A Descent Into Teenage Alcoholism.

(Or The Story Of How I Conformed To The Teenage Stereotype)

There is an awful amount of emphasis on the teen drinking culture nowadays. It is referenced to in songs and movies as the division between the “cool kids” and “lame kids” in what is obviously a glorified and exaggerated way. It is the staple example the ‘la me kids’ use when they type up their blog posts about how they are different and not popular because they don’t ‘Drink and do drugs and have sex etc.’ It is the main basis for all the stories the ‘popular kids’ share in the cafeteria lines and during math classes with the ‘oh my god I was so wasted on Saturday and – ”

I grew up, not in Britain, but in what is relatively an international-culture-which-is- most-similar-to-British. Hong Kong is a busy-ass city. It doesn’t fucking sleep and neither does the party scene. The legal drinking age here is 18, meaning that some high school seniors can legally go get fucked off their faces. This is, I feel, an important point to make in distinguishing my own experiences from, say, the American teen. It is quite a bit easier to look 18 than 21.

CONFORMITY

There are the usual ingredients: You spend too much time getting ready, trying very hard to look like you didn’t spend too much time getting ready. (because that’s just so obvious!) You check your fake documentation several times and print off several copies just in case. You put everything in a little bag including your makeup because if your makeup is smudged and imperfect that will just make it obvious. (???) You play stupid songs on your stupid ‘party playlist’ as you get ready.

You take the bus with your friend. You go over everything. You meet up with others for pre-drinks. You’re already tipsy off pina coladas. You lurk outside the club, check the bouncer. You present your documentation. You turn to your friend, try to appear casual. He checks your face to see if it’s you – yes! This is good! – and motions you in. You did it! You’re inside!

You are high off elation and dance - not very well - and drink - perhaps a bit too much - and you turn to your friend several times and you giggle like conspirators because you did it. You are fucking in! Light-headed and bubble-brained and suddenly you are a really, really fucking good singer and everyone else there deserves to hear you sing right now, and very loudly. Fuck, you should record an album. You would do it right now but somehow you've spent all your money. One of your friends is repetitively bleating 'Time to go!' and you stay for four more 'One more song's. You giggle with your friend the whole way back – she’s more drunk than you – and everything is really funny.

You settle into this new arrangement quite well. You learn the best days to go, the fun crowd, what your limit is. You mellow out. You put more focus on the socializing aspect – your friends are fucking funny when they’re wasted. You don't spend as long getting ready and you don't dress up as much - because you realise that's what's really obvious.

You, the big fat hypocrite, however, do pick up one habit you’ve always hated. You have become the story-recounterer. Suddenly, last night’s antics are the funniest thing in the world and you have to tell everyone who wasn’t there and everyone who was there because they’re so funny. You laugh at the stories of yourself because you’re a fucking good sport and because then you can laugh at your friend’s embarrassing moment because that’s fair.

You do make one solid promise to yourself: you will not be the facebook-party-photo girl. Ever.