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For the past two days, I have been achingly tired.

“Withdrawals,” my friend diagnosed. “It has almost been two full weeks. So now is about the time when all the alcohol would be out of your system…”

She said more, but I was napping.

 

When I dated the Nice Boyfriend for two and a half years, I couldn’t smoke around him. He was a non-smoker and hated the vice, smell and cute boys always asking me for a lighter.

But, “You are always exhausted around me,” was a common complaint he would make around Hour Nine of No Nicotine Territory.

“My body is trying to counter-act you being a princess,” I would snap. “I am deep in withdrawal mode.”

If only I had a speed dealer on speed dial.

 

After I almost ate my own hand out of desperation and then broke up with the Nice Boyfriend, I swore an oath that I would never again date someone who didn’t share my vice/s.

It was sometimes a double-edged cigarette.

Some crushes would put me out by saying, “I would never date you. You smoke.”

Initially I was offended by someone beating me at my own discrimination until I realized two things: One, I have been dumped for lesser reasons and, two, “I wouldn’t date you either. If you can dismiss me based on a superficial aspect, me thinking you are an idiot probably has some weight.”

 

I was possibly suffering from withdrawals at the time.

 

The last time I went twelve days without something was when my iPod malfunctioned and I couldn’t listen to Dolly Parton’s “Travelling Through” for almost two weeks.

Onceuponastupididea, I gave up smoking for three months but rewarded myself for my efforts with one cigarette that appears to have lasted for five years. My No Sex Strike lasted a sexy seven seconds and the reward was in the downfall.

I had flirted with having a celebratory “Drink My Chocolate Consumption Weight In Alcohol” party to mark the end of my detox, but now I am thinking that I nap could suffice.

 

When I started my detox, I anticipated many challenges: cold sweats, a new love of cough syrup and Happy Hour being diluted with Xanax. But I didn’t expect that it would be harder in the total opposite way to my initial prediction/s.

 

I have spent [some would say] too many hours [at least] attempting to make myself intelligent. Credit where credit is due: I am relatively articulate and overly opinionated, even it is only my Nanna who appreciates it. But it suddenly dawned on me, during a sun down observation at a bar, that I have spent [some would say] too much money on making myself stupid.

 

Always thinking that I would be a Born Again alcoholic, I went to RG with the fabulous news that my money may now be invested in even more shoes and even less Johnnie Walker.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day…” He told me between my naps.

“But it has been twelve,” I defied.

“And you have done nothing but sleep, read the dictionary and Google pictures of Manolo Whatshisname shoes.”

In fact, ironically, the only people who thought that my new-found wisdom was remarkable were drunk people at a bar.

 

I went to sleep at six PM [Happy Hour] thinking about the motivation for drinking. I run [some would say] excessively everyday, I live on sushi [and ice-cream] and I get excited over reference books. Non-Alcoholic Me is vastly different to the Scotch-Infused-Me who does backflips into a wall or falls in love with a midget.

Why do we actively consume something that heightens confidence but creates verbal diarrhea when we have no fear in speaking [some would say] too loudly?

“Because it is fun,” was the best response I got, while observing the Just-Add-Alcohol idiots at the bar.

 

I went to bed at sun down, reading David Hume’s philosophy on miracles, and tried to dream of something more fun.

I couldn’t and, instead, rewarded myself with a glass of water (with ice!) and cigarette.

“It is somewhat of a miracle,” RG nodded to my behaviour. I was going to correct him, but I napped instead.

 

 Post By Salium.