The Myth of 'Smart' Binge Drinking

Young man in a suit sitting slumped on a stone ledge at night, holding a bottle, illuminated by harsh purple streetlights—evo

Binge drinking is not smart—it's dissociation dressed up as control. When your logic is offline, someone could die. If this resonates, talk to someone. You're not broken—you're whole enough to choose better. Start there. We’ll meet you.

They say they know how to do it “smart.”

They drink water between shots. They eat before the party. They pace themselves. They set vague rules for each other: don’t mix dark and light, don’t take drinks from strangers, take care of your friends.

And then someone blacks out. Someone vomits alone in a bathroom. Someone is put in an Uber and left to fend for themselves. Someone dies.

Let me be clear: there is no such thing as smart binge drinking.

Logic dissolves the moment your brain is flooded with ethanol. The part of your mind that governs foresight, empathy, risk analysis—your frontal cortex—is the very first to go offline. And once it's gone, you do not know you are in danger. You do not know your friend is in danger. You do not know anything, except maybe how to pour another drink.

And afterward, you reconstruct the night. You tell yourself a story: "We did okay. I didn’t have alcohol poisoning. We handled it."

But if no one called for help, if no one stayed with the one who couldn’t walk, if no one checked to see if they were breathing evenly—then no, you did not handle it. You got lucky. Luck is not a plan.

To those of you who believe you are approaching drinking with logic: I see you. I understand the desire to remain in control, to prove yourself, to belong. But understand this:

Intoxication logic is a myth. And post-intoxication logic is not logic. It is storytelling.

Discernment—real discernment—is something that only happens while sober.

If you are drinking to the edge of unconsciousness and still calling it “controlled,” then you are not drinking. You are performing disassociation with a side of cognitive illusion.

So if this letter strikes something in you—if it leaves you wondering about a night you barely remember, or a friend you could have checked on—then do not shrug it off.

Talk to someone. A counselor. A parent. A peer who gets it.

Not because you are broken. But because you are still whole enough to want better.

There is strength in asking for help. There is power in changing course. There is nothing soft about sobriety when it protects your future.

Start there. We’ll meet you.