And Anyone Else Prone To Arbitrary And Pointless Bouts Of Idiocy:
Drinking alone is never a good idea, particularly when you start with a sugary frozen Margarita at half-past five in the evening, middle with gin, then Budweiser, and finish off with Boddington’s from a can, sitting on your front stoop and watching the sun rise at half-past five in the morning. For no damn reason at all.
There is the pointless waste of time to consider, not to mention the waste of money, the aspect of loneliness that accompanies finding oneself intoxicated with no one to make laugh or to laugh at, the hangover, the wasted day off. There is the embarrassment of admitting to friends why exactly it is that you’ve just arisen at three-thirty in the afternoon and why you’re wearing sunglasses inside: “Well, I, uh…nevermind.” There is the feeling that such remarkable stupidity and instantly regrettable self-indulgence would be far easier to rationalize had you been depressed, anxious, or any of the other emotional conditions which seem to permit the consumption of the better part of a twelve-pack in complete solitude. There is the fact that you feel like this sort of foolishness ought to at least have produced some profound personal release–tears, things thrown or broken, drunk-dialing. But it hasn’t. Because you did it for no reason, and nobody cares, not even you. Particularly not strangers reading a blog. If you’d gone and slept with someone you didn’t know, or hurled yourself through a window because you thought you were invincible, or gotten arrested for running around in the street with no pants on or yelling obscenities out the window of a moving vehicle, maybe they’d care. But you didn’t. Because you were sitting in front of a computer in your boring bedroom, watching downloaded episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, which you happen to think is rather contrived and insipid.