Last night I went to a social sober…loaded off of crystal light & the awkward high you get seeing drunk people dance. Still woke up disoriented this morning not knowing my location or what day it is, but without the violent urge to vomit or stab my eyes out with sharp things! Also didn’t wake up on the living room shag carpet, which was an interesting change. I’d say all in all a successful evening, minus the 2am BK run. Blast you poutine, I just can’t quit you!
Nothing like starting your first day of sobriety with a crippling hangover. Sushi night with the ladies turned into consume all the existing alcohol in the apartment then explode into a fit of rage when its all gone & the vendors are closed now night. In my defense, I did it to purge our cupboards of temptation. Definitely failed on the healthy aspect of sobvember though, fun sized halloween treats are still out in full force, & the last thing I want to do on a day I’ve been puking is go to the gym. Better luck tomorrow?
Booze. Beer. The sauce. Liquid shame. The demon rum. That wet stuff that makes me like all the facebook statuses ever posted.
Alcohol is a cruel she-hag of a beverage that has had her claws sunk into my social life for many years now. Don’t get me wrong, I love the giddy, “I want to hug every living creature in this bar while screaming Journey at the top of my lungs and I don’t even care if that one girl thinks I’m insane because fuck you I’m feelin’ goooooood tonight!!” feeling. I really do. The next morning however, when I evaluate my surroundings & my violent urge to vomit, I usually regret those last 6 tequila shots & all the double spiced rums.
Its hard to pinpoint the worst part about waking up from a night of drinking. The dilapidating hangover, strange bruises, & smelling like a cheap hooker who just woke up in a dumpster all kind of blow…but that kind of suffering can be remedied with time & an industrial sized tub of oil of olay body wash. Unfortunately, no antibacterial soap can take back the 17 drunken text messages I sent to that one guy I like attempting to be sexy when all I really succeeded at was embarrassing myself with a series of illegible strings of letters & symbols…at 4am…When he & the rest of the self-respecting world are definitely sleeping because some people have to work in the morning & aren’t out getting gooned on “whiskey” wednesday. Time can’t heal all wounds, especially the one I inflict on myself in the mcdonalds drive thru after a beer binge. I don’t know what it is about alcohol that makes me crave all the fried things, but it becomes blatantly clear when I wake up to a graveyard of snack wrap wrappers in my bed & wonder why I feel like a cow exploded in my stomach & “how come my pants don’t button up anymore?!”. And then there’s the money. Opening up my wallet the next day is like playing a game of russian roulette. How much money did I spend??…………..oh, all of it…blast. Then I realize that $40 I took out wasn’t actually $40 at all because I went back to the bank machine several times to take out more because I love EVERYBODY & we haven’t seen each other in SOOOOO long & here’s 5 jaggerbombs on me! Red bull is not fucking cheap ladies & gentlemen. If you’re going to be drunk & generous, I advise going with well brand spirits. Just saying. You may think you love Paul from mrs. Sapinsky’s grade 3 class who moved away to the yukon or whatever, but there’s a serious chance that’s just the vodka talking.
So basically, this is my month long pledge to stay sober, in an attempt to save some cash, avoid embarrassment, & maybe get a little healthier. Pick up a hobby I don’t know..needlepoint or something? Use that gym pass that’s been slowly decaying in my wallet for months?
Wish me luck.
tonight i aided in the collective intoxication of the chaperones of a junior high track team. as i rimmed the ceasar glasses & poured the draught, the only thing my mind could focus on besides the relentless voice in the back of my head telling me to feed it ranch dressing, was, is this what our trusted parents & teachers did on school trips while we quietly “slept” in preparation for the big game/tournament/concert?! i can still hear all the stern warnings from the band teachers, the soccers coaches & brittany’s bitch mother who thought she was taking a “healthy active role” in britt’s life by going on every single ringette trip when all she was really doing was solidifying her daughter’s position on the bottom rung of the social ladder. (school politics..they’re a bitch. like brittany’s bitch mother.) i think the mutual jets of teachers, coaches, and overbearing parents alike should be cooled over this entire “curfew” issue. after ‘lights out’, its not like we were up all night taking raunchy photos with our kodak disposable cameras guaranteed to make the walmart photolab tech concerned for the sanity of our grade 6 class. we werent trying to pierce eachothers eyebrows with safety pins & we definitely weren’t going on 4am stealth missions to buy super nibs at the 7/11 across the street from the hotel. clearly we were all nestled up in our beds, two-by-two, probably listening to big shiny tunes 5 on our discmen while we dreamed of freddie prinze jr & all the fuzzy keychains we were going to spend our food money on at Claire’s tomorrow..innocent kid stuff! and there they were, attatched to the hotel bar like leeches, downing cab sav like it was going out of style. (helloo its 1999, mrs smith..shiraz is the y2k-friendly fermented grape beverage. weren’t you aware?) not cool parents..not cool. i can’t help but think about all the pert plus bottles that WEREN’T filled with smirnoff vodka that jessica DIDN’T steal from her dad’s liquor cabinet then stash in the side pocket of my flower power suitcase which WASNT then neatly stowed under the congested greyhound on its way to The Pas.. we were angels. trumpet-playing, relay running, puck-shooting angels. and we know whats up. band trips are supposed to be educational, track meets require a strict “zero oreo policy” (rigid cookie law) in order to be successful, and a 9pm curfew is a surefire way NOT to kill my 13 yr old soul the night before the gold medal game. sage wisdom, all of it. now maybe you should be taking some of your own advice, you pinot pirates! mr peterson’s whiskey hangover isnt going to help us navigate our way to victory on the field tomorrow (unless he finds it in his beeline to the bathroom), & goodluck trying to tune the trombones when last night’s cuervo shots are about to make an appearance all over the flute section.
id also like to add breaking hotel property then disposing of the evidence out of the window & sneaking out to buy hairdye to the list of acts we werent committing while the musical stylings of treble charger lulled us to sleep. we certainly never left a lasting impression on any hotel in the form of bright pink stained bath towels.
So I just spent the greater part of an hour writing a 10 word facebook status. Either I am in dire need of extra curricular intervention, or I should take that as some sort of cryptic message from the universe/flying spaghetti monster/the voices/G-Zus that I should devote more of my new year to putting these random musings of mine into some sort of tangible medium that isn’t my brain. My brain’s cool & all, but let’s be real..its pretty terrible at retaining stuff. its like a dollarstore tupperware container that never keeps my sandwich fresh. And the only mold I want on my ham & cheese is muh-fuckin Stilton! …fuck I don’t even think blue cheese and pork have complementary flavor profiles. Failed reference. Its like one of those portable storage units that has been broken into by a homeless man for shelter. And did I mention its mid july & he enjoys to keep the door open to allow for sufficient air flow. My thoughts are like the intoxicating perfume of gutterpig & urine-soaked flannel. For awhile they’re exceptionally pungent, and downright offensive really.. That is until my home girl mother nature throws a breeze my way & then they’re Gone with the Wind (less civil war era aristocrats, more literal odor diffusion). So fuck gentle breezes & fuck cans of beans cooked over garbage can fires, I’m relishing in my head smells!….and now that I’ve likened my thoughts to a vagrant’s beard stench, I think its time to say goodnight.
