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We’ve all heard the joke about the difference between a good friend and a great friend, right? A good friend buys you a present and throws a party for you on your birthday. A great friend, however, is sitting in the jail cell next to yours saying “Now that  was a good time”.

You know, that  friend. That friend that seemingly lives without filter. That friend for whom the rule of law is a mere suggestion of right and proper living and makes up their own rules as they go. Like the rule where you have to hit 12 bars by midnight or do 12 shots. Or the ideology that holds occasional alcohol poisoning as more of a master cleansing diet than a serious health threat. That friend you don’t see terribly often but when you do, it’s with simultaneously great excitement and great fear. Fear of “Oh, s***, what the hell is going to happen this time?”.

For me, unfortunately, that friend comes in two. Those friends I affectionately refer to as The Sadist Twins: Most Evil and Evil-er Still. Actually, they are my cousins who live in London and I don’t know that it’s fair to call them inherently evil as I am sure that there’s something about the mixture of these two and their cousin, me, that just somehow makes them more volatile, like a Molotov cocktail thrown at a gas pump.  A human chemistry experiment run amok. Combustible elements that shouldn’t be in the universe together, let alone in the same bar. But I know I’ll always have a good time with them. And I have no doubt whatsoever that that one night we went drinking in London only to wake up in Belgium, if I could remember any of it, would go down as one of the best nights of my life.

You gotta love those friends. They break you out of the box you’ve built for yourself and shake things up in the most uncomfortable and delicious ways. They hold your hair while you puke and then use it as handle to pull you to the next bar. Like my cousins are to me, I know I am that way to others. Some people, for whatever reason, make you want to throw caution to the wind, dance on the bar, and pee in an alley as if that’s what all sensible and civilized persons do.  

Sailor Man’s friends come in a threesome. Three brothers who make up The Hellish Trinity of the Damned. There’s Apocalypto, Hell-Fire, and Devil-Incarnate. Around these guys, there’s never enough booze, fun, or time. A night with them is a guaranteed hangover the next day. And there’s no fighting it so you might as well pull out that extra $200 for bail money now before you forget.

And one of them is getting married this weekend.

I’m not as energetic as I was in my youth. I can maybe manage one these kinds of nights about every six months. If I go to a Rave now, I’m usually checking to see that my tetanus shots are up to date before I go crawling out a window when the cops arrive to break up the party. And I certainly don’t imbibe questionable liquids like I used to. I’m getting old. I admit it. But I certainly had my fun, that’s for damn sure.

Maybe I can find it in me to rally, but I doubt that a whole weekend of this type of unhinged chaos is the best thing for me before finals next week.

Dog help me.

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