Aaaaah! Oh God! What the hell! You're hideous!
Sorry, you startled me. I don't think I've ever seen someone as drunk ugly as you at a party. I mean Jesus, your smile literally takes up half your goddamn face. No, I'm not being rude. You're drunk beyond the sweet spot, and I'm just pointing out the negative aspects of such a decision.
The sweet spot? Well, you know how a baseball bat or golf club has a perfect area in the middle that, when utilized, allows you to hit the ball the farthest? An alcoholic sweet spot is very similar. It's where you've drank enough to have lots of fun, but not so much that you're falling down and puking. It's the pleasant middle, or sweet spot, of drunkenness.
You're beyond the pleasant middle. To be honest, the bat or club has left your grip and you're hitting the ball with your damn hands.
Seriously, can you stop squinting at me? Yes, you are squinting at me. You're squinting at everybody. We're indoors, so I sincerely doubt there's a strong enough wind to require such ferocious squinting. It's annoying. If you're so drunk that your eyes can't stand the dim lighting of this dark party, then you need to stop drinking.
Don't worry, I'm not trying to take your drink from you. I don't really care whether you stop drinking or not. What? You have to guard your drink from roofies? Why on Earth would anyone try to slip you a roofie? You've already roofied yourself.
You also have to guard yourself from guys who just want sex? Let me tell you something, dear. You're so drunk that any attempt to move your body in a sexual rhythm will result in you vomiting up your entire ribcage. That's the real security system you have going tonight.
See, you're not only beyond the drinking sweet spot, you're also beyond the sexual sweet spot. Your inhibitions have been lowered by alcohol, but you're now so drunk that there's no chance of having enjoyable sex with you. You're too drunk to do anything but lie there like a dead fish. Only the most desperate loser would want to have sex with you.
Me? No. I'm not desperate. Call me crazy, but having unsatisfying sex that ends with you either puking all over me or puking all over my sheets just doesn't appeal to me. And let us not forget the chance that you might ask to use my bathroom, pass out on the toilet, and then go all over my floor.
No, really. You're that drunk.
Yes, you are. Trust me.
Sorry, I'm not interested in hearing how you attained those beads around your neck. It wouldn't take many guesses to figure that one out. I'm more interested in hearing how you obtained eyebrows that are longer than Rip Van Winkle's beard and curved like a freaking race track.
Fine, be mad at me. See if I care. I'm trying to help you understand your error in judgement. Okay, go sleep with that guy across the room. If you remember from earlier in our conversation, I had no interest in making my bedsheets the color of your margaritas. Yes, sleeping with that other guy will certainly show me a thing or two. Yes, yes. I'm sure he'll tell you what you want to hear by complimenting your green sequined thing.
See you later. Hopefully your hangover won't erase all my teachings. Bye.
JUST REMEMBER FOR NEXT TIME, GIRL! GO FOR THE SWEET SPOT!
