So, it’s 5pm, and I’ve just rolled out of bed. Ordinarily, this would wrack me with guilt, but as I’m on holiday, I couldn’t care less. I barely remember any of last night, which if the bits that I do remember are anything to go by, is perhaps a good thing.
I dimly recall making out with a couple of random girls. Neither of them are in my bed this morning, so that’s only a partial success. I think it went poorly with the American girl who I was supposed to be meeting up with – the only part of our interaction I can clearly recall is when she pointed to a Thai dude and said “That’s my ex-boyfriend”, and all I could do was point, laugh, and say “Haha, does he have a tiny dick like most oriental guys”.
Time was once when excessive alcohol was my friend. It gave me the confidence to approach, and having done so, lowered my inhibitions to the point where I could stand in front of my intended prey and be a cocky, charming wanker.
Since cutting most of my body fat off, I seem to have become something a lightweight where alcohol is concerned. Whereas this time last year, I could drink an entire 750ml bottle of my whiskey to myself, and still be relatively coherent by the end of it, I drank two 75ml whiskeys before I left my apartment to venture forth last night, and was wasted from them.
That’s not to say that alcohol doesn’t have its part to play in the evening’s proceedings of course. Indeed, I dare any of you to go out to a club stone cold sober and not find the ridiculous dancing and moronic conversations of drunk people the most banal waste of time ever envisioned. A modicum of indulgence definitely has some claim to a lifting of mood and lubrication of social machinery. It’s simply the quantity that ends up being consumed that is the problem.
Once I reach a certain level of inebriation, I run out of conversation, stagger around, and generally do no justice to the urbane, witty individual into which I have strived so hard to develop myself over recent years. For some reason, the only logic which occurs to me in this condition, is “I am wasted. I must drink more to straighten myself out”, and overwhelmed by such rationalities, I then attempt to empty the bar of all its contents.
There is one positive point to getting slaughtered however – the dehydrating effect of alcohol causes your body to flush all retained water out of your system, meaning that if you have been on a cutting diet as I have been, and not seen much progress for a while, you will experience a “whoosh” effect and appear the leanest that you can possibly be. Check it out.
Last time I went out in the UK, I actually managed to restrain myself to only 7 drinks for the entire evening. Although it made socialising somewhat more difficult, I was able to get up the following day, hit the gym, and generally be the moderately upstanding member of society which I am capable of being if I put my mind to it.
So, as with many things, when I attempt to evaluate the logic of a particular course of action, I will make a list of the pros and cons. Let’s see what we’re dealing with when in terms of getting wasted:
– Possibly, maybe, getting into “caveman god mode”, where I am capable of marauding around a venue and pulling upwards of 5 women in one night
– A certain lucidity the following day before I have fully sobered up, which usually makes me somewhat more creative
– Appearing lean for a short while
– Spending upwards of £200, involving such merriments as “buying a drink for everyone stood at the bar”
– Reducing my level of social interaction to “drivelling halfwit”
– Pulling dubious women, who I wouldn’t normally touch with a barge pole
– Staying up til 9am
– Agitating my CNS due to glutamate rebound, meaning that I then suffer from moderate depression for the following 3 days and have to dose myself with valium just to get to sleep
Sorry heavy drinking, the figures are in – we’re through.