Just Say No

I should not drink. Drinking means consuming empty calories that my body does not need. Effects can be minimized by choosing a less caloric beverages, like hard liquor mixed with diet soda. I do this. Additionally, drinking impairs ones motor functioning. I always metro or cab it if I'm drinking, so this is not issue. My motor functions while sober are, at best, questionable so this is even less of an issue. Drinking lessens cognitive functioning, and is, in essence, brain damage. Decision making capabilities are limited. As noted by The S and every one of my friends, I already make bad decisions all the time, particularly when it comes to men. Obviously, this is not the reason why I should not drink.

Although it is a depressant, alcohol overly stimulates and enhances the most chaotic functions of my mind. Rather than feeling euphoric or sleepy, I become overly anxious. Operating at an already elevated base level of anxiety, escalations produce thoughts that would appear to be totally insane to anyone else. Many people experience regret and guilt in the wake of drinking, but I experience it while drinking. Yet I continue to engage in this most self-destructive behavior.

Tonight, I am drunk. Focusing my brain's compulsions on writing is somewhat of a relief, here in the pitch black of my living room. Earlier, when no such outlet existed, my mind ran away with itself. Thoughts raced like so many intoxicated drivers on St. Patty's Day weekend. But not normal thoughts. Not "I wonder if I'll get to fuck tonight" or "I hope Joe Dirt isn't on Comedy Central again tonight." It is, by the way. Those kinds of thoughts, even those exact thoughts are there, to be certain, but the fun doesn't end there.

In the train station, I silently judge the girl who repeatedly says "fucking-a" as though replaced "ass" with it's beginning letter lessens the impact of the cuss. Or because it makes her appear cooler--"I'm so badass that I don't have to prove it by saying the entire swear word." Stupid cunt. I am superior because I say "ass" as freely as I see fit. I am inferior because she is thinner. I dub myself ultimately superior because she is with a short, fat-ish man in a blue striped button down shirt. Oh and the stupid couples I hang around with. UGH. I am superior because I am not so insecure that I require a relationship to validate my life. I do not need to express affection publicly to remind myself that I am attractive and that others should desire me. Clearly this is evident without any effort on my part. I am inferior because I will go home alone tonight, and spend this entire trek on public transportation wishing that I had someone to split designated driver duties with. Wishing that someone would wrap his arm around my waist and reassure me. Wishing that I would not return home to find an empty and dark living room, void of reassurance and comfort. Fuck that. I can self-soothe. I don't need anyone else. All I ever have for certain is myself, and that's more than ample. My pants keep falling down but every pair a try in a size smaller has a major design flaw and fails to fit. The hips are always too tight, or the calves. Why am I cursed with such big hips and calves? No man has ever commented favorably on these attributes. That girl at work has big hips, but when she walked in yesterday morning, the Friend of a Friend said that she looked like Jackie O in her sunglasses, whereas he told me that I resembled Harry Caray in mine. I wish I had some Cookie Crisp at home. I shouldn't have eaten so much at dinner, and even though I wrote every single thing down and know that each item was well within what I should have had, I regret every bite. Every bit of joy I felt swallowing that delicious ginger sauce is now morphing into self-berating. I'll walk home from the metro, rather than take a taxi. Burn off a few calories before I pass out. That's the ticket. But oh, one block off the metro, my new shoes begin cutting into my feet. Of course it's raining, and now my new shoes will be ruined. Don't spring for a taxi, just ruin the shoes I purchased only three hours ago. My feet are wet too, which pisses me off. In a way, it's always raining. Why would someone text me to say "I'm in Adams Morgan" and "Maybe we can meet up" and then not respond when I say I'm downtown? That makes no sense. Was the birthday message I wrote in that card for a coworker in December appropriate? Maybe I shouldn't have written "Enjoy those days off." That was stupid. I need to stop biting my cuticles because they look disgusting. No one will like me with fingers like this. If I had a cat, I'm sure that it would be staring at me as I write this. Wide-eyed, it would be judging me with its animal innocence. In a sense, every relationship and one-night stand I've ever had was intentionally committed on my part as fodder for a novel I will probably never write and a blog that I write poorly. These are a portion of the thoughts speeding through me now. I could go on all night, listing them as they appear and fade almost faster than I notice them. These thoughts will keep me awake tonight, and cause me to spend most of tomorrow lying face down on the couch staring at a Law & Order marathon without seeing it. And there are rocks in my shoes.