I think alcohol doesn’t exactly kill brain cells. It renders them temporarily inactive through a vodka-induced stupor, and it isn’t until you get embarrassing flashbacks of the night before that you realize alcoholic dementia doesn’t last and the bloody brain buggers are still alive. Damn you, vodka shots, you promised me oblivion and all I got was severe dehydration and a sudden craving for chicken tikka masala five hours later. And yet, I seem to be the worst recalcitrant. How I look forward to an English fry-up at three in the afternoon! How my body craves caffeine to the point that I end up shaking on my feet and being directed towards the coffee machine by pure muscle memory lest I forgo my daily dose!
A drunk student’s resolutions go straight down the nearest gutter with his lamb korma. Many a hard-working office employee have I seen losing his dignity along with five pints of lager, two bitters, a packet of crisps and some roasted peanuts. What drives one to involuntarily showing the contents of his stomach, his genitals and/or his middle finger to all passers-by? Why does it seem like such a good idea to tell the police to kiss yer arse, ye bunch of fookin’ tossers?
Deserted streets – the only way home.
What feels like a medal of honour at two a.m. is a dunce hat and a badge of shame in your eleven a.m. morning class or your two o’clock business meeting. Bessie mates from the night before only vaguely remember having shared a spontaneous acapella performance of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’, and to be quite frank, don’t want to be reminded. There goes the only moment of chummy nostalgia.
When backpacks or neat ties replace the conspicuous stains on your clothes, tales will already have spread far and wide and no respectable average or recommendation can stop them. Only one solution then: begrudgingly admit to shameful behaviour and exploits of the night past, or look for people that revel in the praise and glory nights on the town earn them. You won’t feel at home in either group of people. You feel like a pariah in the first, and like an IQ-divested primate in the second. Maybe there is another solution: laying off the drink. But will a fry-up ever taste so good again?
