Last night I stayed home to work. “Work,” for me, usually consists of staring at my computer with some pretentious indie rock band blaring in my ears while I imagine what I’d wear to the Oscars, should I be nominated for one, which, of course, is never going to happen. While my brain is trying to come up with something I can write about, it’s also considering, along with my Oscar dress, just how great it would be to have a glass of wine or a beer to go with all this “work.” As someone who lives alone, I can sit in my underwear, “work” and drink, all while rationalizing it with Hemingway‘s quote: “Write drunk; edit sober.” So with this in mind, I waltzed on in to the bodega around the corner, the one where I’m on a first name basis with the cashier fellas because of this Hemingway quote, and picked up some Leffe. I’ve been on a Leffe kick since I got back from Europe.
After a couple beers, I realized work wasn’t happening, so I did what any normal person in such a state would do, and put on some sappy music that would take me down memory lane. I also pulled out the “yesterday” box and decided I’d just take a “quick look” at what’s in there. However, a “quick look” after a couple drinks isn’t very “quick” and results in tears, anger and an overall emotional breakdown. Then, of course, the breakdown leads to realizing you need more alcohol to deal, so you head back to the bodega, with a hat on your head hoping that you won’t be recognized and judged for your puffy eyes and your obvious addiction to beer as a coping mechanism.
I got back to my apartment, took off my pants again (as there is a strict no-pants rule in my place), and sat myself down at my computer. I was drunk enough to realize it was time for me to write the next great American tragedy and it was going to be about Swede and I, of course. But two sentences in, I figured it’s a boring topic and decided I should call people to tell them I love them. As usual, I called my mother, my sister and my friend Bess. No one picked up, so I left detailed emotional messages about love and gratefulness and why they’re pertinent to my existence. I put the phone down, but decided I wasn’t quite done yet. At this point, I’ve also reached the point of no return and have Sharon Van Etten blaring and convincing me that this person or that person is my soulmate — you know, because they are even if they think otherwise.
I crawled under my desk, because I’m smart enough to have removed certain numbers from my phone, but even smarter to have written them on the underneath part of my desk, and debated texting a few particular people. I have already sent a slew of dirty texts to Tattoo Guy, so why not take it down a notch and get sensitive for a minute? I am, after all, crying and debating burning the “yesterday” box so I should probably embrace all the craziness that is going down. However, texting isn’t going to cut it, I decided, mostly because I can barely read the numbers on my desk thanks to the eighth beer. Instead I took my love/hate/anger/breakdown to Twitter. I also seriously considered rejoining Facebook just so I could vocalize, via my status updates, exactly what’s going on in my brain, but thankfully I’ve forgotten my password since it’s been almost 10 months.
Within minutes, the rampage was underway and I was tweeting song lyrics, memories, “I hate you so much I love you” type bullshit all while listening toÂ HĂĄkan HellstrĂ¶m, and convincing myself that he’s the only one who understands despite the fact that I can’t understand a word he’s singing. Before I’m even able to make a conscious decision that I’ve lost my mind, I passed out on my bed.
This morning I woke up to texts and emails from friends who have read my tweets from last night, and are concerned that I’ve gone off the deep end. I got on Twitter and blushed while I read my insanity that took up a good 20 or more tweets. Thanks to the delete option, I was able to provide some sort of damage control, but the fact remains that I’ve declared my love/hate in a public forum and now haveÂ HĂĄkanÂ HellstrĂ¶m lyrics scrawled on my wall in blue marker (phonetically, mind you, as I only know about 10 words in Swedish.) As for the texts to Tattoo Guy, no one got to see them. My dirty and tantalizing pleas and teasing were just exchanged between he and I; the Twitter world was never privy to a single word of it.
So why do I support drunk texting? Because no matter how embarrassed you are in the light of day, it has remained on a phone and not out in the open for all to see! Drunk texts are protected from the eyes of random people who, while watching you have your breakdown on Twitter, think you’re a lunatic who should be on more medication. So yes! Drunk texting is good, it’s fucking great and it’s a savior from having to delete a whole shit ton of drunken and misspelled tweets at 8am the next morning. Long live drunk texts!