A Little Snippet

by mizalisonclare

I used to get so drunk I could not feel anything: I did not even feel the glass cutting my feet when I took my shoes off in clubs. To a girl who has always felt like she wears her nerve endings outside her skin, that’s really something. I drank so much that I could wear dresses made mostly of zips and underwires and bare my shoulders to December air and never feel the tightness or the cold. I did funny things, sexy things, stupid things, shameful things, but I never felt any different. I never felt anything. I laughed and shed tears and shouted and kissed and sang but it was all the same to me. The mornings, dear God, in the mornings I felt everything, but the nights? They were mine. Making friends didn’t feel like anything; neither did losing them. All I felt was thirst. Get another round in, make mine a double, I used to want to drink enough to wipe the slate clean. I called it ‘clearing out the cobwebs’, though how that many cobwebs could build up in two days since my clear out remains a mystery to me. I experimented for a while with the best way to get to that clean serene state. The softly-softly approach of large glasses of wine just to cushion myself from harm, then suddenly the third bottle smacking me headlong into oblivion. I remember the gassy sicky feeling of trying to only drink beer because I wanted to be good, and feeling too aware of the fullness of my belly and shouting ohfuckit and buying shots. Spirits were the express route. Playing bartender and pouring the drinks for the girls coming round, swigging out of the bottle in the kitchen with my back turned and lighting a cigarette to cover my vodka breath, all the while making sure my glass held twice as much as theirs. Never overthinking it, just doing it. Days were for thinking, nights were for drinking.