Ips informed me the other day that dependence on alcohol starts once you go two entire weeks with alcohol intake every day. I hope in fifth year I don’t accidentally make it there. This is the third night drinking in a row. First night was a treat by someone who is technically a childhood friend but is way cooler than what childhood friends generally turn out to be. I’m drawing him a portrait of his face. Second night was very minor amounts of alcohol and other intoxicants where I discovered that certain songs make me nauseous now, since they seem to apply so well to me. I hate it when that happens. Who wants to be that cliché?
Now it’s the third night and I am drunk but not smashed. I haven’t done anything stupid unless you count clipping off my cuticles earlier in the day out of boredom; and then climbing up a tree, walking across the bridge between that tree and another tree and then climbing down that other tree – while drunk. Well, climbing down is a genteel term for slipping, scratching, falling down the latter tree. And falling on my butt. Didn’t hurt. But I have scratches all over my arms. And I wonder what will happen to me if I don’t get tetanus shots. Will I be a vegetable? Will I die? Will I have a fever? Obviously these possible results are in descending order of direness. And if you call that awesome tree-climbing stuff “doing something stupid”, you must be a really, really boring person. I don’t want you here, so –
Anyway, I walked back to campus with the group of people I intended to walk back with, in the process foregoing a possibly OK story from a fellow adventurous tree climber drunk. I checked mail, bathed, washed underoos, washed dishes, filled water bottles, and brushed my teeth. The latter so that Thomas the tea guy in the hostel wouldn’t give me the disappointed looks he generally gives me when I turn up drunk. Then I watched a YouTube video and saw some Seinfeld while having Ginger Tea. Cause you know, it’s healthy and good for my throat, and I’m all about the health and the good for the throat. *Insert oral sex joke here*. Oh the jokes!!
But I am reaching a point here. And I will try as hard as I can to not make this a disconnected, unfathomable (without fathom) drunk post, though some cynics may say I have already failed in that endeavor. The point is that this is that perfect stage of high/drunk. I’m not saying anything stupid or doing anything censorious, but I am nevertheless awesome and quite happy. And it brings to mind The Death of Salvador Dali, which I watched yesterday. I liked it. I’m not enough of a… the right term is “pretentious art nerd” to tell you with complete certainty what the film meant and why it was awesome. But to steal from my own words in a letter I sent to a friend of mine recently, “reviews of works of art often say more about the reviewer than the work itself.” This is of course a summation of what John Green has often said. So here goes: I liked it because to me , it spoke of how we all want to be more than what we are – to be more mad, more intelligent, more erudite, more rich, more worshipped, or to the overachiever, simply more. And about how we try to deal with our failings in trying to be that much, whether it is through using others and their words and promises as crutches (the “others” being Gala and Manic Pixie Dream Girls in general); or through using our minds as either tools to try and break everything down into a semblance of order (imaginary Freud?) or to support the madness we hope to gain (Dali). Aren’t I deep?
As someone aspiring to write, I have always wanted to be more mad, more interesting than what I am. To that end, if I were making a movie about myself, I would want my character to experiment with every drug I find anywhere, and live in a haze of hedonism and sadness. But I have found time and again that despite being given some opportunities to go down that path, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be any more mad than right now, when I say unto you, “Behold! For she will finish this blog post, watch more Seinfeld and The Office, and then put herself to sleep in the fashion she most likes. *wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more.*”
This is fun enough for me. And in many ways I have people to thank for this self satisfaction I have recently discovered is so rare in people. My mom for saying things like, “You can be the next Arundhati Roy” in the fashion of all overconfident, loving mothers. And my friends for spiking my drinks one day and getting it out of me : “I only want to write. That’s the only thing I feel really comfortable and good doing.” My sister for telling me my stuff was fun, and my dad for never stopping me from doing anything, though he could so easily have done that.
In all honesty, I wasn’t mollycoddled. My family doesn’t tell me they love me and neither do my friends, and I don’t tell them. But really, how the fuck is that something to even consider? Either way, I am unscathed. I am responsible for what I think and do, and with their presence, I have become comfortable with that fact. Asking for anything more is asking for too much.
So now, I can be completely wasted and not feel judged. I can be pretentious and talk about Dali one second and Lehman Brothers the next and not feel like I want to choke myself out of irritation. I can climb trees, walk across rope bridges and climb down trees while drunk, and I will still consider that a valuable experience the next day. If it isn’t obvious, I am seriously kicked at the fact that I did that despite the scratches and the weirdness of straddling a large tree trunk at one point.
Someone took a picture of me on that rope bridge that I wish to post when I acquire it. I will blur out my face if I don’t like it. I’m allowed to retain a certain girlish self-consciousness.
Anyway, that’s all. Here’s some fun stuff.