This isn't what I expected

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting at a window side table for two at Singa's, a small Pizza place on 2nd Ave and 12th St, enjoying a cold pitcher of coors light (only $5.45 before 10pm) with a good friend of mine. I found it entertaining that as we shared beer after beer at 1:30 in the afternoon he insisted on convincing me to curb my drinking tendencies. Admittedly I spend more time in conversation on alcohol related content than all other topics combined. Drunk sex falls into the drunk, not sex, category because it's likely that if I wasn't drunk I wouldn't be having sex (my game improves by tenfold with each point on my BAC, plus like all people I'm a lot more likely to fuck anything that moves while ten beers in). Either way, the point was that I don't drink nearly as often as I talk about it...but outside of hours employed it gets pretty close.

The conversation first centered around serious issues but progressively devolved as our pitchers emptied. We talked about one and five year plans, you know grad school, degrees, jobs, ambitions, hope, dreams, disappointments. He talked about potentially heading back to school to pick up a few degrees then getting a job in a foreign country making third world cities more efficient. It seemed very ambitions, but actually very admirable and focused. There's something about putting your future in your own hands and consciously driving yourself to points so far off in the distance we have no way of predicting the pathway there, just the point we'd like to arrive at, that I've never been able to quite grasp. I have a bunch of things floating around in my mind perpetually romanticizing and reinforcing themselves into a bucket list. At the same time I idealize the absence of direction, the "let life bring to you what it will" approach.

The beer was helping enormously with my hangover. I had mixed one too many kinds of alcohol the night before, but the beer was settling down my system quite well. When we pushed into the last half of the second pitcher our moods began to change. We were raucous and entertained at our own blatantly elementary speech patterns.
"Yea well your shirt looks fat"
"Yea well I ate squirrel in Washington Square Park because I wanted nuts"
Obnoxious and unwarranted laughter ensued.

We had begun the day with a plan; we were focused. An hour of pregaming would lead into a stop at warehouse liquors to buy rum and then we'd be at our next stop by two ready for obscene shouting and gatorade flavored rum. Afterwards we'd go drink more, beer probably and then we would head downtown to the Patriot.

We started at 1:30, drank for an hour and a half. The booze blurred our senses and our direction became less discernible in the noise. We bought a bigger bottle of rum than we intended. We drank it faster than expected. Words were shouted but lacked the energy we anticipated. A return to Singa's followed where it seemed there was a never ending waterfall of cheap booze cascading into our mouths. Someone shook me awake, I chugged the beer in front of me, filled another then knocked it all over the table. When I got home around 8, thoroughly smashed, I went to take a quick nap to ready myself for the patriot. I woke up at 3 in the morning when my roommate and friends returned from there. There had been a brawl; they won, but it was really only thirty seconds and some guy got punched in the face four times. Nothing goes like you plan it to.