…the dreaded questions people from high school asked me last Wednesday night as I slowly sipped my Labatt Blue Light.
“I’d like to do this.”
“I’ve applied to this place.”
“I’ve interviewed at this other place.”
“I interned there.”
“I’ll live at home, eat my parents’ food, feed my parents’ and brother’s dogs and try not sink into a deep depression come late January when everyone goes back to school and I. Stay. Home. In my raspberry, sky blue, burnt orange and lime green 13-year-old bedroom.”
Finishes first LBL, excuses self (ESCAPES THE AWKWARD QUESTIONS), approaches bar, buys drink, leaves tip and takes a sip.
Rinse and repeat.
Answer more awkward questions, receive hugs from people I haven’t seen in four years and get talked up by my brother’s 27-year-old friends who *GASP* didn’t realize their friend’s little sister would become a full-fledged woman someday.
I don’t think I realized adulthood for me was on the horizon, either.
Finishes second LBL, excuses self (ESCAPES THE AWKWARD PICK-UP LINE-ESQUE CONVERSATIONS), approaches bar, buys drink, leaves tip and takes a sip.
By my fourth drink, I’m ready to leave the small-town bar and sleep in my childhood bedroom. I’ll figure this shit out eventually. Next time I go back there, I hope I have some answers.
I met a senior during the last few weeks of my freshman year at SBU who really made me stop and think.
Music loud. Townhouse full. Everyone either drunk or on their way there. She acted like she was, too. But she wasn’t.
Drunk, to her, meant drinking enough energy drinks to act crazy with everyone else. She was the only one on our softball team sober enough to make a couple of good plays (it helped that she was a former softball player, too). I asked her why she uses energy drinks as a substitute. Her answer sobered me up in a jiffy.
Two friends from her hometown got drunk and ended up drowning themselves. Either they couldn’t swim, or they could but forgot at that moment… I can’t remember which. The point is, they got so drunk that they met their death in the water.
She had another friend, too, who had died while drinking. I forget now how that story goes.
So here’s this girl who is over 21 and chooses not to drink with her friends. She looks on, but joins in to dance or play softball. She doesn’t dislike her friends – or anyone else, for that matter – because they drink. She thinks of her deceased friends and opts out. Everyone has a choice, and she has made hers.
I’m very proud of my friend from Bona’s who sticks to her guns.
Sometimes I wonder whether or not people possess even an inkling of common sense. The problem is, most don’t.
I’m sick of the Facebook statuses friends of mine are leaving for all to see. They are now in college to prepare for the career that they will probably lead from the time they step out of college to the time they decide they’ve had enough and retire. Do they not realize that leaving the statuses that they do could screw them and everything they’ve worked and paid for over in a matter of minutes? Future employers can access anything on a computer. What you thought you deleted can be brought up again and viewed by someone you might have had the chance to work for otherwise.
I guess my point is, why would someone get drunk and then reach for a computer to check their Facebook? And why would they then leave a status that they will eventually see when they’re sober and slap themselves for leaving? Oh wait, the people that leave the stupid statuses don’t have enough common sense to realize that leaving a status like that is stupid. Silly me.
I’m sick of seeing someone I once was/am close with being stupid. If you want to go off and get drunk illegally, by all means, be my guest. I honestly couldn’t give a shit. It’s when you gloat about it and try to be cool about it that bugs me. That’s when I wonder if you know what you’re doing. That’s when I wonder if you know that you could be screwing yourself over completely.
You said that you would never do it,
you said you could resist.
Now I see you lift that can
and press it to your lips.
You have ranted on and on about its dangers,
but there you stand
talking to everyone else,
holding it in your hand.
Occasionally taking a sip or two,
then glancing around to see who saw.
Hoping someone caught you being bad,
hoping someone saw you break the law.
You pour the rest into six cups
and begin to play the game.
By the end, everything reeks of beer,
and you are the one to blame.
Your shirt is soaked
and your hands are sticky.
No longer are you not branded
by the beer drinker hickey.
The stale scent is on your breath,
accompanied by its horrible taste.
You fall over as you faint;
your promise was such a waste.
This never happened. I let my imagination run away with me for this one. For this poem, it’s my conscience talking about me. I’m the one who is drinking, even though that has never occurred and I have always promised myself that I wouldn’t let that substance enter my body. But, like most promises, eventually this one will break, so I wrote this poem to myself as a reminder. I don’t exactly approve of underage drinking, or even drinking in general for that matter. People tell me that I can’t judge it until I’ve tried it, but to be perfectly honest, I have no desire to even take a sip. This poison that people gulp down makes them act so stupid, and I am beyond that. They can have fun killing their livers; I’ll be with my real friends that don’t need alcohol to have fun.