I did what?

This is my most common morning greeting, to my less-than-charmed posse from a night misspent. Mostly my fragmented memory serves as a stark reminder that my days as a lady are numbered. Champagne chagrin, the martini murders, the wine whines and the tequila suicides – call it what you want, but partying has become serious business.

Countless Roman emperors lost their powers and their cumulative hedonism brought about the fall of the greatest empire. Fast forward today, millions are still being spent for fight fetes despite the debt seeping out of fallen CEO’s eyeballs.

I guess we’re not called Las Islas Histericas for nothing. This is what the Spaniards called our country when they first arrived, noting the gay atmosphere of our tropical disco. The scene, for many, represents a vacuous lot. A sugary sorbet of drunken drivel, regretful misadventures, inappropriate overtures and overpriced watered-down liquor. As a member of said vacuous lot, for an environment that is threatened with much trepidation, it wears a deceitful mask of civility and enjoyment.

Surviving party season is no easy task. Right now, I am hacking away like a victim from the bubonic plague thanks to Imperial cigarettes, dehydrated like beef jerky, my shoulders are leadened from all the booze and my eyes dimmed by the half moons of scandal hung underneath them. There are more parties happening than all the Italian and Filipino political parties combined. And each with their own inventive invitations and predictable homogeny – it’s simply so hard to say no!

Certain talents must be honed to keep the memories of your Kodak moments something to cherish. There are nemeses to dodge with elan, pleasantries to be made (much to your own chagrin), memories to be lost (only to be faced with the corpse of humiliation the day after), hangovers to cure, misbehavior to be rectified and passions to be sated.

For those Lady Macbeths, a quick and curt look of acknowledgement goes a long way as opposed to a strong but uncomfortable glare. In a social situation it simply is almost selfish to introduce such abrasiveness. Either that, or become the fodder of some nasty scuttlebutt the next day. I’ve always believed in choosing your battles. A scene by the water cooler as your boss sings Girl From Ipanema, or while mother is putting the final touches on the turkey, is quite unbecoming.

Same goes for the pleasantries. There is a difference between being polite and being false. It seems that we have forgotten the golden virtue of civilized conduct, in favor of the revolutionary and militant flavor. What’s so hard about keeping your mouth shut, keeping your words minced, and lips pursed to a tight smile for the sake of the innocent children who are far too young to witness an expletive-filled catfight?

Lost memory is another consequence of the hedonistic rituals of the drab fab. Whether the obscene consumption of the alcohol comes about through the stress of relearning politeness or perhaps because its free is irrelevant. What matters is knowing what happened. Did you suck face with a total Delilah? Did you admit to your significant other that you took the road more often taken (you fooled around)? Did you show your underwear to everyone as you sang your heart out? Did you cry to the guy who had your dibs on because you felt unloved? Did you drunk-dial that ex during fuckbuddy happy hour (between 3 a.m. to 5 a.m.)? When you’re in a wild card moment anything can happen from the good, but most likely towards the bad.

For party professionals, there is an equation that keeps one from losing it. For every two drinks you have to pace yourself and gulp down a glass of water. Like communism, this is great in theory but quite impossible in practice. So in between the grunts and slurs of being the drunken Freud egg (similar to an FPJ soundbite), one thing to remember when you forget is that in this wild card moment all bets are off and you could find yourself in better company having crib notes on damage control. From speaking to the person directly about any illicit confession, to making sure you rectify your drunken drawl regarding sensitive matters (especially if you offended someone). Things certainly get lost in translation. People often underestimate the power of being earnest especially when you are sober and quite desperate. How it keeps you being in control despite the disaster that you have wreaked the moment your Achilles heel has been tapped. When dealing with idiots, you can always deny. It’s a shitty world.

Bourbon bedlam can only be proscribed if you have a designated non-drunky in tow. A gaggle of Paris Hiltons and Tara Reids does not make for a good night. Looking out for one another against opportunistic gropers, feelers and beaver connoisseurs is important. When someone looks blitzed it’s time to sling on her Fendi purse and make sure she gets home safely. The party can really be over before you know it! Now finally the issue of libation to libido is a tricky one. Like blacking out you can be guilty of a crime of passion, or sometimes manslaughter, if you were really bad.

Now if you are safely blanketed in ignorance and are just a victim of a desiccated skull and an unfortunate stomach, try to set a drunken ritual that will keep you alive and free of pink slips from the office. I find that the best remedy for a hang is to gulp a Pedialite or Gatorade down before sleeping. People choose to take aspirins or Tylenols but if you want to live for the next party I suggest that pill popping should be reserved when your body is no longer flammable. Drinking double or even triple your usual liquid intake the next day helps as well. Berocca and Alka Seltzer are fantastic as well!

Sure. It is now the season of navel-gazing activities, so what. No justifying the marriage of fun and scandal. But as Bette Davis said in All About Eve, "Buckle up! It’s going to be a bumpy ride!"