I don’t drink. There’s a reason for this – I’m a monster when I do. I have absolutely zero self control so if I’m drunk, I’ll fuck on a first date and regret it every day after. Certain drinks, Jaegarmeister being one of them, make me angry and once I’ve got a bee in my bonnet, there’s very little I can do to stop it.
Both of those things happened last Saturday when I stupidly decided that drinking in the BAKING heat of Britain, in direct sunlight with no shade, for nine hours straight would be a bloody marvellous idea. Throw in a bottle of Prosecco, two bottles of rose wine (half of one I spilt all over the grass), a couple of bottles of beer and you have yourself a very drunk recipe for disaster.
Translation: NSSITC starts to make out with Bestie (male BFF of 15 years) with no fucks given. Also gives herself mild heatstroke.
Add a couple of Jaegarbombs because that one guy with more money than sense shows up with ridiculously expensive drinks and stupid games that we all must partake in. Rounders, for example. I rugby-tackled my tiny female friend to the floor and I’m pretty sure it made her cry. Why did I do that? Because I got super competitive and she was in my way. I was drunk. My reflexes were hardly on point. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, something I apologised profusely for, and I’m in the process of organising flowers to be sent.
Back to Bestie and I – we get too touchy-feely together when we’re drunk, and there’s always a point where I realise that. Instead of dealing with it in a mature, adult fashion, I really don’t. I deal with it like a child – I pick a fight, I blame everything on him, and I say spiteful shit that I want to slap the shit outta myself for later. I’m surprised I have any friends left. It’s the Jaegermeister, you see. When I have it, I’m a bitch. When I don’t have it, I can handle myself … ish. But when that friend turns up with his great ideas and persuasive nature, it’s hard to dodge the Jaeger-bullet.
I don’t really remember much of what happened. I just flipped in that way I do about an hour or so after the Jaegerbomb hit, stormed off, tried to get home, lost a bag, Bestie gave me money and I told him to stay at the party. I got home and realised I didn’t have my keys. I tried to break in via the back door and failed. I tried to wake everyone up and failed. I couldn’t believe that everyone was in bed at 1030pm on a Saturday night. In the end, a housemate let me in. I almost kicked a door in, I decided to smoke a joint, it fucked my already hammered self up big style. Bestie followed me home, smoked with me, and we cried to each other about how sorry we were for a good couple of hours.
Sunday was the day I died. Not just because I’d given myself mild heatstroke but also because I’d drunk enough to sink the Titanic, I hadn’t eaten for probably around 24 hours because I was rushing to get work done in time for the festivities and forgot about eating. I was also dying of utter embarrassment. I am a fucking embarrassment. Only when I’m drunk though, which I think is my only saving grace in all this. It’s only after Jaegerbombs that my inner psychotic bitch comes out. I went to a fund-raising event with Bestie last year and we got stupidly drunk together and carried on partying at home until 6 in the morning. At not one point did we make out or start a fight. I didn’t have Jaegerbombs. A year ago I went to a boxing event and exactly the same thing happened – we got blind drunk, did Jaegerbombs, made out and I started a fight, embarrassing myself. See the pattern? I’m totally blaming that drink. I can still taste it now.
So now I need to apologise to the entire world for acting like a complete and utter cunt. And when I mean cunt, I really do mean cunt. I was awful. I don’t remember any of it but I know it was bad. I can imagine.
I do not drink for exactly this reason – because I never know what might happen. Bestie and I have only just made this Jaegerbomb connection in my defence, and apparently we all have that one drink that turns us into a monster. But the only reason I drank that night is because Bestie’s face was really sad when I said I didn’t want to. It was his birthday … If I couldn’t keep it together for one night for him, I was totally fucked. I guess I’m totally fucked.
Three days later and I still felt like utter shit. My head hurt. My skin was tight all over my body and every movement was painful. My muscles felt like I’ve ran a marathon. My eyes couldn’t adjust to bright light so I locked myself away in my room with the curtains closed and no lights on.
Everyone hates me because I’m an embarrassment. I knew it would be a bad idea. In my defence, I did tell Bestie that more than once.
The first lesson I’ve learned in my thirties is that I seriously cannot and should not drink. Just leave the fizzy pop alone. I don’t just lose the night itself, I lose the next day, the day after that, sometimes the day after that, and a few friends too. What’s the point? I don’t even like drinking. I don’t like the taste of anything except Prosecco, I don’t like being drunk, and I don’t like the fact that I can’t control the monster within.
So yeah, for the fourth time in two years (which is literally how many times I drink), I definitely mean it this time:
I’m never drinking again.