Beware the Accidental Drunk (state not noun, but he’s probably bad news too)

[The problem with blogging is that you're constantly cockblocking your character and reputation in the future without even realizing it until all of a sudden you're scrolling back through your online writing to find a particular gem that captures the now ever-embarrassing early twenties era. This is made worse by the realization that this particular post not only launched you into a temporary freelance writing career, but could also be considered the earliest form of the blog you still maintain four years later. Now, without apologies, excuses or explanations, I have reposted that very piece here in order to provide a debaucherous context for the Version 2.0 written for you below wherein I try to explain the frequent occurrence of a phenomenon entirely out of my control.]

For any of you who follow me on Twitter, this should come as no surprise but, occasionally (often), I get drunk by accident. No but seriously. Stay with me here. It’s a thing. IT’S A THING*. And I’m going to tell you all about it so that you can achieve it in your own lives, thereby shirking all responsibilities, stigmas and red flags of drinking by one’s self on a weeknight and then attempting to hide it from one’s loved ones while simultaneously broadcasting it to the internet. I mean so that you can avoid it. Yes – the second one.

First off, let it be known that I don’t believe in needing a special occasion to drink a glass of wine and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. The problem, or shall we say OPPORTUNITY, is that while I find red wine much more appropriate for a relaxing, end of a workday drink while I read GQ and try to convince myself that all the models’ faces and bodies have been photoshopped within an inch of their lives, thereby justifying the fact that I just ate Five Cheese Stuffed Jumbo Shells, I am the only permanent residence of my home who drinks red wine. Thus, when I open a bottle, I’m committing to drinking it over the next two nights because that’s the arbitrary amount of time in which I’ve decided an open bottle of wine is at its best.

While I have no issue throwing away recyclables and slowly killing the polar bears and low-lying countries of the world, I refuse to let a bottle of wine go to waste – I mean please…I’m not a monster – and perhaps put unnecessary pressure on myself to consume. And consume quickly.

Sitting there, making myself feel particularly vulnerable thanks to the fine stylings of European fashion, I’ll enjoy a single, potentially over-poured glass of wine in my ideal environment of clean surfaces and low-lighting with sleeping puppy accoutrements. It is at times like these that I feel proud of how far I’ve come – the sights of blinding strobe lights, the sounds of tribal drum and bass remixes, and the taste of vodka-flavoured death seem like distant memories of a colourful youth. I might even start feeling a little smug in how refined I’ve become.

And five minutes later I. Am. HAMMERED.

Word-slurring, computer screen-blurring, back to the kitchen for a second, third and fourth glass tip-toeing, BedRock rapping HAMMERED.

The thing with all of a sudden realizing that you’re not just ‘give it twenty minutes and it’ll fade‘ buzzed, but rather ‘holy shit I should probably start thinking about hangover breakfast‘ d-runk, is that it’s really fucking funny at the time and very easy to convince yourself that you should probably just finish the bottle of wine because well…what else are you going to do with it?

Just like that, you’re drunk enough to hit the dancefloor only you don’t have a dancefloor – you just have a Blackberry, an internet account and two tired dogs who by all accounts are not amused about the whole situation. All of a sudden reality hits: you’re sleep with the best man at your sister’s wedding soused and have to figure out how in the sweet name of Shiraz you’re going to explain this to your spouse when he gets bored of science fiction re-runs/preparing lesson plans/looking at topless guys on Facebook/reading the entire universe of wikipedia articles on the potential for light-speed space travel as written by Stephen Hawking. Or whatever normal boyfriends busy themselves with. Sports? Porn? Pooping?

The answer is one that I’m not proud of – you can’t explain it. You just can’t. Sober people don’t understand anything a person who has just drank an entire bottle of wine on a Wednesday has to say about why they just drank an entire bottle of wine on a Wednesday. No…you have to hide it making for a deliciously entertaining evening of revisiting eleventh grade drinking protocol: avoid, distract, blatantly lie.

“My lips are red because I just made out with a clown.”

“I’m slurring my words because I had a really hard day. Why can’t you just be supportive?”

“No, I did not just fall. You did. Shut up. Stop falling, fall-y.”

“Isn’t a guy allowed to collapse on the dog bed until the spins pass anymore?”

“Everyone loads up RENT videos and has a good cry every now and then…”

If you act weird/passive-aggressive/straight-up insane enough, they’ll likely leave you alone, blaming it on a bad day at the office. Then all you have to do is kick back and relax until you can safely stumble into bed to focus on more important things like not throwing up before morning. If you fail at this, try convincing them that you got a concussion earlier that day – just something clever I tried (unsuccessfully) back in high school.

Most importantly, whenever you accidentally get yourself in this situation – because what sort of sick person would ever do something like this on purpose or say just for sport? – you need to make sure to use ample forms of social media. Why? Because interacting with people on Twitter means that you’re not drinking alone. Also, it’s fun for the rest of us to make fun of you the next day when you’re all, “FUCK ME HOW DID THAT HAPPEN MY HEAD OH MY HEAD #ijustwantdeath“.

Or at least all of you seem to enjoy that part.

So there you have it. How to get drunk by yourself. I mean, how to avoid getting drunk by yourself because that’s a bad, bad thing and not at all funny or something I do on a regular basis or something I actively prepare for by buying expensive cheeses because if you add cheese to any wine scenario it becomes a classy affair and not at all tawdry or socially problematic. And if it were to happen, I certainly wouldn’t lie about it to the newf or finish the whole bottle by myself or watch live videos of Kelly Clarkson until 2am or get shifty eyes from my coworkers the next morning as I clutch a greasy breakfast sandwich in one hand and a bottle of Advil in the other and a plastic bag lined garbage under my desk.

That would never happen…repeatedly…on purpose…because I think it’s funny.

Who said what now?

[*No seriously. It IS a thing because Jamie and Nicole told me in Vegas that they do it too and while 'three's a crowd', three's also enough to make something a THING rather than one person with problematic behavioural habits when it comes to the consumption of alcohol. And holy shit am I ever going to have to delete the bejesus out of this entire goddamn blog should we ever try to adopt a child...]

Photo Credit: Mr. T in DC]