Once the standard deviant phone mishap, the drunk dial is now on its last legs. In its place are all the other experiences you can (accidentally) have on your phone… when you’re fucked up. We asked a bunch of dudes to weigh in on their cellular activity when they were under the influence.
When you decide to turn up, maybe you should turn off your phone.
Andrew, 33, Brooklyn
Sometimes I’ll be super stoned and think I have a great idea that I don’t want to forget. I usually write it down or email myself, but once in a blue moon, I’ll text myself. And, of course, I never remember that I’ve texted myself—until I’m once again super stoned and come up with another idea that I decide to text myself, which is when I see the previous, and now completely meaningless nonsequitur, that is my previous text. Here are a few examples:
“Cicadas… 13 years from the ground and mate.”
“Dude, beware the Ides of March”
“1 + 1 does not equal 2”
If you have any ideas as to what these mean or what I was thinking, any insight would be helpful, thanks!
David, 33, New York City
I stumbled home in a belligerent state sometime around 4 a.m. and dialed my ex around 6 a.m. — horny, a little coked up and unable to sleep. I vaguely remember telling her that my night sucked, that I missed her and that I thought she should come over.
While that’s all I remember of the conversation, she has since filled me in on the rest. Apparently, I told her that I had just done a bump and two shots of tequila, that one of my guy friends had tried to kiss me and that I didn’t know how I felt about it, and that I wanted to do anything and everything to her (including things I’d soberly swore I wasn’t into). At some point, I sent her live dick pics. Not one of my finer moments.
Brady, 42, New York, New York
Only half a drink in, I will comment on anyone’s post in my feed on Facebook. Even the third cousins and the high school people I don’t remember. After one full drink, I will start actually posting things that I may have to delete later. In other ways, I have a pretty high tolerance. But the social-networking walls crumble quickly.
Evan, 36, Los Angeles
I have a chronic problem of drunk texting people I’ve met briefly, hooked up with, or only know from the internet, late at night, regardless of how far away they live. The irony is that I’m never in any state to actually do anything because I’m in a half-dream, “brown out” state. Even if someone did want to meet up with me at 4 a.m., my body would be in no position to get aroused in the slightest. The texts that crack me up the most are when I drunk-text people who are, like, nine time zones away, and thus are fully into their day, eating lunch or breakfast and they’re like, “Errrr…huh?” Sometimes they randomly get into it though! But nowadays I try and sleep with the phone out of reach from my bed.
Chris, 25, Bethesda, Maryland
I drunk dialed my mom thinking it was my sister, and proceeded to talk to her about stuff I really shouldn’t tell my mom. I remember lamenting about the girl problems I was having, and telling her I hadn’t had sex in a pretty long time. I didn’t realize I was talking to my mother until the next morning, when I checked my call log and discovered I’d had a 20-minute conversation with ‘Mom.’
Tristan, 27, Los Angeles
I have a real issue with keeping my chill around my phone when my shit is lit, but a recent favorite would be when I decided to go to San Diego for a festival on a Sunday night. After taking some low key Molly and drinking throughout the evening, this babe offered me some ketamine — to which, of course, I obliged. And then obliged again. And like maybe two more times. Lost track, who cares — I was IN it. I raved and then walked back to my hotel with friends feeling like a balloon floating off into the dark San Diego night sky.
My friends went to an after party, but I stayed back at the hotel because I had to be up for work in L.A. the next morning. I threw on my hotel robe, cracked open the mini-bar, turned on the TV and fucking How Stella Got Her Groove Back was on. Angela Bassett. Taye Diggs. Whoopi Goldberg. Women rediscovering their sexuality and identity on their own terms in the Jamaican sun? How could you not be into that shit? I was apparently so into that I spent 15 minutes trying to get the perfect selfie with Angela Bassett. I then decided it would be crucial for my personal brand to upload said selfie to Instagram. I woke up the next day with a weird twitch in my eye, a deep fear of the unknown, but a sense of certainty that I had made the right call. The people needed to know that Stella and I both had (and will always have) our grooves back.
Sean, 25, Brooklyn
I was really high the other weekend and I was using my phone to look up cheap MCAT prep books on Amazon but somehow ended up purchasing a pink, 9-inch glass dildo instead. It was really economical and had insanely high reviews (4.5/5 stars).
Jeff, 33, Los Angeles
I started ordering Jack in the Box from Postmates when I was high. I kept getting distracted by the TV and forgot that I’d started the order already and clicked everything all over again. The delivery guy showed up with three bags of food. I spent $48 at Jack in the Box.
Mark, 32, Los Angeles
A friend was visiting from out of town for MLK weekend, and it quickly spiraled into a three-day booze fest with way too much iPhone-ing under the influence. Upon reaching shit-faced status each day, we couldn’t resist digging into the depths of our mutual contacts and pestering them with (what we thought would be, but surely were not) FOMO-inducing photos and live updates. This included plenty of regrettable texts about our current partying (“Just shotgunned! Wish you were here bros!”) as well as lame videos of us jumping into a pool, backseat selfies, a group brunch photo (so bad) and yes, a choreographed human pyramid.
The fun came to a predictable end late Sunday night when I was browned out yet again from a day full of beers and weed. While reaching for my phone to further barrage our group text chains for a third straight night, it dropped on the dance floor, earning myself a well-deserved shattered screen and finally putting an end to the outgoing shit-storm.
Ironically the weekend also included a moment under the influence when I should have used my phone, but didn’t. After a few too many dark and stormy’s, I drunkenly declared that it would be “old school” to hail a taxi instead of Uber, and “fuck Uber, lets rock this cab!” only to get hit with a ridiculous $35 fare for what was a 10-minute ride. Such a jackass move, but lesson learned: apparently taxis are only for suckers these days!
Bryce, 22, Miami
During freshman year of college in Miami, I had math class with this cute blonde girl. I knew she was into me, but she had a boyfriend so I behaved. One night, though, I got really drunk at a club and texted her the typical “Hey you up?” — because you never know. She replied that she was at a nearby bar, so I suggested we go for a midnight sail. She sent me back a 😉 face so I called her (drunk and on some snow) and told her that she was pretty and all that.
Fast forward 20 minutes later: we’re in a cab together. Along the way, I decided we should go skinny-dipping instead, and she agreed. We got dropped off outside a ritzy club in Key Biscayne, hopped the fence, took our clothes off and jumped in the ocean. Then we had sex on the beach. After seeing all the lights from the club come on, we ran down the beach, clothes in hand. Then we walked to The Ritz, and they called us a cab. Not that I’m bragging but that was a pretty successful drunk dial, am I right?
Morgan Golumbuk is a contributor at MEL. When she’s not writing about drunk dialing, she’s eating (and writing about it) at Morgan Munches Manhattan.
With additional reporting by Lara Marie Schoenhals.