I live off of sunshine and coffee, they fuel my soul. When people see me with a venti-soy-caramel-macchiato extra foam glistening in the early morning rays,  I know what they’re thinking: “Her? She’s a basic white bitch”.  I loathe the idea that my drink of choice is an ode to the person I am within; that my menu order is essentially a Hello: My name is *judgment passed*. That was, until I realized that almost every drink you order says a lot about who you are as a person. Spoiler alert: It’s nothing good.

Morning pick me ups aside, when you sit down with someone for small talk and they order the following at a bar, we are all most likely thinking the same thing:


He didn’t graduate college. He likes cosmetically enhanced women in crop tops and cowboy boots.  Every time you see him around town he has his arm around a new girl. That’s because his relationship with his mom is sour. The whiskey-coke has a dirty mouth and even dirtier secrets. Like that he cries into a photo album of his first love to the soundtrack of Dirty Dancing on Sunday evenings. After football of course.

She always buys her Coachella tickets a year in advance. She hates the way her face looks without make up and refuses to quit her job at the hair salon even though she has a degree in psychology. The whiskey-coke female doesn’t take shit from anyone which is why she’s written a few acoustic songs about how uncomfortable it is to sleep in the drunk tank. She pretends to like being single, but constantly scopes the bar for a man. Preferably one named Jack, Jim or Jose.

Grey Goose&Sprite.

He has an iTunes playlist littered with rap albums that nobody can tolerate unless they are loose on the goose. His car looks expensive, and it probably is. It’s just not paid off. Phantom…Chrysler, same thing.  The vodka drinker is into men’s health and dancing with ‘gun hands’. He shows off his abs every twelve minutes  as a ‘drunk joke’ that gets older than the women he keeps trying to pick up with his empty frosted bottle at the VIP table of a dead bar.

She knows exactly what glass is hers because her lipstick is brighter than her personality. The vodka woman sports the little black dress equipped with daddy issues. She loves to dance, hates to go to the bathroom without a flock of her friends and will be ‘whore’izontal by midnight with little effort on anybody else’s part. She often forgets that just because ‘it’s clear’ doesn’t mean she’s in it.


He will inevitably get kicked out of the bar for punching someone in the face. The thrill of his youth is as strong as the smell of licorice on his breath. This guy is usually all muscle, no penis. Doesn’t come in with any friends, leaves with even less.

She will open mouth kiss someone twice her age, and he’s gonna like it because jager bombs ironically also resemble the smell of Bengay. First she bitches about why they don’t have the fancy chill-and-pour then she realizes that it’s gonna get warm anyway while she’s busy in the bathroom throwing up what drunk-her thinks is the contents of her bleeding stomach.


He is ready to party. This fool fucking loves America. If you need a lighter, ask the chimney of friends he rolled in with. Nobody smokes more cigarettes than this can crushing son of a bitch. Also, backyard bonfires where he tries to serenade you with Bruce Springsteen songs are in your future. Ask him what flavor of top ramen is his favorite, it’s all he’s ever been able to afford his whole life.

She likes to skinny dip. Probably can’t find her phone. And won’t have much to offer when the conversation turns political. She will pretend to like guns, but when you ask her what her favorite is she just starts rambling off numbers too high to be a caliber but close enough to be considered her IQ. 


He dabbles in steroids. Couldn’t decide between this drink and an Appletini. Since his skinny jeans are feeling a little snug he went with the diet coke and captain. He’s not afraid to brawl because his ray bans are fake. No loss to him. But he will spend twice as much time as normal looking at himself in the mirror if you fuck with his ‘money-maker’.

She travels a lot. Mostly because nobody can stand her being in the same place for a long period of time. If society found it socially acceptable to grocery shop in her bathing suit, she would. The Rum and coke girl doesn’t like to live in the shadows.  Give this bitch a coconut and an umbrella and she could take over the world.

Iced Tea-No Ice.

Him or Her are part of the program. This is 2015, nobody drinks iced tea on a date unless they are two sheets to the wind already and want to try urinating without your assistance. The no ice thing is a bit rebellious. They don’t have time to be face fucked by an unbroken glacier while they throw back their caffeinated sobriety award.  They strive to be efficient because a group of people told them they were not productive members of society for long enough. Also, they won’t sleep with you. No matter how cute you looked eating those nachos.

Your favorite drink says a lot about you. There’s no denying that our go-to cocktail often times represents our personality traits. I’m not saying revamp your order for the sake of judgment, but remember that you only get one chance to make a first impression. No beautiful woman ever starts the story of how she met her husband with “I saw him a the end of the bar, drinking a Dirty L.A. Water waiting for his Screwdriver”. That’s life. Cheers!


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