It’s the weekend and once again, I’m at home – reading, writing, and playing piano – rather than at a bar or party, pounding back drinks.
I wasn’t always such a big, fat, skin-flappy vagina. About halfway through high school, I started drinking myself retarded twice a week. Then I went away for undergrad and made my former self look like a member of the Christian Womens’ Temperance League. Weekends, weeknights, midday – my friends and I would drink until we blacked out, fell asleep, started fights, and broke shit. Then we would drink more.
When I became an office stiff, grinding out my days at a worse-than-useless job, I started drinking two or three nights a week. On the high side of “average” for a 24-year old young professional, I suppose. But it was an aggressive, goal-oriented sort of drinking. Get wasted. Turn off the internal monologue reminding me that I’m settling into a cookie-cutter life. Find sluts. Tell stories with friends the next day. Rinse and repeat.
A lot of middle-aged people have a standard weekday evening routine: Get home from work, eat dinner, and then drink until they go to bed. I don’t mean pound-a-bottle-of-jack-and-smack-your-kids drinking, but just a casual 3-6 beers while watching TV until 11 o’clock. Lately, I’ve noticed a few of my friends getting into similar habits. So what are you doing tonight? Oh nothing, just watching the game and having a few beers.
I don’t ever want to be that person. Actually, I think I would rather be a full-on homeless alcoholic. At least I’d have better stories.
So what’s my point? There is none. It’s 3am on a Saturday night. Every five minutes or so, some wasted fucks stumble down my street, screaming at everything and nothing. I think they’re all pathetic, drinking their lives away while I stay in, finish writing a new chapter, learn some new songs, get laid, and bang out a blog post that (I’m really, actually excited to say) will be read by a small number of people.
But, last night I was right there with them. And it won’t be the last time.