There are definitely perks to not being drunk on a night out. The first is that if people are pissing you off, you know for a fact, it’s 100% not your fault. Let’s face it, we all get emotional on jagerbomb number 4 with that half bottle of wine chaser, and can barely remember the route home let alone if we were actually being a knob to the bouncer. You can keep accurate track of what’s been said to whom and whether or not they deserved it, without worrying if you took things to far. In layman’s terms; you get to have the moral high-ground and be a little bit sanctimonious and judgmental. And smug. And we all like being smug from time to time.
Something to this effect took place tonight (Saturday). And sitting here writing this, with my best buddy swigging a can of bud perched on my bed and nodding in agreement with that drunken clarity that comes when you mix rum with rosé, I can honestly say that I’ve made the right decision in giving up the bottle. I had a great night out, and the fact that someone annoyed me didn’t overwhelm me to the point where I couldn’t enjoy myself. It was a passing blip that I will remember as brief low-point on an otherwise hilariously fun night in London.
And the best thing; I didn’t succumb to the urge to eat as many chicken wings as £2 and a sly flash of boob would get me. Result!
My Prohibition. My God. I already miss Gin. 