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.


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Site Footer

%d bloggers like this: