Out With the Old...

You know, contrary to what you might think, a night of excessive alcohol consumption can actually do wonders to clear one's head.

Yes, I did say clear.

Perhaps not at the particular moment in time when one decides it is an excellent idea to smoke yet another cigarette, or patronize a bar which uses actual padlocks to secure the bathrooms from non-paying visitors; but a bit further down the line, when the worst of the hangover has abated and one is left only with a gnawing hunger and the vague sensation that, while the previous evening's activities may not have been exactly wise, they were perhaps not quite as foolish as one was wont to believe when the alarm went off at 8am.

Confused? Let's break it down.

On Thursday night, I? Was Pissed. Off. Mainly at DM for being such a douchebag and disappearing on me in such a cowardly and disrespectful manner. I slogged through the most pathetic lunch shift in the history of lunch shifts (My share of the day's take? $33. How am I going to pay my rent? No fucking clue.), jumping every time my phone vibrated in my pocket, and scurrying off to the bathroom shortly thereafter because this time, surely, it would be a text explaining that his house had burnt down/he'd been arrested on suspicion of terrorism/a dinosaur had eaten his phone, and that's why he had so rudely failed to respond to any of my numerous attempts to make contact over the preceding week.

Of course, it never was, and thus my anger grew... and festered... and otherwise caused the bonfire of unpleasantness smoldering in my brain to grow rapidly to a monstrous inferno.

So I took matters in my own hands--or liver, as it were--and determined that the only means by which said flame could be extinguished was by drowning it... in beer.

Enter a Knight in Shining Armor: a friend who perpetually greets me with "Hey Gorgeous," and insists on paying for my drinks when we go out. He promptly agrees to get me roaring drunk, in an establishment showing the Steelers season opener, no less!, and we were off.

Innumerable beers, a subway ride, and a non-English-speaking bar later, we hauled ourselves up the 5 flights of stairs to my apartment (which miraculously actually seem shorter when one is hammered), and promptly passed out after a few minutes of more-or-less platonic cuddling, and not nearly enough water.

I say more or less because we have slept together in the past, but on this particular occasion did not. It is a testament to our friendship that we can behave in this manner from time to time without any ensuing weirdness. He is, without a doubt, good people.

Through the fog of my hangover the next day, as I brushed away the debris of the Great Fire (not to mention the Great Flood) from my mind, I realized... it was okay. I was over it.

Not one-hundred-percent, of course. Some illusions take longer to dispel than others. But the raging inferno of anger had subsided, leaving only a few embers of wounded pride and "what the fuck?" smoldering away in sheltered corners; and those too will extinguish themselves in due course, if left unfanned.

In short, there is nothing like an evening of debauched camaraderie to put things in perspective, to help you let go of the things you don't have, and to take pleasure in the things that you do.

So long DM. It was, and always will be... your freakin' loss.

Ass.