To be a true navigator of the bar scene, you gotta have friends. Loyal friends. Friends who know you better than your first cousin. Friends who know your first cousin. Even friends who may have slept with your first cousin.

During mating rituals, they’re known as wingmen or your flock of seagirls. They help you get laid. They sit with you in dive bars when you just need to rant and drown your sorrows in bourbon. They can talk shit about you all they want — and they do it often to your face — but as soon as someone else chimes in, they’re defending your honor with fists or passive-aggressive insults. The stories between you are endless and would make your mother blush. They’d make Heidi Fleiss blush.

You’re good if you’ve got a handful of these friends — it’s rare to have more. They transition with you around life’s curveballs and are always there to remind you where you came from and where you’re heading. They hold your hair back when you’ve had too much and hold the mirror up when you’re wearing beer-goggles. They know what gin you drink and go along with your not-so-bright idea of starting the night off with a few El Mundo margaritas. The night never ends well — they know it, you know it, yet you both blindly stumble down that path like it’s your first time.

They point and laugh when you trip, fall or wake up in an ex’s bed. They always call the next morning when you’ve had an argument — mainly to make sure you got home safe, partly to laugh about the drunken banter. They know not to listen to much that comes out of your mouth once you’ve had too many … except for “I gotta pee,” “I think I’m gonna get sick” or “Eat a dick!” You’ve drunk dialed, texted and MyFaced them more times than you can count, and they actually look forward to your 4:30 a.m. epiphanies. Like this one.

Need a reason to drink today? I’ve got one for you over at barbelle.leoweekly.com. But don’t tell anyone I sent ya.