I really like drinking, guys.
I also like being healthy.
I also like smoking cigarettes.
I also like being able to run a few miles without feeling like my lungs will explode.
These interests do not exactly conflate well. Since I moved, I’ve been pretty good… well… I *was* doing… good…. (sorry about that grammatical error but my desire for symmetry prevailed). And then I made friends.
Not that I’m ungrateful.
The group I’ve found has been welcoming and wonderful, and they make me feel as at-home as I could, while still being 5 states removed. They are hilarious, and creative, and delightful, and completely in-step with the kind of people I cherish most. The downside, is that ugly proclivity of mine has raised its head once again, like an unwelcome blemish on my self-control’s carefully curated facade. I spent the bulk of last week socializing, imbibing, and regretting the next morning as I struggled to re-hydrate, a task ultimately futile when you pour that next cocktail less than 24 hours after the last one. It’s a frustrating, constant battle for me, to keep that balance. I’d like to think that everyone has that problem, but somehow I reallllllyyyy don’t think that’s the case. And after 6 straight nights of drinking (my general goal is max 3), you’d think I’d be more than ready for a break. But it’s an enticing routine that is so hard to break once it’s established. At least for me. The first… 1-2 days intended as sober days are… they are more difficult to accomplish than I like to admit. And I know why, but I hate why. It’s because the change in my mood is positive, with alcohol. It always is. I equate it with a good time, however that manifests. Coming off of it, that inevitable drop in mood, is hard to deal with. Even when I recognize the pattern, it’s so hard to break…
Maybe I could chock it up to another “routine” of mine: For every 3 weeks that I’m on “good” behavior, I’ll have 2 weeks where I’m “bad.” These labels are completely self-ascribed and probably a little harsh, but I can’t seem to keep a lid on my discipline. It’s like an unruly teenager hellbent on getting laid in a 10-year old Honda Civic. Ugh. GOD. Case in point: last night. I couldn’t sleep, my insomnia most likely an aftereffect of a week’s worth of fermentation sliding through my system. I could have worked on my first ever conference presentation, I could have cleaned my shower, I could have finished this fucking blog post. What did I do instead? Said “FUCK IT,” took a bunch of shots of vodka and furiously danced around my apartment to Less Than Jake, growing more homesick with each passing Gainesvillian lyric, until I collapsed, finally spent. I awoke this morning, not with a hangover, but a head-bang-over… because once again my tolerance is creepin’ on up there, as my distending liver swells my omnipresent lil’ gut.
My friends back home used to joke that my catch phrase should be “don’t worry about it,” accompanied by a mischievous grin. I guess it’s still relevant though, since my friends here have finally discovered that I… I am the worst/best/worst again influence you will ever have. I’m almost thirty goddamn years old, and yet I still make the worst decisions sometimes. Jebus… at what point do you accept certain aspects of your personality, instead of vainly tilting at windmills, Don Quixote style?
Current Jam: “Overrated – Everything is” LTJ (classic rock is soooo outdated; though, in truth, I’ll *never* consider sex to be “overrated”)
And this…. because we’re allll just tryin’ to turn hard work into chicken nuggets, amiright?