My first failure. Yesterday Izzy celebrated her birthday by playing the Ramones over a PA on an abandoned tennis court, for at least seven hours, at her new house next the prairie. I got there around 2 with her and Eric, and had my first two Budweisers while I built a fire and waited for everyone else to show up. Maybe it's the cold, or maybe it's my resolution, but I managed not to drink anymore beer during the party. I had two cups of red wine after the sun went down, aware that I was breaking my 3 drink rule, but happy that I was drinking slowly and not acting like a jackass. I felt pretty coherent by the time I left at 8, and decided to go out again, which in retrospect was where I made my mistake.
At Adrien's house I had 3 Natural Ice's, 1 PBR, 1 Full Moon (seasonal chic), all interspersed by inhaling poppers. If you don't know what poppers are, I'm not fully prepared to explain them, but needless to say I was dizzy on the very cold bike ride home. After the 2nd or 3rd beer I began feeling a little sentimental, because it's nice to be huddled around a space heater with some of your best and oldest friends, listening to the Swankys, drinking beer and blacking out on poppers (you can't imagine the laughter it inspires), and it's a scene that's just like a hundred other nights you've had, but it's still nice, and you feel like maybe you could still be in love with some of these people and you are, and you know you'll keep coming back to rooms like this and people like this because it makes you feel less lonely, and it's hard to turn down drinks when you start feeling this sappy. Still, I didn't forget anything, I didn't say anything stupid, and I didn't really do anything I regret except maybe drinking 1 or 2 beers too many.
I might remedy this situation by not drinking anything for the next two days, but then again, I might not.
*One Hundred Years of Solitude, pg. 80
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