How to Know You’ve Drank Too Much Beer

Last Updated on November 22, 2024 by Michael

Ever had that moment when you question reality? Not in a philosophical way, but in a “Did I just try to pet a lamppost because I thought it was a friendly giraffe?” kind of way. Yeah, that might be the beer talking. If you’ve ever needed a handy checklist to determine if you’ve crossed the mystical line between “a good time” and “oh no, I’m living a cartoon,” you’ve come to the right place. This guide is the proverbial flashing neon sign warning you about the edge of that cliff you’re about to step off.

No more wondering whether your night went off the rails—this list is the sobering mirror you didn’t know you needed, mostly because it’s slightly cracked and yelling at you in French. Let’s get into it.

The Floor is Lava (And So Is Everything Else)

When you start seeing the floor as a writhing mass of molten lava and decide that the only way to survive is to hop from the coffee table to the couch, it’s time to reassess your beverage intake. The sad part? You’re alone in your living room, your pants are in the fridge, and you’re yelling “I AM THE LIZARD KING” at the ceiling fan.

Bonus points if the ceiling fan yells back. It doesn’t matter what it says. If the fan has opinions about your life choices, you’ve probably had one too many.

And let’s talk about your living room. It’s no longer a living room; it’s a post-apocalyptic wasteland where empty beer cans form a new currency, and the couch cushions are “sacred islands.” You’re wearing a tinfoil hat to ward off evil spirits, except the spirits are just the light fixtures, and they’re judging you.

Does anyone else remember that the dog used to be a cat? No? You’ve probably had too much beer, friend. It’s best if you sit down—preferably on a surface that isn’t on fire in your mind.

By the way, those heroic leaps from furniture piece to furniture piece? Yeah, they’re less athletic and more like watching a very drunk sloth trying to escape an invisible predator. Spoiler alert: the predator is sobriety.

If your entire house has turned into a combination obstacle course and imaginative death trap, you’re past tipsy. You’re starring in your own game show called “How Did I Get Here and Why Am I Covered in Cheeto Dust?” and the answer is…beer.

Your Phone Thinks You’re Drunk, and It’s Right

At some point, your phone will decide that you’re too drunk to function. How can you tell? Well, it starts correcting “hello” to “Hemingway is the greatest llama, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” You weren’t even trying to type “hello”; you were ordering a pizza, but now the pizza delivery guy thinks you’re starting a literary fight club.

Autocorrect becomes a traitor, twisting your words into bizarre confessions. A simple “On my way home” somehow becomes “On my walrus to find gnomes.” Suddenly, the group chat explodes with concern and curiosity. Are there walruses? Are there gnomes? Are you okay? Nobody knows, least of all you.

Your ex received a text message that says, “I never stopped loving your cactus.” This is confusing because (1) you never dated anyone with a cactus, and (2) you’ve somehow attached a photo of your left foot for no apparent reason. Congratulations, you’re a modern artist now. This text is probably going straight into a gallery titled, “Reasons Restraining Orders Happen.”

And don’t even get started on the voice-to-text fiasco. By the time you’re three beers in, your phone doesn’t recognize your voice. It’s like, “Is this a human, a goose, or the sound of someone falling down an elevator shaft?” You’re just trying to say, “I love you guys,” but what your friends receive is “I lava yogurt thighs.” Good luck explaining that one tomorrow.

If your phone thinks you’re a liability, trust it. Your phone’s seen some things. It’s time to put it away before you accidentally FaceTime your boss to show them your latest interpretive dance to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” No one needs to see that.

Every Object Is a Microphone

Suddenly, everything in your vicinity looks like a potential microphone. The ketchup bottle? Definitely a mic. The broom? Oh, that’s a whole microphone stand, baby. And don’t even get me started on that remote control—you’ve transformed into Freddie Mercury and there’s no turning back.

It starts innocently enough. You hum along to whatever tune’s playing in the background. But soon enough, the performance escalates. You’re on your imaginary stage, serenading an audience that only exists in your mind. They’re loving it. They’re crying. They’re throwing roses at your feet. And by roses, I mean half-eaten Doritos you accidentally kicked across the floor.

And your neighbors? Oh, they’re part of this whether they like it or not. You’re standing on your balcony, belting out the chorus to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” with all the intensity of a theater kid who just landed the lead role in the school musical. There’s a man in a bathrobe across the street who’s called the cops twice already, but you’re convinced he’s just “playing hard to get.”

Maybe you grab the dog and make it a duet. The dog is not impressed, but you don’t care because YOU. ARE. A. STAR. You try to get your friends in on it. They’re hiding in the bathroom, texting each other about escape plans. No one’s ever going to forget your cover of “Sweet Caroline,” mostly because you somehow managed to replace every lyric with the word “avocado.”

If you’re singing into a lamp and proclaiming, “Thank you, Wembley Stadium!” while spilling beer down your shirt, you’re in too deep. It’s time to exit stage left before you end up auditioning for America’s Got Talent via a very confused Uber driver.

You’ve Befriended Inanimate Objects

You know it’s too much beer when you’re sitting on the kitchen floor having a deep conversation with the toaster. You’ve named it “Charles,” and Charles understands you. He’s a great listener, nodding silently as you tell him about your hopes, your fears, and that one time in high school when you accidentally called the teacher “Mom.” Charles is nonjudgmental, and you appreciate that.

Meanwhile, the fridge is not your friend tonight. The fridge is a traitor. It’s been hiding the last beer behind the kale your roommate bought three months ago, and you’re giving it a piece of your mind. You slam the door, only to apologize minutes later because “I didn’t mean it, babe.” Your fridge might be cold, but your heart’s warm, and you need it to understand that.

And let’s not forget about that lamp in the corner. You’ve made eye contact with it multiple times, and it’s been throwing you shady vibes all night. You’ve already challenged it to a dance-off twice, and each time, it’s refused to participate. You swear it’s jealous of your moves. But you’re not one to hold grudges—not against a lamp, anyway.

You’re also oddly convinced that the couch is trying to flirt with you. It’s looking all cushiony and comfortable, and you’re like, “Hey, don’t play games with me, man.” The couch doesn’t reply, but you take this as an invitation to lay on it face-down while muttering sweet nothings about Netflix and chilling.

Oh, and the vacuum cleaner? That’s your arch-nemesis. You swear it’s plotting against you, waiting for the moment you let your guard down so it can “suck the soul right out of your eyeballs.” You make a mental note to challenge it to a duel at dawn. Spoiler: neither of you will remember this when you sober up.

When you find yourself emotionally entangled with the kitchen appliances, it’s probably a sign that you should switch to water. Or at least start charging the toaster rent.

You’ve Forgotten How Clothing Works

Putting on clothes suddenly becomes an advanced level Sudoku puzzle that you have no chance of solving. Somehow, you’ve managed to get one leg through an armhole and both arms through a neck hole, and you’re convinced you’ve invented a whole new fashion trend. You call it “drunk chic.” It’s avant-garde, it’s revolutionary, and you look like you just escaped from a performance art installation titled “The Struggle of the Fabric.”

Your pants are inside out, your shirt’s backwards, and one sock has gone missing entirely, which you’ve taken as a sign that you were never meant to wear two socks to begin with. You’ve also found a necktie, and you’re wearing it around your forehead like some sort of Wall Street Rambo. The tie is giving you power. The tie is your spirit animal.

And don’t even get started on the shoes. You’ve somehow decided that shoes are for conformists, and instead, you’re wearing two mismatched slippers you found in the hallway. One of them belongs to you; the other belongs to a neighbor, but you’re convinced you’ve “rescued” it from a life of solitude. You’re now “the slipper savior,” and you won’t hear otherwise.

At some point, you decide that pants are merely a suggestion. You’re above pants. You’re a free spirit, liberated from the constraints of denim and zippers. You’re wandering around your apartment in your underwear, which is fine, except the pizza guy has arrived, and he’s very, very confused.

You try to wear a scarf as a belt and end up tying yourself to the doorknob. You consider this an accomplishment. You’re like, “This is high fashion. This is Lady Gaga level genius.” It’s not. It’s just sad. Put the beer down and untangle yourself before you end up calling the fire department because you’re trapped in your own pants.

You’re the King of Bad Decisions

You decide it’s a brilliant idea to start an indoor slip-and-slide with dish soap and a tarp you found in the garage. “This will be epic,” you think, as you pour the soap liberally across the floor. Fast forward fifteen minutes, and you’re sprawled out like a cartoon character that slipped on a banana peel. Your elbow hurts, your pride hurts, and the dog has wisely relocated to another room.

Bad decisions are your currency now. Like that time you thought it would be cool to “parkour” from the arm of the couch to the coffee table. Spoiler: You are not an acrobat. You are a grown adult who just cracked their shin against the corner of a table that did nothing to deserve this kind of treatment.

Oh, and then there’s that decision to drunk-dial your middle school crush. You didn’t even know you had their number, but somehow you found it. You left them a voicemail where you recited, word for word, the plot of Jurassic Park. They haven’t responded, but you’re holding out hope that they find your dramatic retelling charming. They won’t. They never will.

You also thought it would be a good idea to order a bunch of stuff online. There’s a confirmation email in your inbox that says you’ve successfully purchased three gallons of industrial glue, a sombrero, and a vintage accordion. You’re not entirely sure what the plan was, but you’re committed now. You’re going to learn the accordion or die trying.

Oh, and how could anyone forget your “brilliant” culinary ideas? Like the time you decided that peanut butter and sardines on toast was a “gourmet midnight snack.” You took one bite and immediately realized your mistake, but that didn’t stop you from serving it to your roommate, who’s now plotting revenge.

If you’re stacking bad decisions like pancakes at an all-you-can-eat buffet, it’s time to switch to water. Or at least reconsider the dish soap slip-and-slide—nobody wins in that game.

The Conclusion That Makes No Sense

You woke up with one slipper, a sombrero, and a bad decision hangover. Your lamp is giving you the silent treatment, and your phone has 47 unread messages from your ex and the local animal shelter. It’s time to accept that maybe—just maybe—beer isn’t your friend. Or at least not your best friend. Maybe it’s more like that one acquaintance who’s fun for a while but then accidentally sets your curtains on fire.

The next time you consider turning your living room into an obstacle course or befriending your toaster, think twice. Or just hide the dish soap and industrial glue. Trust me, future you will thank you.