This is a Drink

Must…not…text…him…


2 shots later-

Hi, im nt drunk, aut i wanted t tell u i love u!!!

…yeah, and tomorrow I’ll look back in my Sent Messages folder and be too horrified to even THINK of sending a “haha, sorry about last night, too much Jack!” text.

Now, I’m sure these guys know that I’m totally smashed when I do this. Hell, I’m not a very tactile person and it can be hard to get a simple “take care” out of me some days and they are aware of that. But still. It bothers me that a couple shots and a drink or five later has me hanging on the nearest slab of breathing meat with pretty eyes and a clever tongue.

That didn’t sound attractive at all.

Rephrase: after a few choice beverages, my inclinations of cleaving to the closest gentleman who possesses only the most virtuous, chivalrous intentions are dramatically heightened to nearly Aphroditic proportions.

There. Lovely.

Anyway.

When I drink, I do so to get drunk. I’m not the type that can just be content with the pleasant, light buzz from a couple rum and cokes or a few screwdrivers. Nope, not for me. I don’t care if it’s 10:00 at night or 2 in the afternoon. If I’m gonna drink, I want to black out. Throwing up doesn’t bother me that much, the idea of alcohol poisoning doesn’t phase me, and I’ve long accepted the fact that my tongue gets crazy loose at the mere mention of tequila.

Have I ever mentioned my love for tequila? I’ll profess it right now, if Tequila were a person, we’d be an item. And I would be perpetually drunk and listening to CCR day in and day out and all would be well or at least as good as it would ever get.

When I drink, I just don’t care. And that’s nice, you know? To not care. To not be concerned with anything, to just sip and swallow my way into sweet, drunken reveries. People can touch me and my senses are dulled enough that I don’t flinch when an arm is slung over my shoulders, when another hand clutches mine, when a light acquaintance tackles me in a tight hug.

I love the way my cheeks get warm, and when my lips start to tingle I know I’m on my way to a good buzz. Then there’s that funny, tickling sort of feeling in the front of my skull that makes me either want to scratch at my forehead or nuzzle against a pillow. I like when my fingers go numb, when I can’t feel them hit the keyboard or grip the pen or the half-empty plastic cup. I like not caring if I’m smiling too wide, if my mascara’s smudged, if my bra strap is showing. Shove a hand in my hair, grab hold and give it a good, hard tug and see if I care that it’s disheveled, I won’t feel my roots tingle from the pull of greedy fingers. I won’t even wince. Hell, I might even like it.

So get me drunk. Please, please get me drunk. I don’t like second-guessing myself, and drifting under the influence of bright liquors makes me lose every inhibition, forget my stutters, drop every faltering thought and just feel.

I’m not too big on the blurred headache that comes with a hangover, but a few hours of bliss is well worth it. Don’t I have the right to be fearless?