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Today I stared at a blank wall for five hours, became mesmerized by a pile of coat hangers and started talking to myself. Apparently, the only difference between Sober Me and Drunk me is an extra one hundred dollars in my purse and the ability to walk.

 

For some reason, probably because I am The Eternal Idiot, I have decided to give up drinking [alcohol] for thirty days. One of my main goals in life is to one day go to rehab and, so, I figure I better know what I am getting myself into when the glorious day finally arrives [sometime next year]. I am going to make sure that practice makes perfect. I have definitely got the Drunk side of the situation handled as best as one can. Now it is time to see what happens in life while you sip non-alcoholic beverages. And stare at coat hangers.

 

At this stage, I am not listed to be an organ donor. Figuring that my eventual demise will probably happen when I work out the perfect formula to drink myself to death, I fear I am not an attractive candidate to handover a liver.

But ignoring everyone else in the world, I do actually want my insides to serve Me well while I am still kicking it in [stunning] heels. So I balance everything out by [very occasionally] giving up scotch.

I do feel bad for Johnnie Walker share holders. Especially in this economy.

 

I firmly believe that the only reason I can drink such a deceptive amount of alcohol is because I balance things out.

OnceuponahotsurferIdidntsleepwith, my Beautiful Roommate disputed my ability to run long distances.

“You smoke all day. You smoke in the shower. There is just no way,” he scoffed.

“I could run further if I could smoke inside the gym,” I informed him, lighting up.

Having graduated from some kind of sports degree (Bachelor Of Surfing?), he decided that I would be the perfect case study and observed me run for one week, doing various tests along the way.

“You are a machine!” He was amazed.

I’ve heard that before.

“You are a robot!”

I’ve heard that to.

He concluded that my lifestyle of extreme healthiness and extreme debauchery had balanced Me out completely.

“You are probably going to outlive cockroaches,” He walked away as I opened a new pack and lit three in a row.

 

After what can only be described as “Six Months Of Drinking Everything Within Reach” or “Drinking Twenty Year Olds Interesting”, I have been forced to conclude that it is time to put down the bottle of scotch and pick up a bottle of…of…what is it called? Oh yes. Water.

“What is a detox?” One of my partners in crime asked me after I informed her of my plan to sit in a dark room alone for one month. “Is it like chicken pox?”

I explained that for a duration equal to Lindsay Lohan’s remaining acting career, I would be drinking no alcohol, eating no processed food and having no fun.

“What about smoking?”

“Pfft. I don’t want to be a bitch as well.” The smoking stays. I will just run.

 

Armed with a carton of cigarettes and seventy five pairs of shoes that desperately need to be polished, I locked myself in my room and sat in complete silence.

This blows, I thought while shinning my new hot pink pumps. What is even weirder is that I can hear myself think. Ha. The things that happen when you are sober. Wait. Am I talking to myself? Yes. 

After thirty five minutes, six cigarettes and 9320938402934 litres of water, I threw a shoe against a wall, yelled at my puppy and sat in the shower until the sun set just to be in a place that doesn’t [always] remind me of alcohol. I almost lit a cigarette. 

 

No Drinking means No Public Appearances for me. Others may be difference, but I have found that for every tumbler of scotch, there is a twenty-year-old in undressable distance. My only option, other than shoe shinning, showering or suicide, is to spend time at home. Which literally translates to spending time with my family.

Those with orthodox parents may see this as a solution and an easy way to stay sober. But my parents are the type who force one to drink. And not just because they are Fucking Insane, but because I am the spawn of two Functioning Alcoholics.

One time, for one day, AM gave up drinking wine by pouring water into a wine glass. RG taught me how to drink scotch when I was just a wee teen. But as usually happens, Luke Skywalker surpassed Obe-Wan and I can now drink both of the people responsible for my existence under the table. And make them pay for it.

 

When I was close to finishing my final thesis last year, I started bringing flasks of scotch to campus. It made the process more fun and the twenty-year-olds more interesting. When I was in LA, I judged what time of day it was by how sober I was (Aside: You feel like a fool when you think it is five PM but it is really only ten in the morning. Trust me). Now, I need a new trick. I want to see if I can succeed at self-imposed rehab. Lindsay Lohan couldn’t.

Which makes me think that sex with men may be the key?

 

“You will never last,” my responsible friend, who I speak to rarely [I think], laughed at me. “How many times have you woken up declaring that you will never drink again and then called me at four when you are lost in the bottle store?”

Luckily it was a rhetorical question. Alcohol has stunted my ability to count.

“I will last,” I informed her. “I am in great company.”

“Who?”

“Myself.”

 Apparently, the only difference will be Who I am mesmerized by. 

 

By Salium