Thoughts From The Bottle
Being the enquiring, self-critical person that I am, I often asked myself “Baz, why do you drink so much?”
Being the tipsy, careless jackass that I also am, I mostly just countered with “why not?” and poured another one.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
After drinking pretty much daily for years now, going to bed sober almost feels like cheating. And being faithful is one the most important things in any relationship.
Some people claim I have issues and they’re probably right. It’s just that they fail to see that it’s not the alcohol that is the problem in the first place. Trading in a little alcoholism for everything else that bugs me for some time sounds like a damn good deal to me.
But I don’t think it’s the habit that makes me continue to drink but rather the natural beauty of getting hammered. Getting shitfaced drunk is like falling in love.
Only better…
From flirting with the first sips, to the nasty breakup with the contents of your stomach afterwards, it is a very emotive affair that I can’t even imagine to pass up forever.
Just thinking about the stimulatory feeling taking hold of your body while sipping the first couple of drinks makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
It’s therapy. With every drink there’s the weight of a world taken off your back. I honestly believe it’s impossible to find true happiness sober.
The puny side-effects such as not remembering any fun you had, headaches that make you feel like you ran chicken against a bus and lost, waking up next to butt-ugly women not knowing where you are or awkward late-night calls to your ex-girlfriends’ home won’t really stop anyone who’s experienced the spirit of Bacchus.
There’s not much I’m more convinced of than this:
Drinking is worth all the humiliation it brings along.
Speaking of humiliation...
Call me a hypocrite, but despite my own fondness for that beautiful, braincell-consuming hobby there’s very little that annoys me more than hanging out with drunk people. It’s okay (a lot of fun, actually) when I’m plastered, but the slightest discrepancy of our levels of drunkenness determines whether you’re my soul mate or whether I hate your guts.
That can’t entirely be ascribed to jealousy, I think. It’s really just not fun being around people more drunk than you. I think that’s easy to understand (provided that you’re sober right now – and if so, shame on you! Get a drink immediately, I’m going to explain that crap anyway).
For instance, babbling on and on about shit you told everyone twice already just won’t bring on the same excitement in people as the first time you did that. The fact you’re harder to understand every time doesn’t help either. Is anyone with a buzz ever able to grasp that? Fuck no! That concept is alien to the inebriate.
Another favorite of every proud drunk is asking for trouble. But not when you’re alone. Of course it’s only fun as long as there are people embarrassed for you and/or scared to death of the shit you’ll get them into. Which is justifiable in most cases.
Look: contrary to popular drunkard belief, telling a bouncer that you gang-banged his mother while calling her dirty names or pissing against a Mafia-looking car waiting at a red-light is not hilarious.
If you don’t want to miss out on all the fun getting wasted undoubtedly is, without your friends losing all sympathy they ever had for you, there’s only one way to avoid shit like that (and a very entertaining one at that):
Practice, practice, practice.
And I guess with that advice I finally answered my initial question that provoked this article myself; I rule.
And I’m thirsty.
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