The hours that we spend are not just alcohol affairs or smoky sessions,
but the process of the youth expelling energy through mouths wide open
and the inability to stand still for more than five minutes.
When we’re older, we’ll tell tales of how one-liners came to be
forever in our memories, and forget entire conversations while
remembering beer-induced speech deficiencies.
We’ll down a shot and be taken back to a night of 7 shots
and the face of a girl who’s had much, much less but is pretending
to be as drunk as me, and how we fit 7 people in the back of a sedan.
You’ll yak yarns about waiters and waitresses, bouncers and bums,
and fail to remember how much of it was fictional and which parts are true.
And all the while, the youth in you will hold back from spoiling it
for those who have yet to be there, because when you’re there you’re there,
and no amount of storytelling will ever be as good as that first sip of beer
on a Friday night when everyone else has left it and you for dead.