It’s the first day of 2015. I’m sitting here trying yet another hangover cure — Airborne Hot Soothing Mix. New year, new me, right? Nope, same hangover. It’s only day one and I’ve already ruined my resolutions.

The problem is whenever I am faced with the question, “To drink or not to drink?” the answer is always, drink! I think we can all agree, however, that it is ridiculous to entertain that question. Of course we should drink. So let’s focus on more important details: What and how much we are going to drink?

Even with my big 2-5 looming, I feel confident in assuming that most of us 20-somethings on a tight budget still find ourselves throwing back a few Natty Lights or shots of Smirnoff vodka (a step up from Burnett’s or even worse, Aristocrat). The goal is ultimately still the same: get wasted, even in 2015.

At some point during a recent hangover, in between praying to God for salvation and throwing up, I began to wonder if the type of alcohol I was consuming had anything to do with the length of my hangover. And that’s when I posed a question to the good Lord directly: “Well, what can we drink differently?”

Last year for New Year’s Eve, I was at Label, where the party was Gatsby-themed, and, of course, epic. Poor planning and procrastination led to my girls and I running in right when the countdown started. But that didn’t keep us from each tossing back any cheap glass of free champagne we could get our hands on.

Ah, the good ol’ days.

As New Year’s Day 2015 approaches, however, I am reminded that I will have been out of college for three years, I haven’t managed to save any money and in four months I will be turning a quarter-century. Not to mention, I’ve lost count how many new years have come and gone without so much as an attempt at actually checking off a resolution on my list. I still don’t practice portion control or healthy eating habits, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been to the gym this past year, and I still haven’t figured out how to drink “socially.”

And that’s when I realized what was happening. Hi, my name is Aerin, and I am suffering a quarter-life crisis.

In honor of the holiday season, I wanted to do something special for this week’s column — a Queen City twist on a classic Christmas poem, with a touch, no, actually a lot of holiday wine and spirits. Grab some eggnog, cozy up to a fire and enjoy.

’Twas the night before Saturday, and I was tired as can be,
didn’t want to do anything, it was sad even for me.
But still I got ready, with little to no care
in hopes that my Uber soon would be there.

I envisioned myself all snuggled in bed,
with visions of funemployment dancing in my head,
a Netflix series on repeat and me donning a cap;
I could definitely go for a long winter’s nap.

Recently, one of my best friends was in town to celebrate a mutual friend’s engagement. Want to know another reason why post-college life sucks? All of your girls are now getting married and having kids. Not that I’m ready for any of that. But I’m still reminded of something else I haven’t checked off my list — like keeping flowers alive for more than three days. You know, adult things.

After spending an hour forcing down only two cider ales — I was hungover from the night before — the rest of our more intoxicated group decided we should walk what felt like five blocks in Alaska to Dandelion Market.

I’ve been to this Uptown bar a handful of times. Once, I was even kicked out — not my fault though, as my best friend had decided to nap in the bathroom and apparently that’s unacceptable bar behavior. But this night, I was pretty sober.

The last time I was at Lake Norman, I almost drowned. (Long story short, my roommate who had never driven a boat was our captain, there was a woman overboard, and I tried to save her — oh, and alcohol was involved.) So when we got the opportunity to check out nightlife at the lake, I was hopeful for a less life-threatening experience.

What I didn’t realize is that I was going to need a life jacket while there, whether I was on a boat or not.

Around 7:30 p.m., my P.I.C. and I started out at The Vinyl Pi, a pizza joint and bar. There, the owner told us about the Lake Norman culture: In short, the area has become a major relocation spot for many of the now 35-and-up hipsters previously from NoDa.

The first thing I do on Friday when I get off work is send a text along the lines of “What are we doing tonight?” The question implies there is no option, and like clockwork, the response is normally, “I have no clue. But I’m down! [insert dancing girls emoji].”

That is what you’d call a true P.I.C. — a partner in crime.

A P.I.C. is the person you call no matter what, whether you’re in jail or you’re on a miserable date, but especially if you’re ready to drink. He/she is always there and always down for the party. Even when you end up at a hole-in-the wall or the middle of an empty dance floor, you end the night with a happy if exhausted “That was so much fun.”

But don’t miss out on the good ones. I almost did many times. The most recent example was a co-worker at my previous job. She was the new girl, dressed all professional career woman with a super-friendly smile. Too friendly, in fact. I was “too cool for school,” a veteran of sorts, and going through an intense (cue Drake) “No New Friends” phase. I was genuinely uninterested in making any new acquaintances.

But one day, I had to eat lunch with her alone. I texted another co-worker: “What the hell are we going to talk about?” As we ate and chatted about nothing, I could feel anxiety bubbling inside my chest, racking my brain to find new topics to cover. Then she told me a story about getting so drunk at her previous supervisor’s baby shower that she ended up throwing up in the bathroom and passing out. That’s when I knew we were definitely going to get along. That conversation opened a door, and since then we have been tearing up the Queen City one, two and three drinks at a time. She is now a certified P.I.C.

In the past few years, I have managed to get a solid group of P.I.C.s together, some of whom I also initially gave the cold shoulder. Oops. I guess you could say I’ve learned a thing or two about what makes a good one. Here are some things to consider when scouting out tonight’s drinking partner.

It was the end of my first work week at a new job. I’d only had one week of funemployment — having fun while unemployed — prior to starting that gig, and I was beyond exhausted. I thought to myself, “How am I going to keep up this column if I can’t even find the energy to go out? All I want to do is sleep.” So again, I sucked it up and put my big kid panties on. Yeah, I’m pretty much a G.

With conversations swirling about overturning the recent expansion of the right to marry for all in North Carolina, I found myself on the website for L4 Lounge. The banner boasted “Love. 4. All.”

A hidden gem right off Central Avenue, it’s easy to miss if you’re not actively looking. My cousin and I pulled up around 1 a.m. to a small venue with a fenced back patio illuminated with string lights. There weren’t many cars in the parking lot but there was a steady, dull bass line that could be heard every time the patio door opened. Still, I was worried there wouldn’t be enough entertainment, so I had the Uber wait until I “checked out” the scene before he left.

“You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.” — Dean Martin

Almost all of us have been here at least once: laying in bed the morning after an amazing night, pondering some very important questions.

What happened last night?
Why is it that when I roll over, I can literally feel my brain move, too?
Why can’t I open my eyes in the light?

Not long after the self-interrogation, I begin reviewing the range of alcoholic beverages consumed the night before. I try to determine the culprit, and in so doing the nausea settles in. I run to the bathroom to clutch the toilet with all my might. And soon thereafter, the prayers begin. “God, I promise I will never drink again if you cure me of this hangover.” And without hearing His/Her response, with the silence and continued hangover, I know the answer must be along the lines of, “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

To say I haven’t asked myself the same question over and over again would be a lie. As I mentioned last week, one of the worst parts about growing up is the lack of “bounce back” I have after drinking. And despite having to navigate post-grad “adulthood,” the goal is ultimately still the same: to get wasted.
Seeing as not drinking isn’t an option for many of us, I have started to gather a list of preventative measures and “remedies,” tactics if you will, against the war on hangovers. Many of these we’ve all heard before, but let’s get this cheat sheet in one place, shall we? (By the way, these are in no particular order.)

We could argue which is more important: prevention or recovery. But whoever won the argument about the chicken or the egg? No one, the answer is just eat chicken and eggs.

It is officially week two of being CL’s nightlife columnist. I have “come out” to most of my family about this gig — they all have decided I am an alcoholic who is using this as an excuse to party. Since my column debut, I have purchased another pair of sunglasses (to replace the ones lost during Halloween). And I’ve started comparison-shopping for optical “writer” glasses: a frame that is a cross between hipster and teacher.

Allow me to state the obvious: being out of college sucks. Reason No. 1? The war between being sleepy, productive or hungover rarely equals going out three nights in a row. But recently, the stars aligned and I was able to do just that. Somehow, I was able to cut my hangovers short and take full advantage of every night. This leads me to Reason No. 2: Hangovers are rarely satisfied with a breakfast bagel and coffee, and who has time for full-on breakfast in the real world?

It’s almost 11 p.m. on the Sunday after Rich and Bennett’s 14th Annual Halloween Pub Crawl. I am just getting over my hangover. I’m still too dehydrated to stand, and it’s only now that I’m able to successfully brush my teeth without throwing up. Maybe picking up a six-pack and taking shots AFTER drinking for 10 hours straight wasn’t a good idea after all.

Almost two months ago, I was sitting in front of the editor of this here publication — whom I email-stalked for a whole month — trying to give her a reason why she should let me write for CL. A couple samples later and a week before the pub crawl, she tells me, “I want you to be our new nightlife writer.” Honestly, I wanted to shit myself. Especially when my first assignment was writing about a Halloween pub crawl that I planned on being close-to-blackout for.

I assembled my crew: the Addams family, Carrie, Anton Chigurh (I am told he is a serial killer in No Country for Old Men), Slender Man (Google it), a Native American (yes, someone who was actually Native American) and Bob Dylan. In feminist fashion, I was the iconic Rosie the Riveter.