I’ve come to realize, though, that a lot of self-pity and anger is completely preventable. Like that time I slept with a straight guy after the Raleigh Whole Foods Christmas Party of 2010. He helped me find my keys (a situation I will reference momentarily) and I helped him find his prostate. I knew he was the type of mofo who was going to stay in the closet no matter how much he liked massaging ballsacks with his face, but I still let it get to me when his answer to ‘Can I have your number?’ was ‘You have my email.’ Then I shot him in the taint with a staple gun.
That story is relevant to my current state of affairs in two ways:
1) Because my rationalization of taking said ass-pirate-in-hiding to bed went something like: Whiskey → whiskey → beer → flirt → beer → dance → beer → beer → kiss → beer → cock parade → sleep. As you can see, that great life choice was brought to you by the letters W and B. Booze affects me like it does a lot of people; I will do things that I normally might think at least once about.
2) Because I lost my keys. Scientific observation: I loose shit when I’m drunk. Here’s a quick list of things that have disappeared after nights of bountiful drinking:
- aforementioned keys
- a spare tire (the kind in the trunk of your car, not the kind around your waist; which coincidentally you will acquire from excess boozing)
- a car
- a shoe (singular, because I still have the other one)
- copious amounts of fake hair
- a phone
- and most recently (as in, very early this past Saturday morning), another phone
If you can’t tell, I’m going into Instagram withdrawal and throwing myself a pity-party. You see, all the really, really, really stupid/unnessecary/dangerous things I’ve ever done in my life occurred when my blood alcohol level was raised… slightly. Respectively, a lot of the really, really, really fun/interesting/memorable experiences have also happened while I was plastered – except for the ones I don’t remember, because I was plastered.
These thoughts have been going through my head for the better part of a year, and I think it’s finally time to really change things. Loosing my phone isn’t nearly the worst thing that has resulted from my inconsistent binge drinking, but since it’s going to take me a month to save up enough money to get the insurance replacement, it’s enough. Now I have to conversate via various pieces of fruit.
|Que nonsensical conversations via my back-up banana-phone|
The truth is I don’t drink very well. I’m good at knowing my limit, but I’m better at watching it fly by at the speed of sound. I can’t really stop once I’ve started, and even though I don’t drink very often, it takes days for me to recover, so the loss of time I could be doing something production is quite measureable.
To be even more truthful, alcoholism runs on both sides of my family. It was only recently brought to my attention that drinking beer at every meal and having refrigerators designated solely for milk cartons full of homemade wine are not entirely normal. I’m not at all considering that I’m an alcoholic – I drink about once a month, never alone, and only when I know I’m going to be awkward and nervous… which is whenever I meet people or dance in public.
When I think about why I drink, it’s probably similar to the same reason everyone else does: to shoot my insecurities in the taint with a staple gun and have a good fucking time. My social awkwardness and anxiety are pretty much flattened once I have a glass or two of vodcake. Otherwise, if there’s someone I want to talk to, I’ll stand behind them for half an hour until one of my friends feels sorry enough for me to play the part of introducer (which is exactly what happened when I tried to meet Sharon Needles - and then she told me to lay on the ground like I was dead, which wasn’t very difficult since I had such a nervous sweat going on that I’d lost twelve pounds in water weight and was near falling off the roof of the Standard).
I’d like to break through those massive walls of insecurity without relying entirely on a booze-boost. I’d like to hold a conversation with someone I don’t know without igniting an episode of explosive diarrhea. And it’s strange, because I’ve never had any social anxiety until the last few years – so I think it’s healthy that I can at least see that I’m a nutcase and want to fix it on my own terms, rather than drink just to treat a few symptoms, without really addressing the problem (and probably making it worse).
Apart from that, it would also be nice to dance in public without the mental image of me looking like a wacky-waving-inflatable-arm-flailing-tube tranny, which usually requires a glass of Mackers to get out of my head.
It would also be nice to have an absolutely epic night out with friends without the inevitable two-day recovery period, which consists of playing back and forth in my head all the regretful things I did. Or things I lost. Or people I may or may not have met. Or money that disappeared from my bank account. Or text message I probably shouldn’t have sent. Or that I missed a potentially perfect Saturday afternoon with a boy that I like because I was too hung-over and phoneless to be in contact with anything beyond the four sides of my stupid Ikea bed.
Conclusion: I’m breaking up with booze, for a minimum of six months, just to see what happens. To keep me motivated (and sane), I’m going to write down (and share with you) all the shitshows that have littered the past few years of my life, including but not limited to: hiding in bushes while barefoot along a North Carolina highway, waking up pantsless in my car in a busy parking garage, and taking a nap on the streets of uptown Manhattan.
I’m sure I will be tempted to fall off my new little wagon – so friendly encouragement and copious amounts of fizzy-water are welcome. And to relieve my looming anxiety and stress (which really only occur during social situations, which unfortunately I have to endure quite often, being human and all), I’ll probably have to increase my daily masturbation time by at least 50% and invest in a top-of-the-line stress ball that will fit into my party-clutch. Learning how to approach people probably wouldn’t hurt, either.
Cheers to adventures in sobriety! Someone, please, drink a glass of vodcake for me.
PS – For those who follow me on Instagram – prepare for a sabbatical; it may be some time before I’m reunited with a mobile device.