We, being those who frequently imbibe have all been babes in the woods to the seemingly harmless sways of too much alcohol’s brilliant idea to seek out others and communicate with them.
There are a multitude of ways we execute our connections; blogging, status updating, texting, dialing. Sometimes we even go so far as to physically approach people and speak. The direct contact avenue is usually accompanied by wild hand gestures and our own distracted fish eyes. I admit, this is my preferred style of engaging.
When we’re out at the watering hole or a friendly house party, we do not notice our inept remarks or ridiculously embarrassing dance moves. Why? Because nobody else does. Nobody really cares about your hooch glazed character. Your ungracefully inebriated friends don’t point at you and say, “Hey, you look like you’re lacking some balance and you’re ranting on about senseless stuff.” No, no they don’t. They say something like, “You remind me of Bambi, you know, when Thumper and all the other bunnies are trying to teach him how to hop over it.”
Everybody is in the midst of their own sloshed meadowlands, splashing in their own amaze lakes without judgment. They don’t judge you, they don’t judge themselves. Every sober person knows judgment is the first thing to astral project itself as far away from your body as soon as you are in the process of spirit indulging. The next time you see your friends after that karaoke mishap, you’re greeted with giggles and double high-fives, not sighs and shaking heads.
The reality arrives while washing your face in the morning and you notice the illumination cast from the fixture above the mirror. Still covered with suds you dash to the phone. Where is the phone? “Where is my fucking phone?!” It takes less time than you think it feels to find it. Once you remember what you wore last night and that you woke with one pant leg still on, and where did you kick your pants off, aha, oh fuck! The phone is dead. Now you’re frantic to find the charger. Alas, you were responsible, you had a full battery before your booze fest and the charger is waiting in the outlet. Your device is plugged in.
This is the deer-in-headlights moment. You knew you sent something regrettable, you just didn’t know until right now that the comment your friend made about Bambi really affected you in your muddled state. Over the next few minutes you delete what you can, and draft apologies concerning your use of the words twitter pated and elaborations on why you sent that photo of road kill at three a.m. Then you go about your day, mentally revising everything you feel you think you need to elucidate.
Assuming you associate with fairly wise and hopefully humorous people, they know when you were drunk when they are sober, and mostly likely will laugh off and brush aside your floundered messages.
This is fucking excellent.
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