Buy me tacos and tell me I’m pretty.

I have some experience with alcohol. A lot of experience. Extensive. So much so, that I cannot recall a single bad decision after the age of 20 that wasn’t in some way influenced by liquor. Boys, mainly. Lots and lots of boys. I’ve had enough cheap, meaningless sex to last a lifetime. That’s not to say I was a slut, but I always had a back-up plan and occasionally, Plan B. 

To clarify: there is nothing wrong with cheap meaningless sex. I have just finally come to a place in my life where I don’t require as much external validation. I no longer need a constant dialogue of flattery in order to look in the mirror or sleep at night. It doesn’t suck. What does suck however, is the realization that what was not cheap or meaningless to you, was the other person’s alcohol-fueled mistake. 

I am a drunk, drunk person. There is no questioning my level of sobriety. It’s not if, it’s how much and who is responsible for watching me. I have a point of no return and after a decade or so, I can finally say I’ve learned to stop before I get there. You will not see me vomit or slur or black out. The closest I have come to erasing my brain was the Jameson from a few nights ago and I’m blaming it on the cuffs. 

Speaking of Jameson, S is the soberest drunk person I have ever encountered. I am convinced he could deliver the State of the Union while completely blacked out and do it better than our current, completely sober, (not my) POTUS. Okay, that’s not saying much, but you get the point. In an effort to be helpful, I have begun to jot things down throughout the evening and then send Cliff’s Notes the next day. It’s kind of fun and he gets to keep up with the story. To be fair, alcohol is not entirely to blame, but it certainly doesn’t help the memory situation. Unfortunately, memory isn’t the only situation.

It must be nice to be able to word vomit and have zero accountability. No wonder C and Sleeves get along so well. I have to give it to C on this one. She has never questioned her Cliff’s Notes. Not once has she been indignant in the morning. She knows. And she knows me. She knows I would never embellish her crazy. That’s just part of the deal when you have a person. They make sure you don’t die and you trust them when they tell you you’re a moron or you were sad or the myriad of other possibilities where alcohol is concerned. 

You do not get to question the person responsible for watching your drunk ass. If you trust me enough to break down about something going on in your life, you don’t get to question my recollection. And you better not catch an attitude if I follow up to make sure you’re okay. Fuck. That. Shit. Just because you can’t remember doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. C gets that. S, not so much. 

C is a drunk, drunk person. There is no question when she needs a helper and a helmet. With S, I need a danger word. I need something to indicate that it’s time to stop assigning meaning to anything he says or does. I need a sign that no matter how real or deep or seemingly close, he will have no recollection in 8 hours and may even dispute his cheat sheet. 

That is a lie. I know. I figured it out a couple days ago. I know when he’s blacked out. He’s different. He acts like he likes me. He’s softer. We talk about real shit. It’s not always pretty but it’s real; it feels that way anyway. 

Poof! He’s gone by morning. 

He’s is the only reason I’m still here and the only time he shows up is when he’s too drunk to remember being there. 

What kind of fucked up shit is that. 

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