Happy New Year

There is a good deal to be said for internment. It keeps you out of the saloon and helps you keep up with your reading. -P.G. Wodehouse

This morning I awoke feeling a like a corpse. I mean I was still dressed up in evening-wear. That, combined with headache, nausea, and the fact I couldn't remember coming home last night led me to believe I drank a bit too much last night. Apparently I was driven home around one, my mom questioned why I was clasping a bottle of Jim Beam in my hand- leading me to flee mutely downstairs, and my sister, Kathryn, and brother tucked me in shortly after- after convincing me to surrender my cell phone so it could be charged, seemingly not without effort.

The night began calmly enough (as these nights tend to do) when my nondrinking buddy, Sam, picked me up. We went to a friend's house where, on invitation, I proceeded to drink half a bottle of Jameson's Irish whiskey without much struggle. Then we went to a friend's apartment where she was throwing a formal party. I latched on to the rye whiskey, and continued to imbibe. After that things grow a little hazy. I vaguely remember being politely rebuffed in my classless attempt at a midnight kiss by one of my best friends (hopefully not "one of my former best friends"); and I remember thinking I needed to slow down on the drinking, then proceeding to make a "cocktail" with equal parts rum and tequila. Yeah.

This morning I feared the worst concerning my behavior, and tried for hours to reach someone who could enlighten me. I finally reached Sam, who confirmed that I had in fact acted like a drunken Norman Mailer at times, but apart from flouting the conventions of friendship (and any human decency) with my forwardness, for which I still feel awful, nothing along the lines of breaking furniture, prophesying on the horrific doom awaiting us viz. The Book of Revelation, or vomiting on others occured. And, reflecting on the fact that I mixed- and drank without reservation- a glass of rum and tequila, I confess my fears were not modest. Even though (or because?) I was in the clink a year ago, my night was much more peaceful; and, when you're lurching your way through a guilty hangover, even that type of peace can be mighty appealing.