*DISCLAIMER* I get hammered with only the best of friends, who keep me safe and with them at all times. Even if we’re all sh*tfaced, there’s always someone playing parent and I’m always in good hands.
But with that said, I should now let you know that I tend to blackout.
Some of my favorite past times I’ll never remember. And I blame my drunk alter-ego.
When I enter this state of mind, somebody new takes over—a relentless creature far from her sober counterpart.
Typically, it starts with a beer immediately followed by a sober shot of Jameson, which leads to more beers, which leads to more Jameson.
It’s a viscous cycle that is my post-work shenanigans…
She is both my best friend and worst enemy. She’s all night disastrous fun, but quite the scandal. She shamelessly flirts and confidently parades herself around any situation, but wakes me up with the wrong men in my bed.
“Wait, how old are you? Yeah, that was a mistake.”
She is responsible for taking 3 a.m. dips in the Atlantic Ocean. She dances when she’s not supposed to and becomes a sloppy sass as the night goes on.
She is the definition of “crossing the line.”
In my younger days, I could still halfway control her—letting her out, but keeping her under some kind of supervision. Twenty-five has given her full range and motion to do whatever she pleases at whatever the cost—just ask my bank account.
People love going out with her because her favorite thing to do is make sure that everyone is on the same drunken level she is. “Who needs a shot? Let’s see, one, two, three? Yeah, seven shots of Fireball, please!”
She spends money like she has it and gives me the bill in the morning. I’ve learned not to check my bank account until I deposit another paycheck. I don’t feel like I’ve lost too much if I do it that way. She’s a bad influence, maybe even the worst.
She’s unstable physically and mentally, but especially physically. I can’t count the number of bruises and scars I have from her. She’s definitely a stumbling walker and dancer.
The night’s not over unless she’s eaten shit in some extravagant way. She might as well be walking on marbles with rubber legs.
She’s known to occasionally rip off her sticky boobs (ladies, you understand), slap them together and shove them far in my purse along with my dignity because she tires of wearing them both. I always know it was a good night when I find those things somewhere they’re not supposed to be.
All she needs is one shot of whiskey and it’s all over. That villainous creature buries me so deep I hardly escape by morning.
The only things on her mind are bad intentions and worse decisions. She’s a fight starter and a sh*t talker—my rage, my riot.
She’s my excuse for an embarrassing night, what keeps me from leaving the country during a shame-hangover.
She’s a mess, but she’s my mess.
Some may call her a disgrace, but I call her a violent delight.
I love her and hate her and wouldn’t change that girl for the world.
[images via We Heart It]
