in that side bar. 


So, sleeping in random farmer's fields! Thankfully no angry farmers/animals greeted us the next morning. But, have you ever wondered what it was like to wake up groggily in a humid field, not be able to shower, and face the prospect of hitchhiking over one hundred more miles? Oh it was fucking excellent.

Cheers mate.

My spirit of adventure hadn't worn off yet, so it genuinely wasn't too bad. We dug into our bag of bread cheese and granola bars for breakfast, and went back to the highway on-ramp, our new favorite spot in the whole world. Here we had the genius idea to split up. Mike would flag down cars as they exited, and I would do the pestering of people at the gas station. Yes, it really was an attack on all fronts. 


I began approaching several people, whose discomfort levels visibly changed from "moderate" to "severe". Noticing nobody was especially delighted as my unshowered self approached, I tried to be extra polite, but I think I only succeeded in creeping them out more. I felt a little dejected and glanced back at Mike, ready to somehow communicate "I'm trying my hardest, but a variety of factors seem to resulting in consistent failure'" with a single shrug. But oh, what's this? Mike was shoveling his bags into someone's car! NO FUCKING WAY!


Much to I'm sure a few gas station patrons' relief, I suddenly ran from them! I didn't want to get my hopes up, so I braced myself for Mike to say "they're gonna bring us five minutes up the road, but it's a start!" when instead he said something beautiful. "They're going like, 100 miles!" I nearly shit myself with delight. 


The drivers were a couple of delivery guys in their mid 30s. I'm not really clear on whether they worked for some company, or if they were just privately delivering things. Hmm, you know I don't know why I just included that last bit. Whether or not this was a private endeavor is probably the most boring detail I could've possibly included.

OMFG I ALMOST FORGOT. THEY WERE WEARING BROWN SOCKS!!!!

So anyway, off we went. These guys were talking about how you never see hitchhikers anymore. While this was enjoyable banter, it also served as yet another reminder that we could easily become stranded anywhere. Otherwise they were funny, yelling at their GPS for trying to take them through a service station. And oh man did they drive FAST. At least 80mph, and up to 100mph the whole way. When Mike and I were with that other speedy fellow before, it was a little nerve wracking because it was just one guy, and we didn't know the extent of his insanity. This time it was two guys, and while maybe a little bit reckless, neither were apparently crazy enough to have absolutely no friends, so it wasn't as scary. It was mostly awesome actually.


We went along with them as they delivered some piece of furniture, and then they dropped us at a roundabout, with about twenty miles left to Sterling. We certainly appreciated the help from these two, but boy did they leave us in a piss poor area to get picked up. Traffic was a bit thin. After about a half an hour of waiting, we looked at our map, and saw another roundabout about five miles closer to our destination. We decided to hold up our sign for Sterling while walking along the road, in an effort to look even more pathetic and evoke some pity from the drivers. It worked after not too long, but the guy could only give us a ride to the next roundabout. *Sigh* We took it, and then looked at the map again. It was a few more miles to another hopefully decent place to hitch, so we started walking again. It was hot and shitty, and we were getting tired. Traffic was so thin, that each time we saw a car we put our bags down, and put on a big smiley dance for people. Despite our individualized performances, nothing worked. 


And then suddenly, cows.

Whoa..

"Haha Mike, look. Isn't that weird how they stood up, got in a line, and are now staring at us silently?"


"Yup, let's get out of here."


So we kept walking.

"Oh look, they're running after us now."

I braced myself for the impending cowpocalypse, but thankfully the thin fence did enough to deter them from angrily stampeding us. I don't know what the deal was with those cows, but it was enough to distract us from our situation briefly. We needed that.


We walked another mile or so, when the nicest guy on earth decided to fall from the sky. He had a big roomy truck, and asked us where we were headed. We told him about our plans to visit Sterling, and where we had intended to hitch from next. He knew the area really well, brought us out of his way, and dropped us fifteen minutes from Sterling in a busy area. There was also a bus nearby that went into Sterling in case the hitchhiking didn't work out. He chatted us up the whole time and was all around nice as hell. We thanked him, and began what was hopefully our final hitchhiking leg of the journey. We waited another hour, nobody stopped, and so that was that, and FUCK HITCHHIKING FOREVER SON OF A BITCH COCKSUCKER. We again, begrudgingly took the bus. When we arrived, we decided to explored the town a bit, meaning drink beer. We dropped into a pub for drinks and lunch. 


I don't remember what I got, but I do remember what Mike got: Haggis. 


If you're not familiar, haggis is sheep heart, lungs, and liver all minced together with oatmeal, fat and some spices. Perfect, and why not take the less edible organs, and mix them with something shitty like oatmeal? And hey, while we're making the worst possible culinary mistakes, why not cook it in the sheep's stomach?

Worst water balloon ever.

No, that's what food is supposed to look like after you shit it out, not before. 


Seriously though, you obviously don't see haggis in the states, so he had to try it. I knew I had to try it too, but was glad most of it was his. How was it? Aside from the fact that it was probably never meant to be eaten, not too bad.


Then, off we went to Sterling Castle. 


That's enough for now. Please enjoy the Empire Strikes Back as you wait for part 8.

I Was a Child, and I LIED!

Does anyone else remember when they first experimented with lying? Some studies have been done to figure out why it happens with children. Some actually believe it's a good sign, because we often lie for socially acceptable reasons so it's normal for a kid to do the same. Plus if the kid doesn't lie he's probably a fuckin pussy and needs to get his ass beat. I'm sure I lied about all kinds of sftuff when I was a kid, but I remember one in particular. 


I was in the 3rd grade. Obviously, I was no stranger to harmless lies.


"Did you have your cookie yet?" 


"....no"


"Ok here you go." 

FUCK YEAH TWO COOKIES.

But on this fateful day I felt like testing my boundaries. You see, for awhile, I had wanted to skip school. (Let's be honest if you're 8 and don't want to skip school you're probably a fuckin pussy and need to get your ass beat.) However, when I stayed home from school previously, it was always because I was legitimately sick, and where's the fun in staying home if you're just throwing up the whole time? So get this, I considered pretending I was sick. NO WAY RIGHT?! At the time I was confident that I was the first person on earth to ever try this. I was slightly nervous about lying to my dad’s face, but I felt I could be convincing and after a nervous few seconds it would be over.


"Time for school!"


"I don't feel well.."


"Really? What's wrong?"


"Probably pancreatitis...I mean, my stomach hurts"


*pause* "Ok, I'll call the school."



It worked! Now what to do with my freedom? I laid on the couch to watch some TV and play with dominoes. Little did my Dad know, I was also basking in the glory of my successful ruse. However, a slight while later I overheard my dad talking on the phone in the other room. He mentioned to someone I had stayed home because I was “not feeling too chipper.” I distinctly remember those words. He went on to mention that after the bus drove off I “started feeling a bit more chipper.” He then shared a chuckle with the mysterious other person. 


FUCK he's on to me. 

I guess playing with dominoes, along with not showing any visible signs of sickness whatsoever had clued him in to the subterfuge. 


Thinking back, I suspect he was talking fairly loudly on the phone because he wanted me to hear him. It's possible there never even was a person on the other line, and it was just a roundabout way for my dad to tell me “I’ll let you get away with it this time, but don’t think I don't know what you're up to.” It seemed at this point he had no intention of seriously punishing me, but it wasn't about that anymore. It was about pride. He thought he'd seen through my act? Well I MUST NOT LET HIM WIN!

For honor!

So my genius plan was to go to my room and lay in bed the rest of the day. I'd had my fun that morning, but now it was time to bite the bullet and maintain my integrity. 


“I’ll lay here so long he’ll have to believe I’m really sick!” I thought. 


I imagined him coming by hours later, seeing me STILL in bed, and thinking “Wow, I guess he really was sick.” Then he would feel terrible for not believing me, and maybe he'd bring me some toast. Oh man if I could score some toast out of this second scheme, JACKPOT. Because like sitcoms have taught us, nothing helps fix lies like piling on more lies.


Well that shit got old quick, and my toast fantasies quickly faded. If I'm gonna lie in bed all day pretending I'm sick, I might as well actually be sick and that defeats the purpose of my whole plan! So I went back downstairs and played the easier way out. 


“I think I’m feeling better” I told my dad. 


“That’s good.” 

I don’t know where my conscience was during this whole charade, until *BOOM* "SORRY I'M LATE, MR. ROBERT P. CONSCIENCE HERE!" 


And the guilt flooded in.


I had betrayed my Dad's trust. I knew he'd be forced to believe that I was really sick, even if he suspected otherwise. I felt terrible for taking advantage of that. I almost would have rather he'd called me out and sent me off to school at the beginning of the day. I would've felt ashamed briefly, but then I could have at least avoided the guilt. 


Thinking back again, perhaps my Dad had decided to gamble. Maybe that morning, after I revealed my sickness, he'd immediately seen through it, and thought my eventual crushing guilt would be punishment enough, providing I didn't end up thinking "holy shit, faking sickness is easy!" and try staying home every other day. Or maybe after I revealed my sickness he thought "Bullshit...ah whatever." And let me stay. Well assuming it was the former, my Dad won his gamble. The sting of guilt forced me to quit the life of faking sickness for awhile. Lesson learned. 

And god dammit, I actually got sick later that night.

Lost On a Not So Big Mountain in Maine

Remember Don Fendler? If you're from Maine there's a good chance he came to visit your 4th or 5th grade class to briefly talk about his being lost on Mount Katahdin. He wrote (probably dictated, actually) a book about his experience. All I can remember is he got separated somehow, and got a lot of bug bites. Well I'm going to tell you my story about getting lost on a different mountain in Maine. Mount Norumbega, which in my opinion sounds way more like some sort of futuristic robot than "Katahdin" and is therefore better. 


First let's get this out of the way. Technically a mountain has to be at least 2000 feet above sea level to qualify as a real mountain, so Mount Norumbega should actually have been called Large Hill Norumbega, but fuck that rule. If it's big enough to get lost on, it's a fucking mountain. 

Mt. Norumbega

Anyway, every summer since I was little, me and the fam would go on camping and hiking trips to Acadia National Park. My brother and I looked forward to the camping, the swimming, and the restaurants, but thought the hiking bits were miserable. We bitched and moaned so often it's a wonder our parents didn't just put us in a box and say "we'll be back in a couple of days". After several years, the two of us started wising up and realizing nature was actually pretty cool. This may have coincided with around the time we discovered drugs. I mean..what?

Ohh, I get it now.

But one year, Mike was off doing something else, meaning I didn't have someone to hang back and complain with this time. FORESHADOWING. 


I actually don't know why he didn't come. Maybe it was because I made that last part up and he never actually came around to hiking? Or maybe he had to work or something? I don't know, it was over ten years ago. Which reminds me

So my parents and I did the camping trip without his ass. We arrived at Mount Norumbega and figured out which trails we'd take. We'd head up the mountain one way, and then on the way down, we'd take a meandering trail around a pond and through the woods. Now, my parents like to hike at a leisurely pace, enjoying the peaceful sights and sounds, much in the way a hiker should. I on the other hand chose to Flash Gordon that shit. I would cruise through the trails like a missile, deftly avoiding branches and rocks like I was earning points for it.


We got to the summit, hung out and ate some lunch then headed back down. We got to the pond area, and I decided to just take the fuck off. I knew where I was going in the same way that dumb dogs know where they're going, which is to say, I didn't know where I was going. I guess I assumed when going through the trails that there would be a sign that read "Matt, go this way to get back to your car" at every fork. I was vaguely aware that there were SEVERAL trails through the woods, but didn't realize this meant there were several WRONG ways back until I took a few random turns and ended up on the road, with no parking lot in sight. Some people would assume that all those forks in the trails would lead to the same place. Stupid people for instance. Me, for instance. 


Thankfully this stupidity also allowed me the luxury of not panicking just yet. Where anyone else would think "Oh god where the fuck am I?" I simply thought "oh I'll just engage my perfect inner compass this time and I'll be fine." So I went back and took another fork. This trail led me back to the pond. Now I was confused. I went back to the fork, and took the final option. This led me to another fork with several more options. When I sprang ahead earlier, had my parents told me which trail I should take to get back to the car? I dunno, probably.


Here's a rough sketch of the area:

Bumbumbum...SUDDENLY! I remembered that little shack at one end of the pond. It was out in the open so I hiked back to it. No fuck that, walked. I walked back to it. I was pretty sure my parents would get to the car, notice I was absent, and go back to look for me, and the shack seemed like the best place to be. So I planned to stay there until I was found. That's what they say when you're lost right? Stay where you are? Well that old saying fails to mention that staying where you are is boring as shit. After what felt like hours but was probably more like fifteen minutes I started wondering what would happen if it got dark and I wasn't back, or something. Hmm, that doesn't make sense. It was about 4 pm, and it wouldn't be dark for hours. You know, thinking back I can't really rationalize what I ended up doing. I decided to go back the way I came. I started to hike back over the mountain. 

I felt like this was my greatest chance of success, and only later realized it was also the greatest chance of my parents shitting themselves in fear. Obviously they would come  looking for me, and I realize now that if I had just waited like a not impatient asshole, they would've found me, and everything would've been fine. But I felt I had some inner voice saying "betcha can't find your way back over the mountain dipshit" and to this I responded, "oh yeah?" And off I went, into the annals of retard-dom.


After not very long, I came to a fork, as you can see from my awesome map. And guess what? I couldn't remember where to go. This could've been a disaster. But too late, I was committed. So I took my best guess and picked a path. A few minutes later I saw things I was pretty sure looked familiar, but in retrospect I might've just been imagining that, cause all the trees looked pretty damn similar. I was hoofing it big time, so it wasn't very long before I got back to the summit. From here I knew exactly where to go, so I practically skipped the rest of the way down the mountain, feeling light as a feather. 
I started hearing cars again, and knew there wouldn't be another fork until right next to the parking lot, so I was home free. 


Now it's time for a lesson in the differences between men and women. Specifically mothers and fathers. When parents lose track of their son, the basic thought process for the father goes like this: 


Hmm, there must've been some miscommunication somewhere. Well, he's a capable person, he'll figure out what to do. We'll all just have to be patient and wait for this to sort itself out. 


Whereas for the mother, it goes like this:


JESUS CHRIST HE'S FUCKING DEAD.


I knew both of my parents would be fairly relieved, but expected my mom to be slightly more emotional. My dad's reaction was something like "Oh there he is." While my mom's was 


MATT!!!! *sobsobsobsob*


I don't know if I'll ever fully understand what that felt like until I have kids of my own someday. 


In the aftermath we retold stories, and tried to figure out how exactly my dad never found me when he came back through searching. I made up a story about how I kept going through different forks for awhile and only after a really long time did I find the right one. We must have just missed each other every time, because I definitely didn't climb back over the mountain. I figured it was in my best interests to avoid mentioning that, so they could maintain the illusion of having a son that wasn't a complete fucking idiot. 


God that was retarded.

Holiday Bar

When you're home for the holidays, there's all kinds of catching up to be done. So what does everybody do? Go to the bar and see old friends! And by old friends, I mean "people you'd hoped to never see again." Let's be honest. After several years go by, the number of people you actually do want to see has dwindled a bit. But for those people, yes, the bar seems like the thing to do. Why? Let's look at some more pros and cons.


Pro - You Can Be as Loud as you Want

Ok, well almost. Don't be an asshole.

Let's say you're drinking by yourself. Maybe you realize "your job sucks" or "you're drinking by yourself" and you start yelling angrily and throwing things. If you live in an apartment building, or live in a house but have neighbors with really good hearing, you might get the cops called on you. At the bar, you have to yell because the music is so loud, and your penetrating gaze can only say so much. And since you probably aren't drinking by yourself at the bar, hopefully the only things you'll be throwing are "back shots". If you do get carried away, and happen to throw some glasses or punches, fuck it it's not your stuff/face. 


Con - The Drinks are Way More Expensive in this Setting
Want to get wasted at home? Go to the store and spend probably less than ten dollars on some cheap beer. Want to get wasted at the bar? Spend five times as much. It's understandable though, that shit is on draft. And liquor? Twenty five dollars for a decent bottle of whiskey, with holds about fifteen to twenty shots. A shot of decent whiskey at the bar is at least four dollars, but probably more. So we're talking at least sixty dollars for a bottle, but again probably more. But this is also understandable, 'cause the girl pouring it has nice cleavage. 


These bar prices aren't even including tip, which you have to do, because even though you're already spending about five times as much for the same shit, you're an asshole if you don't drop at least a dollar more per drink in tips. I get it though, bartenders have to deal with some tricky stuff like, "pouring drink into glass" or "removing cap from bottle, lest the patron bring bottle to lips and experience lack of beer pouring forth." 


Pro - You Don't Have to Clean Up After Yourself
Let's go back to you drinking alone. Suppose you've really got some sorrows that need drowning, and you really go for it that night (or day?) When you end up vomiting everywhere and passing out, the bad news is you still live there. Someone's gonna have to clean up that puke. And after you've done a half-assed job cleaning that up, you've still got to take care of all those empty bottles. 

Feel free to get creative though.

This problem is even worse if you happen to have a friend or two drinking with you. Go to the bar and your empty bottles and glasses are magically whisked away by someone that hates their job! And if you puke, you've got a shot a ducking back into the crowd, putting on a fake mustache and then "discovering" the puke later, saying things like "well I never!" or "I say!" then positioning your monocle back into place as you sip daintily from your glass of cabernet sauvignon.  


Con - You Can't Sleep at the Bar

Hmm, well again, I guess shouldn't is the word..

Unless you're really good at hiding, a skill which decreases significantly the more you drink,

Source: Time Magazine.

you'll eventually have to suck it up and endure the ride/walk home. This necessary end is always hanging over your head and can prevent you from truly enjoying yourself.  


Pro - Pool and Darts
These can be fun, and you probably don't have a pool table or dartboard at home. If you do, might I suggest opening a bar at your house? 


Con - Bars Close
Some earlier than others, which means at some point you've gotta get the fuck out, unless like I mentioned, you're good at hiding. 


Providing you pace yourself, you can drink by yourself at your house all god damn night.

Pro - Where the Fuck Else are you Gonna Go?

Seriously, what are your other options? If nobody you know is throwing a sweet party (which if you suck, is probably true) then the only options you have besides the bar are..hmm off the top of my head I guess the woods? Or an empty parking lot? Depending on where you live those options might either be way too cold, or nonexistent. 

So I guess suck it up and go to the bar, or get some cool friends that throw sweet parties.