And because of that, non-single girls like a reiteration of an epic drinking tale just as much as we like telling it to them.
An epic drinking tale is just that - epic. Much like the Odyssey, our epic stories include key elements: endless nights, a melange of monsters, men who turn into swine, douchey suitors, questionable deeds, and an incredible voyage returning to sobriety. (For Odysseus, he returned to his marriage, which some may consider a buzz kill.) Of course, costume changes and some nudity may be involved. (But hopefully unlike Odysseus showing up naked and disoriented on the shores of that island, Scherie. Dude, how embarassing.)
Every narration normally begins with "So the night started off innocently enough..." As the tale unfolds, the level of hijinks and hilarity escalates, usually proportionate to the number of alcohol units consumed. I am in every way condoning binge drinking. After all, epic drinking narrations involve the actual act of ingesting alcoholic beverages. And really, have you ever had a dull evening when tequila shots were involved? Exactly.
(Note: What I do NOT condone is vomiting, belligerence, or any other asshat behavior resulting from marathon drinking. That, my friends, is completely bush league and single girls HATE anything bush league.)
An epic drinking tale that recently occured:
"My night started off innocently enough at a sports bar in San Francisco with my buddy D, watching a football game between my alma mater and our cross-town rivals. There, we watched miserably as my team got its ass spanked by a melange of monsters.
"We were joined by a seemingly mild-mannered acquaintance who told of his experiences working as a
"After the game, I promptly replaced the t-shirt bearing the name of my alma mater, aka the LOSING team, (costume change!) before heading over to a gay bar where D's 22-year old cousin, T, was bartending. T was gracious enough to supply us with several drinks (on the house, of course), introduced us to his roommate (a Mr. San Francisco Leather), spread salacious gossip about his bar patrons, and told us about his epic drinking night.
"The three of us then proceeded to a crowded dive bar in the Mission, which could be redundant since watering holes in the Mission are generally
"Further digressing, as most of you know, the Mission in San Francisco is like the Silver Lake/Echo Park of Los Angeles, except with ugly people. I rather enjoy being the prettiest person in a room, but once the dude next to me started scratching his dreadlocked head, bringing back memories of how itchy my scalp was when I had lice in fourth grade, we high-tailed it out of there.
"T thought it necessary to expose me to attractive people next so he took us to a club in the Castro. He paid an $8 cover for each of us to walk in, use the restroom, and leave. Well, that wasn't exactly his intention, but with all the talk about his previous night's events, T had a hankering for narcotics and had arranged with his dealer to meet him somewhere else. Immediately. (Yes, $24 might have been the most I have ever spent to take a piss.)
"On our way to this "somewhere else," I thought it necessary for another costume change. Much to the delight of my companions, I stripped down to my undies in the middle of the street and pulled on a cocktail dress. (Public nudity, just like Odysseus! Well, sorta.)"
Okay, so now at this point of my story, you're probably thinking: Sweet baby Jesus, what TIME is it ?! Remember, an epic drinking tale involves an endless night. But to answer your question, I believe it was well after midnight.
"While T was off
"And of course, no epic drinking tale can conclude without running into a former douchey suitor, which is exactly what happened. Apparently, I was dating the only single dude in San Francisco.
"A shot of whiskey and a cocktail later, we began our incredible voyage home to sobriety."
As I end this account, most often I catch my non-single girlfriend gazing wistfully away, thinking about the glory days when she was once single. (She probably can't eat over the sink anymore or sit in front of the TV in fat pants indulging on a package of Oreos while watching Gossip Girl. I may actually do that after I finish this post...)
We delight in telling such tales because sometimes we can't believe why we don't have our own reality shows like LC or Whitney or those guidos. The shenanigans we find ourselves in aren't even friggin' scripted (we unwittingly run into ex-boyfriends while we're out on dates all the time!) but you don't see us making $20,000 an episode! Kristin, Heidi, Audrina and those other Hills girls have nothing on us. Well, except maybe boob jobs.
A single girl's worst critic is herself but a single girl's biggest fan is also herself. There is nobody who loves ourselves more than ourselves. It's true what they say about us: we are narcissists. (Why do you think we spend so much time in the bathroom?)
A narcissist will not let mortality get in the way of her infamy. These epic drinking tales are often fantastical: absurd and astonishing, but also so incredible and far-fetched, we couldn't possibly make this shit up! Indeed, legends are, and have been, made from such recitations.