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I’m a terrible drunk.
Ask anyone who’s known me since I accidentally got wasted as a four year old stealing sips of beer at a soiree thrown by my mother. A vicious hangover arrived the next day and set me up for a nearly 30 year Groundhog Day of The Morning After.
You know what I mean. The blurriness of not knowing whether you’re awake or not, when you swear it’s just past midnight at the latest. The realisation that when you open your eyes its going to be Super Bad. The wave of nausea, closely followed by the first pang of anxiety. “Oh god, what did I do last night?”. What did I say/did I throw up/is this my bed/who is this in my bed/where’s my phone/money/car/dignity on and on and on.
I let a decade pass between my initial rager in a Care Bears jumper and the next chapter of pickling my underage liver, but it was the proverbial balls to the wall from then until the end of my 20’s. It started with those revolting RTD’s — Vodka Cruisers. Raspberry ones. They left a film of crystallised sugar on your teeth and were a whopping 5%. I’d be shitfaced off four, and my friends confessed concern for me when I graduated onto not one, but two four-packs of an evening.
