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  • Writer's pictureChloë Gottlieb and Daniel Seizer

Am I Drunk Enough?

By Chloë Gottlieb and Daniel Seizer


9:30 p.m.: Calling all senior nite sluts!! U know the drill: cocktails at ours before Amity. We’ve already started drinking, have you??

I book it out of Uris upon receiving this text. Senior Night only sort of gets fun at 11:30 p.m. when mass heads start to show. So, we have to be at the pregame no later than 10:30, which leaves me an hour and a half to fight for a shower slot, cook and eat a meal, perform my signature Sexy Eye Twitch to seduce the bodega guy into giving me a deal on White Claws, put on the same outfit as last week, submit a discussion post, and get fucking sloshed.

I’m halfway undressed by the time I reach the EC lobby. I toss my clothes at my suitemate and dive headfirst into the asbestos-riddled communal shower. I frantically rinse my body of the Remedial Frosci grime, in anticipation of the Amity Hall filth. I know I will never be clean enough. Once my entire body is slick with moisturizer, I begin the Sisyphean task of texting the pregame details to everyone I’ve ever met. emma if u dont come im gonna kms. Amity is always packed but never with anyone remotely likable, so it’s imperative that I corral the troops.

Towel wrapped around my body, I stir my tequila-soda-lime with one hand and submit a homework assignment on Courseworks with the other. I set the toaster to high to start making my world-famous Olives On White Bread. It’s the quickest way to get carbs inside your body (other than beer). I’m running behind and my suitemates are already debating which of their three Going Out Tops matches tonight’s energy. andrew make sure u bring the fckin margaritaville machine tn. The olives don’t go down easy, but down they must go.

It takes roughly the length of the new Twigs album to get a group of six out the door and to the pregame: hair needs to be straightened to within an inch of its life and pits must be waxed raw, all while downing three Trulys. Mask, wallet, Senior Night punchcard—the checklist of essentials rests in my fracket’s trusty pockets along with my beer-for-the-road. Hey michael On My Way! meet us on 113? There’s a word in German that means “The subtle shame felt when drinking from an open container in the elevator next to people on their way to Butler.” This is that.

The front door to the pregame is ajar, and thank God for that because half of us are about to piss our pants. I say hi to my Lit Hum nemesis, my marriage pact, and the girl I’m scheming on (platonically). I’m handed a margarita and use it as a chaser for a shot of Jäger. It’s still not enough to bear the conversation with that weird dude from my NSOP group who told me he could tell who was circumcised just from looking at their face. yeah i think it’s apartment 3C but just listen for Drake. I finally understand the Law of Mass Action from chem when the pregame clears out in 30 seconds. I’m somehow stuck waiting to pee for the fourth time.

Outside of Amity and with 30 people in tow, I cut in line with Isaac, who told me last week he would never show his face here again. The bouncer is checking vaccine cards but not IDs tonight, so I’m expecting lots of freshmen who are awaiting a package from China. I toss my jacket on a pile of about 60 others and hope for the best.

With God and poppers by my side, I slither my way to the far corner that has a bit more oxygen. I am not drunk enough, but along the way I encounter the ancient Amity Hall Scrolls of Knowledge. Scrawled in Muji pen:

A Visitor’s Guide To Surviving Senior Night*

  1. 2 drinks

  2. A schtickle of shrooms

  3. A 5 mg edible

  4. 3-6 more drinks

  5. Poppers to taste

*You may black.

I compress steps two through four in a mere seven minutes. I take a swig of my gin and tonic …


… YOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Fucking. Love. This. Song. I hear it literally every week and every single time it sparks the same amount of boundless joy. There is no greater high on God’s green earth than this bar mitzvah playlist the DJ plays every Wednesday. Anyone who's anyone is here; the entire men’s heavyweight crew team, every Barnard sociology major, and some “forever young” GSers. Someone texts me asking where I am. i am quite literally here, r u?

Every Senior Night attendee has a personal journey they must follow to get to the bathroom. It normally involves three classmate run-ins, two brawls, and a minute where you have absolutely lost anyone you know. This is my Vietnam. Tonight, I’m dodging one couple mid-coitus and all the people who haven’t texted me back. The line is infinitely long, but by the time I reach the front I haven’t actually seen anyone enter or exit the stalls. When my twink and I finally reach our turn, someone throws a large female condom at my head, shouting, “Enjoy the clam shack!”

Illustration by Oonagh Mockler

As I leave the bathroom, Straight Michael hands me a beer. I place it on my head. “No,” he says and holds it to my mouth. “Like this.” Right. He makes it abundantly clear, borderline offensively so, that he is not buying me a drink, there’s just a $20 minimum here. And I shouldn’t get any fucking ideas. i’m by the really tall guy, do u see me. Someone spills poppers into my drink, but it’s already down the hatch. When the DJ plays “Cheerleader” by OMI, I see new colors. Rachel, im gonna live FOREVER

My entire body is fully torqued and a nice gentleman is teaching me how to dougie. Someone taps me on the shoulder. Oh my god, Isaac’s here? Isaaaaac. I need to take him to Chef Mike’s Sub Shop. He deserves it. Our sweat mingles as our bodies become one, united by the free abandon found only in da clerb. Someone shines an iPhone flashlight into my pupils and a look of horror flashes across their face. I don’t know why. This is what senior year is all about.

The drinks are hitting, the windows are sweating with condensation, and my suitemates are starting to give me the look. The goodbye-to-all-that look. I suggest that we stay until the next bad song. It’s not my fault they are all fucking bangers! We stay another 35 minutes. DJ Doesn’t-Have-Spotify-Premium turns on the mic and throws out some bday shoutouts. Inexplicably, he yells, “WHO SIGNED THE COLUMBIA HEALTH COMPACT?” Scattered yelps and groans arise from the crowd. When the beat drops, he screams, “WELL YOU’RE ALL BREAKING IT!” Oontz oontz oontz. So true, king. This is our cue to leave.

On the way out, I pick up my coat. It is absolutely drenched. Doesn’t matter—thanks to the magic of binge-drinking, you never notice the cold on the walk home. I fill out my green pass. When you do it this late, it lasts forever! I open a text thread with an unknown number which I’ve already texted my full name and social security number to. I double down, lov yu girlie let’s get lunch see you next wendfesday. I dump my body in my dorm bed. Finally, I can pass out to Sex and the City. (Obviously the original, not the reboot, And Just Like That… airs on Thursdays.) Thinking I’m logging into the HBO portal, I type my username and password into a discussion post on Canvas and publish it for the whoooole class to see. I just wnt to see carrie and bigggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhl;l;l;l;l;l;l;;l;;;;;;;;;;;





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