When a betch deviates from her usual vodka sodas, bad things happen because each type of hard liquor will affect a betch differently. For example, tequila will magically make a betch’s clothes fall off, when a betch drinks bourbon she may get “weirdly good at beat boxing,” etc. People may criticize betches for not branching out, but sometimes there’s a scientific reason behind it: when you fuck with a betch’s drink order, you fuck with her night.
The worst type of drunk betch is a belligerent betch. 99% of the time, in girl world the fighting has to be sneaky. Except for the other 1% of the time when alcohol is involved. Obviously everyone’s different but usually belligerence is brought on by a combination of shitty tequila and some slut in the club giving you the stink-eye. Vodka sodas would never give her the urge to cut a bitch.
That’s how things start out at least—with a hard side-eye being cast on both sides. But it doesn’t stop there, there’s too much shit-talking potential for you to keep it all to yourself. “Ew, do you see the rhinestones on that bitch’s dress? Sooo 2004,” you mutter to your bestie, except oops you didn’t mutter it to your bestie, you basically shouted it halfway across the world. Whoops. Meanwhile, the other bitch gives you the slow up-and-down before spitting out, “Ew.”
Oh no she didn’t. TG your bestie’s on a juice cleanse and only drinking vodka with a splash of cranberry because that shit will stain the fuck out of her tacky-ass dress. Soon drinks are flying, then punches. TG Tae Bo was big in the late 90’s. The next thing you know, the contents of your purse are strewn about for all to see (damn it, why did I have to take my birth control every night at midnight?) and extensions are everywhere (not yours, obv). It just went from an upscale-looking club to an episode of Flavor of Love, and we all know how this Pumpkin/New York brawl ends: not with someone getting spit on—although okay that’s pretty likely to happen too—but with both of your ratchet asses getting kicked out.
Yeah. Wow. So ratchet.
Okay, next day. First step: Pray. Pray to the gods of Youtube that your friends were so busy being like “omg wtf is happening” to record this and make it go viral. It’s one thing to be the infamous “drunk crying sorority girl”; once you end up on World Star Hip Hop you can kiss that internship at Hermès goodbye.
Next step: MAJOR damage control. You might want to hire a PR team just to cover up last night—better yet, hit up OPA. Destroy all the evidence. Wait until your friends take a nap and delete all the pics off their phones. Distract them with a ruse, whatever you have to do. Lay low on social media, and when you do post something, the only thing that should come out of your keyboard should be fake nice. You are sweeter than a fucking Nutella cronut, for now. “That betch?” people will say. “No way, she couldn’t have bitch-slapped anyone, she’s way too sweet.”
Final step: Absolute amnesia. You do not remember the fight, even if you remember it vividly. You do not acknowledge it to anyone. If you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen, and all efforts to convince you otherwise are clearly a conspiracy. “Me?” you’ll say. “No way, I couldn’t have bitch-slapped anyone, I’m way too sweet” (ha). Now repeat that in front of a mirror until it becomes the truth.
Like Drake says, You Only Fight Once. Or at least YOFO if you don’t want to end up on next season’s Bad Girls Club.