My Worst Experiences Mixing Alcohol With Social Media

My Worst Experiences Mixing Alcohol With Social Media.

Despite being born well into the millennial generation, I have discovered that I have what can only be referred to as a god-given talent for drunkenly embarrassing myself on social media. From the moment I first got drunk off Smirnoff Ices in 8th grade and texted my crush lyrics from Usher’s hit single “Let it Burn,” I knew alcohol and my phone were going to combine to give me some extremely uncomfortable hangovers throughout my life. What I didn’t know is just how many channels would arise through which I could embarrass myself. Without further ado, here is a look back on the worst social media debacles my best friend booze and I have gotten into.


It was April of my senior year in high school, and I was living the good life. I had my vintage (piece of shit) 1989 Volvo station wagon, and my friends and I had already all been accepted into our respective colleges, so we had not a care in the world outside of pretending we liked whiskey and trying to get laid. It was a random Friday night with nothing going on, so my friends and I were partaking in the age-old tradition of getting absolutely shitfaced and playing Mario Kart. As we got drunker, the conversation turned, as it does, to which girls we wanted to bang. One of my friends brought up a girl I had seen in the hallway but never spoken to, claiming her as a “budding talent.” We were all blacked out at this point, but I vaguely remember checking her out on Facebook to see what she looked like before the conversation turned away.

The next day, I awoke to several texts from my friends telling me to check my status ASAP, and one from the girl I was taking to prom that simply said “WTF.” As I’m sure you’ve predicted, your boy had accidentally tagged this random girl in his status instead of searching for her. I briefly contemplated changing schools and living the rest of my days out as a social media hermit, but in the end, I just deleted the status, told my prom date I had been hacked, and faced almost three full hours of ribbing at school before everyone forgot about it. Ahh, high school.


I was late on the Instagram train, believing it to be nothing but girls filtering out pictures of their $17 salads and posting inspirational gym quotes, but in my Junior year of college I cracked and decided to try my hand at this app. I quickly grew more proficient with it, and within a few months, I’m proud to say my ‘gram was off the chain. I would put up some picture of me and the bros drinking beer on the roof of the frat house (caption: Everything the light touches will be ours #LionKing) and just rake in those sweet, sweet likes. Then, on a cold December day, I decided to try something a little different.

My lady had just gone home for Christmas break, and in an eggnog and bourbon induced attempt to attract a cuddle buddy for the winter night, I hit the gram with a picture of Netflix up on my laptop and a glass of wine on the coffee table (caption: Netflix is bae). Setting a perfect scene for an old flame to see and maybe hit me up, I was sure I was the Casanova of the 21st century. About 15 minutes later, I hit up the cellie to see how my plan is playing out and daaamn, I was raking in the likes and comments like never before! It must be all these hunnies looking to take a ride on my Ikea box spring. I read the first comment, and my heart (and dick) instantly dropped. “hahaha way to leave your porn tabs open ya fucking rookie.” My asshole pledge brother had said it all. I was a rookie. Prominently displayed in the upper corner of the picture was a tab with the words “MILF’s Big Tits Get a Cum Coating.” And even though I deleted that post with the finger speed of a 90’s movie’s computer hacker, it was too late. It had been screen shotted and put on the fraternity Facebook group, and all I got for Christmas that year was shame, served up in little red notifications throughout the whole week.


I’m going to preface this story with a request, nay, a plea to the developers of Snapchat. For the love of god, can you please make the post to story button a little further away from all the other buttons I wish to use? Maybe I have to enter some kind of code to use it? Just some suggestions from a guy whose stories are like 40 percent accidental posts. Maybe I should drink less. Whatever.

Anyway, after a day spent pounding beers at the lake, almost drowning on the wakeboard, and generally getting intoxicated in the sun, I arrived home to realize that I was burnt as a lobster. As I prepared to get in the shower and make myself presentable for the long night of wincing every time someone slapped my back at the bar, I looked in the mirror and realized something else: I looked good today. I don’t know if it was a combo of those light beers slimming my figure, or my wind-coifed hair from the boat, but I could see my abs, and you know what, other people needed to also. I snapped the douchiest of mirror shots, and in my fat-fingered haste to send it to the girl I was currently hooking up with, put that shit on my story for all to see. Now, I was fairly new to the Snapchat game, so I was under the impression that you could not delete your story, making this a nightmare situation. I went into full panic mode, tearing into my roommate’s room bare-ass naked demanding he check my story and see what was on there. His howls of laughter upon pulling up the app were all I needed to know; my life was over.

I deleted my app, the picture stayed up; I deleted my account, it still stayed up. I sat down, accepted my fate and began drafting a tweet of apology to everyone that was about to unintentionally see my dick, when my roommate (in between peals of laughter and yelling for my other roommates to check the app) told me I could just delete it by clicking on it twice. I wanted to hit him and hug him at the same time, but settled for deleting the picture, and fielding all texts from people who saw it with a simple “I’m resigning from social media.”


Just kidding, you can’t drunkenly embarrass yourself on Tinder. I regularly get faded and send out the most inappropriate messages of my life with no remorse. I posted a shirtless selfie to my Moments last week and got a date out of it. Tinder is a barren wasteland of creeps; you have nothing to be ashamed about.

Image via Shutterstock

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Scott Farman

My mustache tastes like scotch.

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