Day One: Staring Down the Toilet of My Life

I am on day three of a nasty headache. I've tried the chiropractor, massage, masturbation, self-medicating, sleeping pills, ice packs, heat therapy, and comfort food. Nothing is working. So, on the eve of starting a new job as a server in a pub (yes, at 37 with a useless degree in English Lit and soon to start grad school this is the best I can do) I've decided there is nothing left but to try the worst possible option: I'm going to get stinking drunk.

Drink one:
First drink is an okay pinot grigio. It goes down easily enough, tasting mostly of water and fruit. I am simultaneously creating this blog at the bar of my favorite dive while an enthusiastic guy next to me will not stop talking. He mentions jokingly that I will likely want to punch him in the face at some point which I laughingly deny.

Upon completion of drink one, the guy beside me has not shut up despite my polite requests that he leave me be to drink and write. I have tried being nice, joking, and sarcasm; Now I am onto the blatantly rude track. He's not getting it. "Remember how we joked about me wanting to punch you in the face," I say, "well I'm nearly there." He laughs and continues talking. I pick up my laptop, wine and purse and move around the bar to the other side, far away from said jackass. Two minutes later my wine glass is magically refilled with compliments from my previous seatmate. Now I feel bad, but only briefly.

Drink Two:
Given my current financial circumstances of not being gainfully employed I can't really afford to go out drinking so tonight's experiment is partially to see if I can get drunk funded by the generosity of others. This second glass of wine tastes worse than the first, but since it's free I'm drinking sans complaints.

Taking longer than expected to go down. This might be due to the fact that I have not eaten so am a bit buzzed, an effect that is likely exacerbated by the antihistamine I took an hour ago to combat the headache. Right now, I'm slightly nauseous, slightly buzzed. Looking forward to drink three . . . wait, how the hell am I getting home? Fuck.

Drink three:
Switching to beer. I seriously want a whiskey, but am mindful of the fact that I have a headache and have to work at a busy bar tomorrow night. Still, not thrilled that my first day at willful self-destruction is actually being tempered with self-control. Then again, I have years of experience with the headaches and after three days of pain another seems even too far over the edge for me. Maybe I'm not ready for full-on downward spiral. A cold Pacifico in hand, I tilt it back and let go.

An interesting thing about being at a bar with a laptop is that it is impetus for many discussions with other bar patrons. One such gentleman, a tall ginger in an ill fitting kelly green polo shirt and conservatively side-parted hair calls me a coward for pursuing the downward spiral aspect. A fresh perspective. Is giving up on your life and pursuit of success and happiness a coward's path? It seems the opposite to me. I've never found quitting to be all that easy, it requires real action as opposed to staying the course and doing the expected. I appreciate the input of a stranger and told him so with one finger. Ginger out.

Drink four:
After being called a coward and failing miserably at having any more of my drinks bought by the locals, I retire to the living room where a lovely single malt awaits. My head still hurts, my house is a mess and the cats are insistently meowing. Still, I will persevere and drink my scotch until I pass out. Not an eventful first night, but it is a starting point. I'm either a coward or the pioneer of a new type self-destruction I tell the cats. This could be brilliant. I'm getting a bad rap for trying something new. People are so short-sighted.

Alas, drink four is a bust. I'm already drunk and losing the battle against an overwhelming urge for pizza. The grocery supplies microwaveable pizzas and two danish. None of these are vegan and yet it does not stop me. Driving home drunker than I should be after three drinks and way beyond the legal limit I devour the first danish in the car, licking cheese filling and sickenly sweet glaze off my fingers. I eat the rest, settle on the sofa and suddenly know it's all coming back up. It's not the first time I've thrown up after drinking, it is after all, the savior of many almost hangovers. Though, given my food intake this is also now a foray into bulimia. On one hand it is the ultimate in self-destruction, on the other, the definition of self-preservation. I am drinking, eating, vomiting and yet avoiding a hangover, weight gain, and vegan remorse. It all evens out, but there are no winners.

It's late now and the first day is a bust. I feel no wiser, no worse, no better. Just the same girl only out some cash and feeling a failure for an experiment gone bust. Then again, maybe that's a win. If the goal is self-destruction and the path leads to failure . . . well, maybe it's a success?

My head still hurts, more meds and its bed for me. Day one, over and done.