While many would shrug it off as par for the course of most young people's typical weekends, I'm fixated and disgusted and saddened. And I knew this is what it would be like. I knew that I never wanted to get drunk. I knew WHY I never wanted to get drunk. I knew what I would do while I was drunk, I knew how I would feel afterwards, and I knew better. But here I am.
And no, I didn't throw up or have a "bad trip" situation that discolored my perception of the experience. I was very text-book intoxicated and it was entirely repugnant. If anyone says "can't knock it till you've tried it" ever again to me in a non-joking manner, their opinion will instantly plummet in my esteem because that's one of the most faulty precepts imaginable.
There's not much more I can say without getting anecdotal and thus glorifying the situation. I don't expect many people to understand my position, just because drinking-- escapism in general-- isn't a big deal for them. I don't think it's a stretch to assume, however, that the concept of self-betrayal is at least somewhat familiar to us all. That's what I'm trying to appeal to really. I'm not looking for sympathy, or words of encouragement for that matter... just quiet empathy. And it is my hope that making it a matter of public record will add an element of accountability to the situation. If you can't practice what you preach, you better damn well tell the congregation.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
4/18/04 - "Melodrama vs. A Guilty Conscience"
I got drunk for the first (and last, if I ever want to respect myself again) time last night. And I don't mean buzzed, or a little dizzy and silly for half an hour as has happened once before. I mean stumbling around, I-love-you-man, sure-I'll-take-my-shirt-off-and-make-out-w