Liver Massacre

When you get yourself into a serious binge drinking cycle there is little that's going to motivate you to stop. The cool liquid asphyxiates any emotional qualms you may have had and the subtle yet noticeable anxiety you carry from day to day dissipates like the sugar at the base of the shot glass. You are encouraged by close friends to continue the collegiate consumption of distilled product only to feel looser, stronger, but less in control.

You know that the countless hours of non-measurable drinking is starting to take a toll on your internal organs, reminding you through ill tempered stunts that you should slow it down. The third trip to the bathroom in under 2 hours and a mild dry heave that strokes the basin of your esophagus is only the tip of the iceberg. You know this is bad, but its feels better than not knowing the good. The real change of events occurs when you are able to bury the hints of your miscalculated tolerance and just move forward amicably to a full bodied blackout.

This is how its starts. Where it ends is a decisions left up to the innate principles remaining within you subconscious cerebral cortex. When does it click? When do you pull the chord, or do you hit the earth at peak velocity over and over again until something gives and you fall through to the core? As images become blurred and your knees wobble, battling the stairs from the bottom floor of the bar upwards like an overweight diabetes patient striving for caloric intake. Women close to Glenn Close's age begin to look like Meghan Fox, and overzealous hand shakes and hugs with the same sex dance upon the level of homosexuality. Passersby look at you as if your face constantly appears as it does in a fun house mirror, you sneer back at them forcing the awkward moment to the next level. Brushing off the sweat from your brow and checking your underarms for annoying and drastically unnecessary pit stains, you go to the bathroom to breathe and wash you liquid palms. It has been 30 minutes since your last drink, partially due the long line, but more blame belongs to your lack of desire to use the last 40 dollars in your checking account. The nerves are sliding back in, and the anxiety levels are pushing at your pores. You drink.

The night ends in a violent undressing to a bed face plant with a lack of nutrition leaving you mouth void of any hydration. The morning comes quicker than necessary and with the inability to avoid the pain in between your temples and the lack of anti-depressants pouring into your body. You reach for a Xanax you bought from an effervescent waitress at cheesecake factory, and attempt to crush it against the dresser. Giving up as the morsels of prescription drug finds its way in the mahogany finish, you swipe the crumbled into your hand and land them on your pallet. Entering the sun dripped kitchen with a vague memory of how you had entered this broken establishment, you pour yourself a glass of water. Elegantly you sip the the city flow and pour out the rest into the sink and grab your only solace - the last three sips out of the handle of vodka you purchased to last the week. Your mind settles and a faint smile emerges.

The Grouper Experience

In a society hindered by the grueling 24 hour day, measured by people who can manage to only sleep 4-5 hours a night in order to fit in more time to "lead the nation," dating is not always "in the cards." Some turn to online dating, or other forms of structured dating that extends beyond genuine social interaction simply because they lack the type A, mildly sociopathic and extroverted sense. Randomly approaching an appealing face at the local watering hole is not a plausible option without filling out your underarms with Lake Erie size puddles and stuttering over every word in constant fear that your voice is as nasally and Gilbert Godfreid. For these introverted beings, low on the sociability scale I constructed during my tenure at Roger Williams, orthodox dating is also not found in a 52 card pile of paper.

The options are increasing, as local and nationwide companies see the growing demand and supply unique niche's and stabs at this constant dilemma. Widely accepted commercially is Match.com offering compatibility for the middle aged man or woman, eHarmony, which allegedly finds you the perfect match based on series of questions and algorithm's. Then you have OkCupid, a place where you can find someone at 8am EST on a Thursday and fuck them roughly 8 hours later, possibly sooner if you can fit it in on your lunch break. Plentyoffish is another FREE site where youngsters are lining up to ignore substantive profiles only stare at photos and fire of a quick message, including but not limited to, innocuous banter and verbal foreplay. A new player in the game, if they could stop their goddamn app from crashing is Tinder - An app that links to your Facebook and gps location and finds matches that you say "yes" or "no" to simply based on their profile photo and mutual friends. Then the app allows you to fire up a hopefully witty conversation with them to see if you are a "fit."

While I am no stranger to the online dating scene due to time constraints or modern curiosity, none of these options listed above have been all too lucrative and vaguely touch upon interesting. Beyond of course the intriguing willingness for young girls to sleep with you on the first date. Then came a new form of online dating that I think appeals to both sides of the problematic spectrum; the time challenged and the socially sweaty. You can find this gem at joingrouper.com. The name is GROUPER. This, in my opinion, falls into the category of online dating but is not as pressured, and in all honesty, not as creepy as Michael Myers. Imagine Michael Myers rolling up to your dinner table at Sorrelina for a nice sit down Italian meal followed by a Texas chainsaw massacre at his 2 family home in Malden, MA?

To explain grouper - It is a site where you link your facebook profile and sign up. You then receive a confirmation email asking you to choose two "wingmen" or "wingwoman." Once you have a full group of 3 they will take your info and match you up with another group of 3 of the opposite sex (I am not sure if there are same sex set-ups yet). Upon them finding a match they secure a date, time and location. In addition they give you a reservation name and the deal is done. I followed through with this process with two other males, who I believe would be good in holding a conversation. For this first trial I decided it was best not to include someone who may fart suddenly when asked about his hometown or possibly spill his drink due to his Michael J Fox hands.

Walking into the bar we were all stricken with innate fear that we were going to be dropped into a Kuwait like war zone surrounded by chicks that look like the dinosaurs depicted in Fear and Loathing in Lost Vegas when J. Depp was tripping on acid. To our great surprise this was not the case. They were actually three friends, of the preferred Jewish decent, all of which I would have taken home and definitely with one or two cocktails which I had already consumed prior to entering the establishment. Pro Tip 412; Always pregame the date, but not to blackout status. The "date" was completely carefree, with three well articulate men leading the conversation, and the girls not being to shy to carry it forward. We had a failed attempt to play two truths and a lie, and after we realized we all forgot each others names and had to start over, things were truly rolling.

This social experiment as I like to call it was well crafted and avoids many of the fears that most have upon going on a date:

1. They will be raped (happens to guys too)
2. The person will look like Shrek (still possible, but there are three options, only one Shrek)
3. They will be too nervous to hold the conversation
4. There will be nothing to talk about
5. Getting stood up

All of these issues are generally avoidable unless you have a group of raping mutants who cant speak English, sweat profusely, and are not timely. All in all, I truly recommend the experience for any fucking stock/ insurance broker complaining about late hours and the lack of time to pick up their dry cleaning. I concurrently recommend it to Adam Smithens, the poorly dressed man in his fathers Men's Warehouse blazer with a mild lisp, bad social manners, and inability to do magic besides turning his baby blue shirt navy.

Group me yo.