Whisky, Words, And A Grave

Whisky, Words, And A Grave

Do you ever feel like you’ve become the worst version of yourself? Like you opened the Pandora’s box of all your hateful parts? Your hurts, your spite, your arrogance, the condescension, or the secret feelings that has suffocated you and they just babbled up the surface? Alcohol opened such box this weekend.

I’m pretty sure everyone has had their share of the most embarrassing drunk dialing, drunk texting, and recently, it’s drunk emailing. I haven’t had a drink for a long time now as I’m doing keto, yoga, and gym. I know my alcohol is considerably low now.

Ask Not What Alcohol Can Do For You

Last weekend, I was supposed to attend a work related party. At the last minute, I changed my mind after I got made up. I wasn’t feeling very social. I didn’t feel like smiling or talking to anyone. Instead, I resolved to be very productive. It’s been a busy week, I was juggling many things. I just wanted to chill at home, with a glass of wine or four, watch my favorite TV series, write my blog. I was hoping to get some inspiration from alcohol as I’ve been drawing blanks lately, kinda like Edgar Allan Poe.

I cursed under my breath when I found out my local grocer ran out of wine. Instead, I got some whisky. Well hello there whisky, it’s me Jen. Oh well, whisky has lesser calories than red wine anyway. Don’t ask me where I got that info, I usually don’t question the made-up nuggets of wisdom when it comes to alcohol.

In Vino Veritas

As expected, I wasn’t able to do any blogging. I ended up practicing some of the difficult yoga asanas that I couldn’t do yet. I tried the one-legged king pigeon pose, and I could do it! Wow, I’m a pretzel, I thought. Maybe I should do yoga when I’m a little drunk! Please don’t follow my example, it’s not good. I don’t recommend this!

I got tired and decided to dance like a lunatic. I’m currently fixated with Bazzi’s Cosmic album. All was fun and dance until I checked my phone. Messages from significant other: none. No messages, not from your friends, not from your dog, not even from your mother.61135547fd3562e35fc39ce73fb525a6

I’m usually a happy drunk but The Pity Train arrived and decided to join the party. Fine, I’m so tired of figuring you out, your mind games, your insensitive, selfish ass. I wish you’d just say what you mean, and mean what you say. Why do you make everything so damned hard Chris?  Fueled by alcohol, I sent him text messages.

I checked my email, and I got one from a girl friend. I was feeling miffed at her because she’s been overanalyzing things I said. I recently took a social media hiatus because I was busy with work and other stuff, and her messages were bordering on the annoying. Now this email…I replied with a short but strongly worded email. Then I saw another email from someone. I was debating if I should tell him how I really feel about him, give him a piece of my mind. Don’t do it! But I did it anyway. I figured, why not alienate everyone in one go? I swear I could see my guardian angel wringing his hands in helplessness. I remembered thinking I’d probably regret it in the morning, so I mentally told myself I better sleep until noon.

The Morning Noon After

I checked my phone, and heaved a huge sigh of relief. Thank God I didn’t drunk dial anyone. But when I saw my text messages and emails, the relief was short-lived. Oh.Holy.Jesus. I cringed and wished the earth would swallow me.  I felt like I’m in one of Bazzi’s songs. I meant the things I said, at that time. Or did I? Alcohol makes people uninhibited. We say things we couldn’t have the guts to say sober, that’s why it’s called liquid courage.

Screen Shot 2018-05-21 at 8.07.00 PMI believe that people don’t mean everything they say when inebriated. It doesn’t mean that they are lying. It’s just emotions often run high when alcohol fueled.  I meant all the emotions I wrote when I’m drunk, especially my heartaches, but I definitely don’t mean the anger, the nasty things I say.  In alcohol’s defense, I say and do all sorts of craziness too when I’m sober. The only difference is, I can consciously control and filter myself.

No good story ever starts with “so I was eating a salad”,  but I still think I need a shovel now, and a grave, a really deep one, to bury myself in. I hope they serve whisky in hell.

 

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