Tonight has not yet happened. 2010 has not yet happened. But this is what might have happened:
At the stroke of midnight I was nowhere near a girl and nowhere near mistletoe. I was at the other end of the roof terrace, vomiting over a railing. No one saw me doing it, and I didn’t tell anyone I did it. It was the first time I had puked in a long time, and I blame it on cigarettes.
I only smoke cigarettes when I’m really drunk. I hate them otherwise. Granted, I HAVE smoked cigarettes sober before, but it’s different when I’m sober. It’s a calculated decision. It’s me saying, “OK, I’m bored as fuck right now, so I’m going to smoke a cigarette. I know it’s going to make me feel like shit, but I don’t care — I want to get high.”
On Mina’s roof terrace I must have smoked at least 10 cigarettes. It was Rachel’s fault. The Marb Lights appeared before me as if on a conveyor belt, and I kept sucking them down. We weren’t really even talking — in fact, I think 50 percent of the time she had her back to me, but she still kept handing me cigarettes. This was after I had just gotten done chugging a bottle of champagne by myself in the bathroom. Why I brought it into the bathroom is a mystery. Why I decided to chug it is not.
It has always been assumed that if any kissing is going to happen on New Year’s Eve it’s going to happen at the stroke of midnight. This was not the case for me. I ended up kissing a girl named Cassandra (or rather she kissed me) at 9:30pm. I did not want to kiss her. She was not attractive and had a personality that reminded me of the face of a pug. Her laugh — high pitched followed by a guttural guffaw — sounded like a zebra getting punched in the stomach. She would also yelp and say, “Oh my God, I know exactly what you’re talking about!” after everything anyone said. At one point I ventured that I had been extremely constipated the week before just to see if she would say, “Oh my God I know exactly what you’re talking about!” but she was too busy paying attention to another conversation, one which involved the return policy of leather boots at Nordstrom.
When I walked out on the balcony to have my first cigarette of the night, Cassandra followed me. She had on a short black dress displaying pasty calves. The upper part of the dress had some lace that was less than flattering and reminded me of my Grandmother’s funeral. Before I could take a drag off the cigarette, she pulled me towards her and pressed her large red lips against my face. Not my lips. My face. Her lips were big enough to cover a decent portion of my face, and after she was done kissing me she tugged thoughtfully on my scarf and scampered back inside. It was the last time I would see her that night, though I would acutely remember the feeling of her lips on the area just beneath my nose when I vomited over the balcony railing a few hours later.
After vomiting, I made my way down to the street. It was 12:05 am, the fifth minute of 2010. I walked along Broadway in the general direction of my house, and vaguely wondered why I had gone to the party in the first place. I had talked to practically no one, drunk entirely too much, and gotten kissed by a girl who reminded me of a dog. The highlight of the night — by far — was walking home: knowing that it was over, knowing that my bed awaited me, and knowing that tomorrow, or rather today, I could start to forget my last night of 2009.
This entry was written by , posted on December 31, 2009 at 8:42 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, alcohol, master cleanse and tagged 2010, alcohol, bars, Capitol Hill, drinking, new year's eve, nightlife, partying, seattle, sex. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Last year, if you recall, during the master cleanse days, I was sober for a month and a half. Then one night I started to drink. It was because I was interning for The Stranger and writing for the music and nightlife blog and I was convinced that in order to write cool posts I needed to go out to the bars and drink. So I went out to Pioneer Square and I got one beer and then I took the ferry back to my parents’ house and wrote a blog post that was entirely underwhelming. Then about a week later I went to Linda’s with Barry and Darren where we were later met by Zack. We drank about six pitchers, though I drank probably two thirds less than everyone else because I was trying to drink as slowly as possible. Then we went to The Cha Cha Lounge and drank what must’ve been at least another four pitchers. By this time Darren had a euphoric expression on his face that looked like he had just been injected with horse tranquilizers, Zach was smoking cigarettes at regular intervals and Barry was, well, more or less the same.
Then about a week later I blacked out.
This is how it always happens when I start drinking again after a period of sobriety. I ease back into it: one night I’ll have a drink or two, the next night I’ll get tipsy and the night after that I’ll get completely shit-faced and wake up feeling guilty and nauseous. I can’t just stay at the one or two drink stage or even the tipsy stage. I need to feel what will happen when my body is pushed to the very upper limits of its ability to process alcohol. I need to feel what it’s like when my liver starts to grimace with pain and what it feels like to be wretchedly hungover. My body just needs to know.
Right now I’m entering that curious stage again. I’ve been sober for about three weeks and I’m bored out of my skull. I’m entertaining the thought of drinking tonight. I probably won’t, but I’m entertaining the idea. I want to have a few drinks because I think it might make my life more fun. I think it might lead to decadence and meeting loads of pretty girls. I think it might lead to the kinds of good times you see in the movies.
Which, of course, I know is not true.
All I need to think about right now is my history. Drinking has almost never lead to unexpected awesomeness for me. Granted, it HAS a few times, but far more often it has lead to unexpected awfulness. It has rarely lead to meeting strange and beautiful women that find me attractive; women seem to find me far less attractive when I’ve been drinking.
So there you have it. As much as it sucks, sober is the way to go. Better to be bored out of my skull than wallow in my self-loathing. Better to not expect to meet strange and beautiful women at all than to get my hopes only to have them dashed time and time again. Better to keep my head on my shoulders.
Right?
This entry was written by , posted on December 11, 2009 at 10:41 pm, filed under Uncategorized and tagged alcoholism, blackout, drinking, party, partying. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.