The World According To Me

It always amazes me how drinking fucks so completely with resolve. And fucks with manners. And lets out that part of you that you try to pretend doesn't even exist; shielded by inhibition and sobriety.


In the cold exposure of the daylight hours, there is nowhere to hide from remorse. It seeps into every crevice, dragging down the sheet, exposing all that the darkness empathically hid. Turning that connection into abashment; turning sexy, smoky eyes into a garish clown face.


In the days to come you can close your eyes and re-live those moments that clung to your memory, unaware that you are holding your breath while they flash through your mind. You can feel it again, and again. Then you slowly exhale, and struggle with Miss Proper on your shoulder telling you that you've wrecked it now. Wrecked that possibility thanks to a bottle of champagne, lowered eyelashes and lips curled in a way you are absolutely certain will work. It always has. And for a good few years yet, you are certain it always will.


M. Scott Peck has a valid point on his theory of delaying gratification. But I bet he hasn't tested that theory when he's pissed.