Sunday, 6 May 2012
Hi Alcohol, it's me...
At times, I love you. You know I do. Sometimes, particularly in the midst of a glorious weekend, a beer/wine/cocktail is even more tempting than a nude yoga session with Ryan Reynolds. Well, perhaps not, but you see where I'm headed. You are deliciously tasty, and every time I stand with a glass of you in my hand, watching your not-so-goodness swirling seductively just an arms length away from my thirsty mouth, I cannot resist but to sip you politely/down you excitedly. Usually the latter.
Alcohol, we have had some divine times together. You have had me laughing so hard at life that I've felt like my juicy stomach might explode and leak into those even juicier love handles. You have helped me to say things that I've really wanted to say (us writer folk aren't always the best at expressing our deepest thoughts vocally), and you have made every single half-attractive man look like England's answer to Channing Tatum.
Without you I would have never sprinted along a beach hand in hand with 'Where's Wally' at ridiculous o'clock in the morning, freezing my tatty-bo-jangs off, I quite possibly wouldn't have done an amateur acrobatic performance down those stairs at that house party, and I most definitely wouldn't have temporarily believed, for 4 whole minutes of my life, that I have a fantastic operatic voice.
You have also brought some fan-bloody-brilliant human beings into my life. It's amazing how much power drunken high-fives, insane ramblings with red eyed men, and hyperactive shrieky slurs of 'BABE, your dress is GOWWWWWWW-JESS' can have in producing beautiful, sober friendships. Oh alcohol, we have had wild fun together, and I am entirely grateful for the endless hysterical memories that we have created, and the people that have strolled/staggered/slurred their way into my life in the process.
When things are good, they're good. However, it isn't always jolly hysteria. You have a terrible habit of being a little bit too much for me. Said amateur acrobatic performance down those stairs at that house party may well have created a hilarious memory for all involved parties, but it hurt. It hurt so much that I cried. I actually cried. Necessary? Really?!
Additionally, if we add up the number of days, in my lifetime, that I have spent laying in bed looking like I've been dragged through 16 hedges and feasted on by an angry swine, I have probably wasted at least half a year of my youth trying to recover from your influence, doing my 'oh shit' face whilst scrolling through my sent messages. Dizzy dragons, vomit, and trying to escape a gushy text minefield? No can do.
You do peculiar things to me, and you do peculiar things to other people. Once upon a time, I saw a girl parading around town in a dress that she'd clearly forgotten to pull back down after a trip to urination central. Had she have been a little less intoxicated, half of the UK would never have known about those oh-so-shameful 'Sesame Street' knickers. C is for cookie, that's good enough for me, c is for cookie, that's good enough for me, C is for cookie, that's good enough for me, OHHHH cookie, cookie starts with drunk.
Apparently, under the influence of alcohol, I think it's okay to eat 12 pork pies in one sitting (Melton Mowbray rehab, anyone?!), my best friend becomes convinced that she is a lawn mower (oh Tan, you beauty), and certain vile men think that shouting 'pussaaaaay! Corrrrrr, she'd f*cking get it mate, right in the gash!', is a perfectly appropriate chat up line. Ah yes, you sophisticated, charming creature, I shall at once unclasp my bra and jump, breasts flailing, straight into your tempting arms. JAY ZEUS, crazy drunk men. What be the matter with you?!
I will end this letter by saying that I think it's time we had a break. It's not you, it's me. I joke, it's totally you. I have come to the conclusion that downing a one way ticket to drunk city isn't really that worth it. You see, I can prance around to 'you da one' throwing perfectly hideous shapes without giving my liver a bashing, and I most definitely don't need your help in laughing hard at nothing in particular. Just ask the brave, and now half-deaf girls that are burdened with me at the office.
You are an unnecessary expense in one's life, particularly when one is often written off as drunk when she's sober. I just can't be dealing with the horrific photos (finding an adequate pose is hard enough when the room's not spinning), and I am sick of the dizzy dragons, and the pork pie food baby. And the rest of the stuff that is far too embarrassing to write.
A fairly hungover citizen.
PS: If you are a Mr 'pussaaaaaay', you are an utter donkey. And you deserve to be hoofed in the nether regions by a galloping horse.