In a grandiose departure from normal routine, the loftmates and I headed out drinking the other night. The night was about as nondescript as a twenty-something trip to the watering hole can be, with a typical tally of female rejections, juke-box renditions of Poison and ill-advised final rounds (or five) of shots with waitresses that we thought might come home with us if we simply bought enough drinks to incapacitate our lower limbs.

I don't remember going to bed, which others might consider a problem. What I do remember is waking up, stumbling into the bathroom and finding blood in the sink""another event that others might deem problematic. However, my natural reaction wasn't some self-preservational assessment like "is that mine" or "are the fellas alright?" Instead, standing in our bathroom in my green "one up mushroom" boxer shorts, arms trembling as they strained to hold my hungover ass out of the ceramic bloodbath below, the first thing that popped into my head was "must've been a hell of a night." The second thing that popped into my head was the faucet, when I fell over.

Consciousness regained, I had a few ice-pack moments to reflect on just why that bloodstained sink seemed so awesome. It took awhile, but finally, long after brain-freeze had numbed my brain into ineffectiveness, I realized: There is a direct relationship between the amount, and type, of bodily fluids expelled during a given night and the overall awesomeness of said evening. By the end of my contemplative recovery session, I had more than enough evidence to support my assertion. I also had a solid case of freezer burn to match my bruise.

Blood: The culprit at hand; the crimson muse that inspired this dissertation. These days, children grow up in a jaded, over-protective society in which the site of blood triggers all sorts of negative associations. People seem to think that all good things have to feel like a blowjob in a hammock on a cool autumn afternoon. They forget that sometimes, a bit of bloody recklessness can be a thrill. Providing that no serious, serious injuries are sustained, an evening of fights, falling down stairs and hurling the fellas through windows can make for some stellar morning-after stories. Even in sex, the appearance of blood can be, if nothing else, relieving: It means that she no longer has to worry about that pesky "first time" or you don't need to worry about those annoying "pregnancies." A few spots of blood are a small price to pay for peace of mind.

Sweat: The bi-product of intensity and aggression, or of fat people and verbs. Unless you're being interrogated or robbed at gunpoint, visible sweat is an indication to the world that you're going full throttle. You don't get sweaty watching a marathon of Laguna Beach or spending seventeen straight hours on your computer; of the latter, I'm positive. You get sweaty from rocking out, and people are drawn to that. Then you get sweaty again when you're corkin' those people that were drawn to you, and then again as you awkwardly lay next to them wondering if they're ever going to leave or at least stop asking you where you're going when you get up to get a glass of water or take a piss or even just put your damn Rocky and Bullwinkle boxer shorts back on. But even that's better than a 26.2 mile session of Counterstrike.

Tears: When you make someone cry, it's usually because they are overwhelmingly grateful that you touched them so profoundly. In this harsh world, where we so frequently find ourselves alone, people search for those special moments when they connect, however briefly, with another person""even if that person sneaks away via the fire escape immediately thereafter. That's when the tears of unbridled bliss start flowing. Don't think of it as "breaking their heart." Think of it as "generously making room for another person to share in their life, even if that too only lasts twelve minutes." They'll appreciate it.

Urine: Frustrating as it may be, having to pee every forty-five seconds is indicative of good hydration. As any nutritionist will tell you, it is essential that tweens drink 10 to 12 ounces of fluid per hour during activity. Doing the legs-crossed, bladder-push thing as you scramble for the bathroom is simply a testament to your personal health regimen. Plus, if you're whizzin' that much, it probably means that you're one Jack shot away from hurling yourself out of the bar window, commando-crawling over to a shrub and then humping it.

Nether nectars: You should wake up after a good night to find your bed""assuming that you reached your bed""in tatters: Covers strewn about, headboard shattered and stains on the sheets that look like a mix between a Rorschach and Casper, the Friendly Ghost. In fact, the more closely your sheets resemble the flexibility and texture of plywood, the better your evening went. (This phenomenon also harkens back to those early-pubescent days when I'd be terrified to have Mom wash my sheets / boxers / carpet / drapes / socks because they felt like cardboard. But even then, it was a sign of a good night.) Just remember to give your gear a good scrubbing before the next night out. That's the kicker about fluid evidence""it may be a welcome sign after a hard rock evening, but if the trophies linger too long, you're going to find the factory involuntarily shut down.