The Best Worst Idea Ever (The Puke-and-Rally Version)
IYKYK: Partying 2010-2018
This isn’t déjà vu. You did see this post once already. But the first draft (and 50 million others) didn’t sit right with me, so here’s the puke-and-rally version. The original is still up if you want to compare, but this one’s MUCH BETTER.
TikTok’s been serving up throwbacks to the utterly chaotic years (2010–2018), and honestly, how did we survive? Nobody knows. But shoutout to Mo Bamba— a song that could turn a normal house party into absolute mayhem in under 30 seconds.
When you really think about it, nearly our entire high school soundtrack was basically alcohol commercials disguised as music. We had Ke$ha telling us to brush our teeth with a bottle of Jack, LMFAO getting everyone to take Shots, and Nicki reaching through the speakers to toast Bottoms Up.
Since we weren’t old enough to get into clubs yet, we’d find ourselves in fields. We’d tell our parents we were spending the night at each other’s houses (lying, of course,) and head straight for the middle of nowhere. Four Lokos in hand (back when they were REALLY loco), music blasting from somebody’s car. If you put our photos side-by-side with clips from Project X, I swear you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
By the time we turned 21, the chaos just moved locations. Most nights started at Big Daddy’s, Molly’s, Nick’s Pub. Whichever bar downtown or in the Grove had cheap drinks and loud music. The venue didn’t matter; what mattered was who you rolled in with, knowing you were in for a wild ride.
The outfits were as unhinged as the pre-gaming: skin-tight dresses, neon colors, animal prints, sequins that scratched like trauma, and glitter lingering everywhere a week later. Finished with club heels or chunky platforms that ended up more like clutches, dangling from your wrist by the straps. Girls stumbling down sidewalks and into a friend-of-a-friend’s basement, treating a sprained ankle as a badge of honor. Simply iconic, even if it wasn’t my style. And definitely nothing like the sneakers and crop tops of today (though that fit is smarter).
At some point in the night you’d buddy-system your way into the girls’ bathroom, and suddenly every [drunken] girl was your best friend— complimenting your makeup, hyping your outfit, professing their love like they’d known you forever. If the whole world acted like a girls’ bathroom at 1 a.m., it’d be a better place.
When the bars shut down, shared glances were followed by the inevitable question: is it a Pops night? That’s when we’d mutally agree the night wasn’t over and we'd head across the river to Pops in Sauget. A 24/7 “nightclub” that advertised itself to the music industry, but in reality, was ours. My friends called it the best worst idea ever. I’ve never heard a phrase fit better.
You’d walk in when it was pitch black outside, and by the time you stumbled back out, the sun was already up. At least one person would’ve puked and rallied (definitely not me— I’d be done for). The rest of us stood there in horror, makeup half-melting off our faces, realizing we’d been dancing and drinking until daylight.
At this point you’d think we would’ve finally headed home, but the experience wasn’t complete without a pit stop at Waffle House or Denny’s. The whole crew crammed into a booth, replaying the night and laughing over greasy hash browns or fries dunked in ranch.
It was reckless, insane, and definitely not safe. But it was fun. The kind of fun that’s rare now, when people care more about Instagram posts than actually sweating their butts off in the club.
Let’s be clear: I don’t condone drinking or bad decisions. My body barely handled it then and definitely couldn’t now. But I’m glad I got it out of my system when I did. Because there was something about that chaos, sweaty basements, rooftop leaps, sunrise walks out of Pops, drunken girls’ bathroom talks, Waffle House hash browns and Denny’s ranch at 5 a.m, that felt free in a way kids today might never get to experience.
Did we die? Almost.
But it was unforgettable.
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