There and Back Again: My Own Stages of Drunkenness

6/06/2014

Some of you may be familiar with the stages of drunkenness as they are traditionally defined. They're pretty accurate, from what I've experienced, but in my case although there's definitely some parallels between these stages and my own progression on a night of drinking, it's not quite the same. The stages are a little more complex, and go in a different order. I find that they are best represented through the following stereotypical fantasy characters.

The Hobbit: 1-2 Drinks

I a warm, personable, cheerful, and modest in both behavior and means. Usually begins when taking a meal of some sort, often a meal that is not particularly needed, such as elevensies, second breakfast, afternoon tea (beer), supper, or dinner. Food is scarfed down merrily in the presence of friends doing likewise. At this point, I have no delusions about what I am...small, scruffy, typically barefoot, and neither rich, nor very wise, nor very handsome. My only aspirations are to have a wonderfully good time, drink a few more ales, and shuffle peacefully off to bed to start the day tomorrow. But a few more ales inevitably leads to...

The Paladin: ~3 Drinks

Emboldened by further drinking, human pride begins to creep in and the shyness of the hobbit stage begins to fade. I'm suddenly taller, handsomer, more accomplished. I suddenly wonder why I was ever bashful or modest, because after all, I'm sort of a paragon of noble manliness and integrity. Why should I be content to shuffle off to bed? I've got courage, ability, and chiseled bravado. Clearly adventure is in order, and it is my duty as a chivalrous cavalier to inspire my friends into action. Fortune favors the bold! But what sort of mission shall we undertake? I better have a few more to make sure the decision is a good one! After all, it determins the course of the KNIGHT. Get it? I'm also witter now.

The Rogue: ~5 Drinks

Just as fortune favors the bold, the bold favor fortune! Now is the time for profitable mischief, not noble deeds. I'm practically bursting at the seams with cunning, ingenuity, and swashbucklery charm. I am an expert gambler, master thief, and swift assassin all rolled into one. I'm going to bet you that I can steal that lava lamp on the second story window, attempt to do so, and regardless of the outcome, I'm going to snatch your drink and assassinate it, and then disappear into the night before you cant react, and probably wink coyly at at least a dozen ladies in the process.

The Ranger: ~7 Drinks

The time has come for me to contemplate my relationship with nature. I must disappear for a while to reflect on where I've been and where I'm going; to break away from the social scene and remember my place among the world of trees and beasts. I shall bask in the beauty of silvery moonlight, and try to hug this dog that someone has leashed outside the bar. She knows what's up. Who's a good girl? Who is? That's right, both of us are good girls. Just as the wild fauna are free to frolic without the boundaries of law & tradition, so must I choose my path. Perhaps I'll returm to claim glory as a king, or continue to wander as a ranger and grow wise in the tutelage of nature.

The Wizard: ~9 Drinks

I have drank my way into some serious ass wisdom and have learned much from the experience of the night. Through travelling with my comrades, I've learned of human nature. Through roguery, I've learned to be resourceful, shrewd, and quick. From nature, I've had time to see myself in the grand scheme of things and realized just how much I know. I know a lot. I'm going to tell you about it. You may find the wisdom I impart to be vague or incomprehensible, but I assure you it is because of my mysteriousness and not because I'm 9 drinks deep. If you disagree with me I'll raise my voice and start using the word "fool" a lot. I am convinced I can do magic and will try to demonstrate this to you, and it will probably involve fire so I will keep referring to it as "pyromancy"

The Elven Prince: ***10 Drinks***

The pinnacle (by my own perception at the time) of the cycle of drinking. I am an ancient, all-knowing, elegant creature that is beautiful to behold. I sneeze rose petals and fart spring breezes. I can deftly leap from table to table and swing from ceiling lights, and I won't break them because I am light as a feather with elven grace and gorgeous while I execute my flawless acrobatics. I'm pretty sure I stand to inherit a kingdom because I'm just too pretty not to, so obviously my wealth knows no bounds and I would be known as a generous lord. Another round on me! I need not worry about the consequences of any decision I make because of course I am going to live forever, and I'm too wise to screw up anyway and too handsome to be faulted for it for long. However, this stage is the most fleeting and before you know it...

The Bawdy Dwarf: 11-12 Drinks

Uh-oh. I don't know where that elven prince went, but I would guess it had something do with his alchoholic hubris. What's left in his wake smells funny and isn't graceful, wise, handsome, or rich, but still proclaims to be. What does remain is drunk, stout, bearded enthusiasm. Bed is for elves. Beer is for dwarves. I have chosen the path of beer. I am aware that the odds are stacked against me, but that just makes it the perfect time for a legendary feat of strength. One thing I am sure of is that tomorrow my name will be remembered with glory, although I'm having trouble remembering it at all right now. Under no circumstances should I be allowed near axes or shovels of any kind, because I will either try to slay a troll or begin a gold mining operation in your yard.

The Dragon: ~13

I have become the chiefest and greatest of calamities. I am the bull in the china store; I am the destroyer of worlds. I am the reason you can't have nice things. My breath is a poisonous fume, deadly to be around. My nobility, charity, and amiability are all gone, and all that is left where those traits once blossomed is a seething garden of pride and wrath. I will try to fight any "paladins" as they are my natural enemy. I suddenly think it's a great idea to kidnap nobility and live in a cave. If given the opportunity, I will take your jewelry or anything else shiny and try to lay on top of it. I believe myself capable of eating livestock whole. And I don't realize it because I'm a dozen drinks in, but the reason I've gotten this belligerent is low blood sugar. Which leads us to...

The Werewolf: ~15 Drinks

An expirement in magic gone wrong. A blessedly rare and tragic perversion of nature. Finally beginning to collapse under the weight of what I've consumed, I am not quite as powerful and unstoppable as at the dragon stage, but I am equally unpleasant. There is now nothing in my behaviour, odor, appearance, cognition, or linguistic skills that seperates man from beast. I cannot remember or form words, at least that anyone can understand, and am now limited to using growls, grunts, whining, and howling to communicate my emotions...of which there is only one...and that is mournful hanger. I must be given a bellyful of flesh so I'll shutup and go the fuck to bed.

The Battlefield Corpse: (how any night that hits Wizard or beyond ends)

I do my best impression of a casualty of war entering into a state of declining freshness. Like an aging cadaver my belly is bloated, but with my final meal as well as however much I drank. I exude noxious gases...I smell terrible, and am covered in sweat, regret, and likely blood as well. The smell of defeat...physical, spiritual, and idealogical. I sleep, literally, like the dead...unmoving, unsnoring, and as if I was in a coffin, because I would feel sick if I tried to lay down any other way than on my back. As a solider falls in his broken, gore-stained armor and bloodied greaves, I have fallen into bed with a condiment-stained shirt and muddied shoes. I drift dreamlessly in the cold abyss that is oblivion.

The Revenant:

It is the next day, and I stagger forth from my unquiet grave, groaning at the horror of my own existence. The natural life the gods gave me is utterly gone, and I am a walking, undead abomination...a mockery of all that lives under the grace of heaven. Like the lingering deceased, I am left with my suffering, regret, and anger; which have bound me to this world so that I am unable to leave it...but which still provides the motivation for me to shamble forward in a awful search for sustenance...a feeble, accursed attempt to replace the missing life force inside the terrifying husk I've become.

The Goblin: (the end and the beginning)

As a ghoul, I managed to somehow lurch my way to a place that serves brunch, and since I fell asleep in my clothes last night, I have hopefully brought my wallet with me quite by accident. Now, in the presence of others, I'm remembering what it means to be alive again. I've got food on the way, and knowing this provides enough hope for my brain to switch back on. However, I'm still awfully cranky, and as a result am full of complaints and quick to respond to any conversation with sassy, crude one-liners. I'm not quite yet pleasant to be around and I smell weird, but at least I'm funny. Oh, here's the coffee! And the bloody mary. As I take my brunch, I start to feel a lot better. Life isn't so bad. In fact, it's good! I've got good food, good drink, good friends...what more do I need? I'm feeling so good by comparison to a few hours ago I figure why not have another drink? I'm sure I'll get myself into bed at a reasonable hour, just like a good little hobbit would.