Much is expected of me because of my status as a worldly gentleman, but there is one area in which I fail miserably: alcohol tolerance. This truth has plagued me ever since I tasted alcohol for the first time at the ripe and legal age of 21. Even now, after four years of training, things have not improved, and last weekend’s trip to the bar was a painful reminder.

“WOOOOOO!” I howled, while showing off my dance moves to anyone watching, which was nearly everyone because I was on top of the table. This would have been a surprisingly cool act if I actually had an established set of dance moves, but as it were, my repertoire consisted of a part of The Robot and the entirety of Sailor Moon’s transformation. I peeled off my clothes, certain that a sailor outfit was going to magically cover me up.

A security guard reached out and grabbed me, asked me what the fuck I was doing.

“It’s okay!” I said, “I am a soldier for love and justice!”

He was unconvinced and proceeded to drag me towards the door.

“Let me gooo!” I protested, my voice now hoarse from the alcohol. “Can’t you see I’m Sailor Moon?!”

Suddenly, a single rose flew at us, hitting the security guard in the cheek. He looked up, gasped, turned around and ran. I looked to see what it was: Tuxedo Mask!

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized it wasn’t Tuxedo Mask, but my friend. And I wasn’t at the bar, but on the floor of my friend’s living room. For some reason, I couldn’t remember the trip home at all. My head ached and I was almost as dizzy as that time in college when I was spinning nonstop in an attempt to become Sailor Moon. What the hell just happened? Unable to remain conscious, I closed my eyes and let sleep take over me.

I’m never drinking Bud Light again.