I know all too well what it feels like to go on a bender that doesn't seem to have an end. As a graduate of the Hunter S. Thompson School of Fucked Up Coping Mechanisms, I am well versed in the applications of drugs and alcohol as salves for the burns and aches that come with enduring the frenetic pace of being an ant in the colony. Some of you are fortunate enough to be able to sort through the pre-packaged bullshit and figure it all out on your own. For the rest of us, we just might need to pour a little whiskey on it.
Therein lies the inherent problem of being able to distinguish what is defined as "letting loose" from going past the threshold into excess and wasteful self-destruction. There is no manual for getting fucked up when you need to once in a while, no codex or diagram on the proper way to grab the edge of a dumpster and yawn out a gallon of vodka and vegetable soup.
We are each other's guides in these ventures and rely on one another to be the litmus for what is too far and too much. We have become our own doctors, counselors, and in some hilarious cases, our own police.
Whatever you do to wind down and have fun, remember to temper that with the knowledge of your own fragility. You ain't made of steel, motherfucker. Act accordingly. Savor the taste of that booze. Or not. Chug it all down if you want. Just make sure you have a landing spot on the floor all picked out for when you've had enough.