Hey, sloppy drunk chick who cut me in line for the bathroom and stepped on my brand new boots! I’m watching you, girl.

The only reason you walked away unscathed is because I’m a lady with an outstandingly moral disposition. And my shoes were too high to fight in.

But, my perpetually hungover enemy, I have you and your entire motley crew in my sights. You have ruined my plans for too long!

You and your vomit-caked hair, broken high heels, your armpit stains and unbuttoned T-shirts. You have taken this battle way too far, and I must make one final stand as one of the few respectable people that navigate the treacherous puddles of urine and tears that line State Street on the weekends.

I go Downtown with the high hopes of gaining my one-and-a-half-foot plot of personal space in an overcrowded basement and end up having at least two drinks spilt down the crack of my ass. These are the good nights.

But whenever the drunken hordes of Binghamton are out, I have to fit those fantastic nuggets of nightlife in between jostling for a spot by the fan with a 200-pound man and elbowing girls in the throat in a claustrophobic fit.

When did drunks become so rude?

It’s bad enough that Downtown Binghamton is so packed on a Friday night that walking on the sidewalk becomes some sort of Mortal Kombat boss fight. But when the majority of the people overpopulating the streets are rude, it’s just not fair.

Since when did drinking cause people to become the spawns of Satan? I have watched girls drunkenly push an innocent bystander in the back and punch the wrong person in the face because they thought they heard someone call them ‘Thunder Thighs.’

Teetering 20-somethings with flat-ironed hair, black mini skirts and slightly baggy racerback tanks (cough, fashion zombies, cough) have officially crossed the threshold of my personal hell and are now more evil than Justin Bieber’s hair.

I find myself cringing at their high-pitched whines and seething at their holier-than-thou attitude ‘ why does Brittney Beer Belly get to cut me in line and drag her Bret Michaels-reject posse with her?

But it’s not just the girls who enrage me ‘ the boys are often worse. Take a bunch of alcohol and pour it into a 160-pound moron, then give that moron a Napoleon complex and a penis, and you’ve got 75 percent of the guys Downtown.

I’ve gotten my rear end slapped by someone I can only hope was Stevie Wonder waving hello.

I’ve politely refused a dance only to get berated and torn down as a human being, then left to wonder if my forehead really is huge while the douchebag wanders off to dry hump some other unlucky female.

This year so far has been incredibly frustrating ‘ either the incoming freshmen are all socially-inept jerks or we, as a society, are becoming increasingly brutish.

Either way, I’ll be on edge this weekend, ready to defend myself from the perils of losing a chunk of hair to the next Tila Tequila or having my self-esteem destroyed by a very angry, horny, rejected young man.

Drunk revelers of Binghamton ‘ when you’re out this weekend, try to do the opposite of what you normally do.

Maybe then we can all drunkenly get along.