Beer: Cause of/Solution to All Problems

Drinking and I have always had a complicated history. First off, never drank at all until I was 18. I remember it being a Kool Aid and vodka situation and being that annoying girl asking "Am I drunk? This is what it's like?" Next thing you know Barleycorn and I are slinging back whiskey gingers at 3 a.m. and wandering around Boston.

Fast forward to junior year of college -- in March, one of my best friends, Amanda, was killed while in Mexico. Hit by a bus, actually. Apparently the buses down there go ridiculously fast in order to pick up the highest amount of customers. She was crossing the street, it was dark, and the bus hit her. Not only did it hit her, but drove away afterward. Last I remember there was a arrest warrant out for the driver of the bus.

Regardless, a few months later I leave for the summer to work at a camp for disabled children and adults (mostly cerebral palsy - most intense summer). My friend Josh, who had been dating Amanda at the time, is a fucking wreck. He takes a job an hour away and works the entire summer to keep his mind off of it - which turns into him being stuck in traffic on 495 for hours each day with nothing to do but think. I, on the other hand, am for all intents and purposes, fine.

That is, until I drink. The whole summer anytime I had a significant amount to drink, I would start sobbing. Pretty awkward when it's in front of colleagues that you haven't known for all that long. The rest of the time I was "fine," but when I was drinking it was a completely different story. I would get drunk at parties and be the girl in the corner crying and writing makeshift journal entries in an attempt to get all my emotional baggage out before I sobered up and it became all beneath the surface again.

Funny, too, because sometimes I still lose it over Amanda. When I was in Romania, I threw a party for other Peace Corps volunteers. Suddenly "Just What I Needed" by the Cars comes up on shuffle and I fucking lose it. Next thing you know I'm in the other room sobbing for 30 minutes like it happened only the week before. This is 4 years later.

But either way, it's clear that when RT drinks - that's the real emotional barometer for where she's at. Which is why it makes sense that post-break-up not only have I been emotionally attaching to random boys, but I've been drinking WAY more than necessary. It also doesn't help that I spent a lot of time alone for 2.5 years and want to take up every possible social situation.

Cue to last night. I go over to a friend's house and we all exchange presents over wine. Her neighborhood is notorious for Christmas lights, and the road is packed with families out to see them. I park far away just to get out of the traffic jam. We exchange presents, and next thing you know the bottle of red I bought is almost gone. Then we're off to the neighborhood hipster bar where The Youngin is bartending. We have a drink there, and then I go over to Booze Hound's house for a Christmas party. More wine is consumed and I decide to go back to the hipster bar. My friends are late meeting back up and in the meantime someone buys me a drink, I talk to a bunch of strangers, and start pretty much getting wasted.

The friends get there, more drinking, and I start to behave ridiculously. I keep bugging The Youngin to come outside for a cigarette regardless of the fact that (a) the place is packed and it's pretty obvious he can't leave and (b) I don't smoke. I also vaguely remember insinuating that since we were hanging out, I should get my drinks for free. I am classy. At some point I start to have trouble walking, and fucking fall on my ass in front of the entire bar. At some point, I decide to go home.

At this point, I'm drunk enough that I'm CONVINCED that I parked my car in it's original spot blocks away, forgetting that I left for a Christmas party and then re-parked. I walk up and down the street five times, before my lack of walking skills kicks in again and I EAT it on the sidewalk. As I'm sitting here now, my knees ACHE and are covered with scrapes and bruises. I call The Youngin and he drives me up and down the street, while calling every tow place in his phone because he's convinced this is what happened to my car. Finally, we decide just to go back to his house and try again in the morning.

When I wake up, I immediately (a) sigh at my completely ripped tights and (b) remember that I moved my car and thus it was in a different spot. He drives me back to the bar saying, "I really don't think it's here, we drove up and down the street five times." My heart sinks and my cheeks get red as we near the bar and see my car PARKED RIGHT IN FRONT. "You've got to be kidding me," he says, looking at me like the drunken trainwreck I'm sure I appear.

No sir. No, I am not kidding you. It seems that I should have taken the advice I gave myself in the e-mail to the Coke Fiend. Step back, re-evaluate where I am and what the fuck I'm doing. With boys, and most definitely with the booze. So, if you need me, I'll be here - with the books and the Netflix, and the popcorn. Stepping back. Being sober. Not falling down.

At least until my knees heal.