My first taste of alcohol came when I was a kid: sis and I explored mom and dad’s liquor cabinet and decided to take a drink of Midori Melon. With such an introduction, it was no wonder I never actually drank an entire alcoholic drink until I was 29. I have graduated to 100 proof vodka, but that’s not because I’ve become a better drinker. It’s because I’m cheap and I drink so slowly that 70 proof would never put me to bed, which is pretty much the only reason I own vodka in the first place. My sleep ritual, let me show you it.
Friday night, I hit a new high/low in my drinking career. Don’t get excited: there was no puking in hair, no drunk dialing, and no dancing on a coffee table (also because I don’t own a coffee table). I mostly just drunk-Twittered a bunch of stupidity and then fell asleep with my legs hanging off the bed. No warning. Just BAM. Next thing I knew, Jay was moving my legs over and putting a blanket on me. My necklace and hair clip were apparently removed by gnomes.
Upon waking up shakey and pukey-feeling (and thus on the cusp of a panic attack), I couldn’t fathom why people volunteer for this. Vodka to fall asleep makes sense: it’s probably less-damaging than drinking NyQuil every night, which is what I used to do. I had a decorative cut glass bottle by the bed. Vodka to pass out in one’s clothes and contacts doesn’t make sense. Was it fun? Yeah, at the time, I guess it was. Was it worth feeling like stir-fried ass the next day? No. Thus, I shan’t be repeating this behavior any time soon. I got drunk. It was anti-climactic, and almost kept me from getting anything done Saturday. I tried it, it ended up kind of stupidly.
Sorry if you missed it. OK, not really.