Alcoholic Drinking Stamps

Nothing can cause more regret than a nasty hangover.  That moment when you stir and pull those rotten infested bed sheets away from your putrid breath and inhale the stale air that has been lingering around you for many an hour.  That sudden hammering inside your head, that dry fury texture on your tongue and those aches and pains that suggest you may have ran a marathon last night, but you were too buggered to remember a single step.

 

It was two in the afternoon when I woke from one such hangover and unfortunately, two days later, I can still feel it.  Two nights of restless sleep probably haven’t contributed to my recover, but I can’t help think that if I hadn’t sunk that tenth beer or if I hadn’t been so eager to please those around me I wouldn’t have sent that Jagermeister concoction to the bottom of my liver.  Like Hydrochloric acid it burnt and skinned and tore apart my gut lining and I now have the sneaking suspicion that I ventured to a fast-food restaurant that collaborated to my downfall, like Hitler in April, 1945 I should have counted my blessings and fled. 

 

Always do sober what you said you would do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.’ Ernest Hemingway,

 

            The next morning I regretted the whole evening and wished I stayed inside.  But I was pointed to some of the promises I had made that evening, promises I had let slip.  I had promised to meet someone for breakfast and when asked whether I would, by my girlfriend, I responded that if I was in this state then heaven only knows what sort of situation he was going to be in.  He was after all the ‘friend’ that had bought the damn Jager and forced me, yes, forced me to drop into a half of beer and then gulp it down.  I could assume he was going to have trouble recalling his name let alone a half-assed appointment with some guy he hasn’t seen in months.  At the time there were high fives for our plans, we felt proud that after meeting one another so abruptly and out-of-the-blue we had made solid plans for the next morn, only the next day there was more chance of finding Lord Lucan under my mattress playing bridge.  I couldn’t move, I wouldn’t move.

 

            There have been numerous occasions when I have promised to meet and do things that when drunk seem like the most fun a soul could ever entail, but always have I ended up with my head under a pillow.  I wouldn’t think I’m an alcoholic, that is out of the question, although I am well aware that by saying I am not puts me into that group that are.  In fact I would like to see alcohol go the way of food stamps, we should get communistic about the booze, limit those who drink too much and push those that don’t drink enough.  Both groups of people need the push or the pull.  I think every week each person should be handed a number of stamps and if he has used them all he is unable to procure any liquor.  In my Orwellian world those who are stone sober with be forced to have a tipple, a prerequisite.  My argument for that is simple.  Whenever I have ventured out there has always been that teetotal tosser who takes the upmost delight in looking down on those who confuse their Ss from their Ts as if he were passing judgment like prophet.  It’s easy to deduce that it is not the drunkards who are starting all the fights, it’s those who are abstinent that probably begin the ‘ten-paces-at-dawn.’   And because their head isn’t spinning they have the advantage, so whenever the police arrive it is always the drunk that gets picked up and arrested whilst Mr. Clean has already arrived back at home and eating a bowl of cereal.  Limiting the booze will put everyone on the same playing field, they’ll be no being late, no making plans that no one ever plans on keeping, no waking up next to someone who looks at you like you were a gone-off piece of meat and I wouldn’t be still feeling so rotten forty-eight hours later after having really not that much in the way of booze.