Fake pashmina: gift. Gray cardigan: Uniqlo. Shirt you can barely see: Apt 9 via Kohl's. Convertible mittens: J. Crew, gift. Dress: mother's. Boots: Steven by Steve Madden. Expert aim: years of practice.W1L 006: Write one leaf about being intoxicated.
This is a lightly edited version of the original response I wrote for this prompt.
I’m not exactly a heavy drinker. Half a glass of red wine will leave me with the kind of headache that makes me wonder about a) what brain inflammation feels like, b) the sensation of having a vampire sucking on your head (head, not neck), and c) if my low alcohol tolerance (and lactose intolerance. Goodbye, wine and cheese!) will prevent me from ever bedding a Frenchman. (‘Cause you know. I love the way French sounds. And a Frenchman would fucking speak French. And fuck speaking French, but that’s only half of the point. The other half of the point is that he could whisper nutritional facts about wine and cheese during sex and I would be totally in love.)
The first time I consumed alcohol was in my living room, with my brother and his girly raspberry-flavored beer, while my mom watched. The second time was at a dinner party at my apartment, which involved some floormates from our dorm days coming over and cooking for us. (And then downing half our red wine.) The third time was at my friend’s apartment. We finished, I think, two cans of light beer among the four of us. While watching the life cycle of fig wasps on the Nature Channel and vowing never to eat figs again. The last time was last semester, sitting alone in my apartment on a Wednesday evening, red wine coupled with crying about how much my life had no direction as I beat myself up, completely deaf to the whining legacy of Thousands Of Young Adults Who Went Through The Same Thing Before Me. All I ended up with was a throbbing double whammy headache from the combination of crying dehydration and alcohol, and the need for frozen spoons to depuff my eyes the next morning before going to class wearing lacy thigh-highs. (I am committed to a lifetime of bad decisions.)
The next time I had a dramatic breakdown, replete with spectacular waterworks, I decided to skip the alcohol and go for the next best thing. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out so well, as I pulled up my diary and wrote to myself, “Having just had a rather hard cry, I was surprised to hear myself utter, 'I don't think porn is actually going to make me feel better.'”
So, no. No, I never really have been intoxicated. Frankly, I’m not all that eager to be, partly because I’m afraid I’ll be a depressed drunk, and maybe I’m holding in more emotion than I think I am, and it’s all going to come spilling out as if I’ve had my abdomen torn open and my intestines will come falling out with squishy little wet noises as they hit the carpet, and people will say KEEP IT TOGETHER, WOMAN, and I will say, MY INTESTINES ARE FALLING OUT, YOU HEARTLESS DICK(S), and they will say AT LEAST YOUR VAGINA ISN’T FALLING OUT, and I’ll be like OH RIGHT, I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER, THANKS GUYS.
No, seriously, this woman’s vagina fell out of her body.
You know what’s really intoxicating, though? Looking at Evan Lysacek's butt. You know what else’s really intoxicating? When you know someone is batshit crazy about you. Except when you’re not batshit crazy about them. Then it’s kind of sad and awkward. But I mean the flattery makes me insane and I fumble with my words and mumble with my things and get embarrassed because You like me that much? Tack a conditional on, at least, so I have a way out, like “unless you eat my dog.” (Nope. You are royally screwed. You will fall because God is stepping on your fingers as you cling to the edge of control.) That’s being intoxicated.
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