A Basque in Boise

Drunk

Saturday night would come around and there you were, once again ready to face the evening, Friday’s hangover more or less beaten after waking up at noon and taking a nap plus Ibuprofen at four. Every weekend another party, where the best part was piecing together for days the events from the previous night. Then life started catching up with you and the years mercilessly piled up making the mornings after more and more painful, one drink at a time.

A few years back you decided to man up and quit drinking. It was possibly the hardest thing you ever did, but so worth it. So liberating. When people raved about how wonderful drinking was you nodded knowingly but refused the glass being handed to you.

Time kept going by, like time does, taking with it the pain of those Sunday morning headaches and leaving only memories of the good old times. Even drunk-dialing didn’t seem so bad from the distance. Actually, weren’t those the only times you spoke your mind and had the courage to be honest? And honesty is a good thing. Like the time you finally declared your undying love to your high school crush. She didn’t appreciate your phone call waking up her baby at 4 in the morning, and her husband looks at you with murdering eyes whenever he sees you, but at least you got it out of your chest.

So one day, out of the blue, you ordered a beer at the local pub. Then a second one, then a third one, and pretty soon you lost count and the ability to walk, and that’s why you got in your car. Luckily, there was nobody on the connector when you jumped the divider and the car ended up on its side facing oncoming traffic.

It sucked. It was awful. That time, you didn’t get to put the pieces together, you had to pick them up instead. But you knew for certain then that you made the right decision by quitting the first time around.

Thanks for passing by: ↓

Conchi Amaya Oxarango-Ingram Kathy

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