Dear Drunk Me – a letter
Dear Drunk Me,
Remember when we first met? Down on the beach crowded around a fire with bogans in skinny jeans well before skinny jeans were ironic then just popular again. You were so confident, braying jokes and letting the alpha bogans slide their hands over your arse. You liked bourbon. Well, you drank it like you liked it.
I don’t know why I’m asking if you remember. You’re sneaky when it comes to that. I wonder what you do in those black holes? What your face looks like. Does anyone notice I’m not there anymore?
I know you like to impress friends and strangers with dolphin impressions. I know that when you find a party hat you insist to the birthday girl that it is in fact your birthday and you’d appreciate it if she’d stop trying to steal it. I know that you want to fuck everyone.
It’s like a disease. You’ve been laid so many more times that me that we don’t even exist in the same sexual stratosphere. You ride strange men like you have a whip in your hand. Sometimes you do. I think it would be nice to meet someone that wasn’t a complete jerk. You magnetise them to you.
You’re clumsy. Your mascara smudges under your eyes. The bruises on my arms and legs last for weeks. I bruise so easily and permanent. Someone looked at my legs once and asked if I was in an accident. Like a trip to hospital kind of accident. Most people think it’s rough sex. Or dudes that beat on me. You spice things up and make it all three.
I appreciate the little games and challenges you set up for me before you leave. Like the finding my house keys game. Broken necklaces. Lost bras. Unreadable scribbled epiphanies about something terribly important.
You take some serious bullshit liberties with my phone. I know it might seem like a fun toy. The buttons are shiny and bright. But sleeping friends aren’t as interested in knowing what you’re doing as you think. Nor do they want to come out and stop being such soft-cocks for staying in their beds at 4am.
My exes’ might want to hear from you but they usually don’t. It’s worse when they do and I wake up beside them.
I don’t mind apologising for you. They know what you’re like.
Everyone does. You’re likeable.
But you’re sort of a dick. You eat at 7-11 and McDonalds. Only dicks eat there. Everyone knows that. You can’t write worth a shit and you bring Hungover Me over to sloth around the house like a jerk.
But you’re around all the time. Good times. That’s you. Not as if you ever get maudlin and think about the alcoholic chain of command you’re only positive goes back as far as your mother. Not as if demons worked out over the years of meds and therapy and breathing exercises ever slink out of the wormwood.
Oh and you’ve never, ever contemplated suicide.
So you might be around for a while. I don’t know. One day I might just put the stopper back in, Jenie. I might just choose boring and nervous and socially awkward over you.
I know I’m not done with you yet. I just wonder what you’ll do with me in the meantime. And that’s the crux, huh? The wondering? Maybe you’ll behave. Maybe you’ll fuck everything up. At least you’re not predictable.
We can always agree on that.
See you soon,
P.s. Stop asking people to bite you.