Sweet St. Patty’sIt’s the one day out of the year that you are allowed – no, REQUIRED – to get entirely obliterated and obnoxious, and then piss in your roommate’s fridge. All in the name of the patron Saint of Ireland.

God bless those crazy Irish. Thanks for Lucky Charms and leprechauns.

I chose to write this inquisitive editorial on St. Patrick’s Day. I felt that the holiday was worthy to write about, considering my primary audience consists of collegiate Coors-chuggers and Dead Heads.

Oh Danny Boy, the hangover’s a callin.’

Like many of you, I’m not really all that Irish, yet I still feel the need to celebrate.

But instead of a bottle of Irish whiskey, I chose to stick to my roots with a nice bottle of deer blood: Germany’s J„germeister.

That being said, this year was the first year in which I did NOT get completely Belushi-buzzed or Sinatra-smashed. I had a couple drinks, but I didn’t feel the urge to drink until my face fell off. For a little while, I was actually quite distraught at that entire concept.

Is it possible to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day without the aide of a bottle of Jameson and a dozen long necks of Guinness?

The answer my friends, is ehhh . . . kind of.

My Patty’s was about as interesting as a kickboxing match between two paraplegics. I sat in my apartment, had a couple drinks, and eventually said the hell with the whole damn thing and went to bed.

Now I know I can have a good time without getting completely take-my-clothes-off-and-bathe-in-Play-Doh drunk, but for some ungodly reason I can’t seem to be satisfied with a “few drinks” on Patty’s – I just can’t.

Like Rosie O’Donnel at a Ponderosa buffet line, I just gotsta have more.

But after I realized that my Patty’s was mostly shot to hell worse than Tupac’s BMW, I actually began to question why I wanted to drink so bad in the first place.

My mind wanted to drink heavily, but my body just wasn’t feeling it. I felt like someone who conveniently gets headaches minutes before sex as a means to avoid the whole shabang.

I felt ashamed – like I was living a lie.

Then it occurred to me. I can get drunk ANYTIME! I don’t need an excuse. I’m above that now. I’m an alpha male, super-sophisticated, scotch-on-the-rocks kind of yuppie asshole that drinks from a damn decanter.

All kidding aside, I just didn’t feel like getting crazy on Patty’s. I could have gone to a bar, I could have gone to the dorms, or I could have sat on the toilet and fed moonshine into my veins.

But I didn’t.

I chose to reject the stereotypical drunken college kid label for a day and do my own thing, however boring it may have been, because it felt better to make my own way than follow along someone else’s.

I guess it falls under the whole peer pressure category. I mean no one forced me to do anything. Actually, no one even invited me to a party – bastards. But hey, some of Ozzy Osbourne’s best work came after he split with Black Sabbath, you know.

So cheers to everyone who decided to be “lame” on Patty’s. Let’s drink to those of us who had the balls to stay sober, be bored, and feel rejected by our fellow peers.

Besides, if it weren’t for those poor, unfortunate, sober souls, no one would have been able to drive your drunken butt back to your dorm in the first place.

They could have left you naked in a kiddy pool full of leeches and 5 O’clock Vodka – but they didn’t.

I probably would have, though.