Awkward things.

I Feel Fuzzy and Woo!

on October 27, 2014


Ok, so I don’t get drunk that often. And when I say I don’t get drunk that often, I mean it, like seriously. I’m not hanging out in the booze closet with a bottle of brandy in one hand and a tankard of cider in the other, hoping no-one comes to investigate the weird, glugging sound. I mean that in the past year I have been drunk a grand total of three times. Nope, I’m not a saint, but I’m also not a wino, so that’s something cool to add to my CV. I work well under pressure, (pfft) get along well with others, (HA!) and don’t have a drinking problem (yeah ri- Oh no, that one’s actually true. Score!). Everything in moderation and all that jazz.

But when I do decide to get gazeboed, I do it with style. The point of getting totally vajazzled is to grab yourself a good story, right? Hells to the yes times a zillion. And that is what I set out to do. Every time I purchase a bottle of something stronger than a Dr. Pepper, I am proclaiming my intentions to the world. I am out to completely and utterly mortify myself. All in the name of science, of course. And being a writer, there is always that thought in the back of my mind, or the front of my mind, SOMEWHERE in my mind, that this is an amazing opportunity. This is living. This is material. In the words of (my future husband) Jim Moriarty…


So in the interests of studying normal human beings, sometimes I like to make believe that I am one, infiltrate the in-crowd and get utterly and completely carparked. And I don’t just jump into it blind and crawl out of it the next morning, memory-less and grunting for a glass of water and some paracetamol. Oh no. I am no fool, my friends. The last time I was drunk, I made an effort to accost my friends via recorded instant messages. The time before that, I actually took a notebook and a voice recorder with me to sit on a park bench with a crush and glug rum until it was too dark to see the terror in his face. I repeat: Score!

But, as I’m sure you know, we humans are an imperfect lot, and not everything we decide to do goes completely to plan. Or at all to plan. Or even acknowledges that there might have been the merest hint of a possibility of a plan. Such is life. So the notebook and voice recorder plan? The utterly, totally, completely fool proof plan? Yeah, no. Didn’t work. The only things I recorded in my notebook were a few incoherent squiggles and the beautiful line, (that I may get tattooed one day, such is its intricate and delicate description of the human condition) ahem, “I feel fuzzy and woo.” Gold. And the tape recorder got switched off just as the night was getting interesting, because I decided that it was a terrible idea to record my live mortification, and that I’d probably find it hilarious, play it to everyone I know and regret it.

Drunk me happens to be a lot saner than sober me.

I have no idea what happened that night, apart from sending my best friend texts about love and bread, and the fact that I accidently tipped some rum over a stranger’s dog while enthusiastically trying to pet it and then fell asleep on a bucket swing.

When I am drunk, I become me times a billion. I am clumsier, ditzier and surprisingly, more eloquent. I mean, while I was throwing rum at dogs, I was also using words like compartmentalise. My handwriting also becomes this beautiful, calligraphied piece of art. Ok, so maybe it’s not THAT good, but it’s totally legible and everything! Which leads me to believe that being drunk all the time would be an excellent idea, and would probably result in me getting some sort of well-paid stapling job, but then I think NO. No, that is probably the worst idea that I have ever had, apart from that time that I decided to ride a blind, angry dragon to work and all those people died and town smelt like barbeque for a week.

The most embarrassing thing that happens when I am drunk is that my interest in the opposite sex goes into overdrive. Anyone that I’m with gets ALL THE COMPLIMENTS about the dumbest things. Like, “You have the most beautiful sideburns. I want to plait them.” I accost boys that I like with amorous (yet slightly nagging) and badly spelled messages. Luckily the boys I like tend to reply with information about their extractor fans. That or they edge away slowly in digital form, which tends to involve reading the message and NEVER REPLYING.

Side rant: Don’t read the message and not reply! REPLY! Or don’t read the message. But mostly reply. Please reply. Not that I’m needy or anything.


If I’m not messaging boys, I’m messaging my best friend ABOUT boys. Like, “Why is blahblah so booooooooring?” “Why does blahblah like football?” “Should I phone blahblah? I should totally phone him. Now is EXACTLY the right time to phone him. Quick, before I fall asleep and start drooling! I shall profess my undying love for him and THEN fall asleep! Yes! Plan!” Ok, scratch that about drunk me being any sort of sane. Clearly she’s a special kind of special.

And every time I get drunk, the next morning is the time for resolutions. I am never drinking again. EVER. EVEEEEEEEEEEEER! Four months later… Do you know what would be an AWESOME idea? I actually have a video recording that my ex-boyfriend made when he was seventeen or eighteen, where he’s in the dark, (the video is literally just black) and he’s slurringly bemoaning the fact that getting drunk is a terrible idea, and how he’s let everyone down and how he’s, yeah, you know what’s coming next… Never. Drinking. Again.

So I’m not going to say that. I am going to be the snowflakiest unicorn. I plan to get drunk again. I plan to pronounce words properly and to lose interest in writing anything useful. I will aggressively internet stalk boys who are so not interested that they’re considering moving to Canada. I will spill things and drop things and fall over. I will stumble across parks and sleep in inappropriate places and eat ALL THE BREAD, because after I’ve made a complete mess of everything and my reputation has been ripped from shreds to tatters, I will have an excuse.

I was drunk.


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