I came home drunk from an evening of heavy drinking, baffled and confused by the world. One of my colleagues had suggested drinking shots, but no matter how hard the week, four shots of strong booze plus three or four cocktails don’t make for a calm night.
In the cold light of Monday morning, I think it’s best to reconsider what I wrote that evening. A readable start to it all, but soon I began to deterioate:
Eventually I wrested myself from,their alcoholic embrace and fled home, intent on reading more Westlake to my wife and child. Unfortunately, having eyes pointing in different directions and limbs choosing other rents, it’s hard to gve people proper advice. What can you do?
Limbs choosing other rents ? Is this (a) bad poetry, (b) an untrustworthy spellchecker, (c) some strange combination of Marxism and body dysmorphia or (d) a sign of UTTER MADNESS?
I got home, drunk. Passed out with my mouth in a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. “I’d want to go that way” said one outspoken, possibly drunk, acquaintance. We let him speak. We shouldn’t have.
I’m not sure what my drunken mind was trying to relate at this point. Apparently there was somebody else in the apartment with us, talking about choking to death on crisps. Or I was drunk enough to be capable of time travel and had gone back several hours, and to the bar, to tell the others about how I was going to end up with a face full of crisps. Either way, it’s very concerning.
I shouldn’t have done tequila shots. I regretted it then, I regret it now. Surely there’s some justice in the world.
That, at least, seems reasonable.