Mementos, Besotted

Last night we went to the Cafe de Paris, an apparently trendy spot where the theme was James Bond (meaning suits n' ties; no cheating and going as "casual Bond" 'cause everyone knows you're just copping out). Ana, Alix and I, them in a competition of sordid nature, I in a state of drunken contemplation. A regular state o' mind, I reckon. For me, anyways.

Who knows any more, maybe I'm just coasting through on a train of tipsiness. I mean surely by this point permanent damage has been done; I can feel my body aching away under the weight of all this fast food and liquor. Oof. I am a mess, but that's par for the course in this student life of ours; everyone's a mess, so it's not so bad. Once you get home, and realise that you're shivering all the time, and that your mom's homecooked spaghetti tastes even better than you thought possible, then you start to realise just how far gone you really are.

But one thing that sticks with me is my vocabulary, a trait which annoys me as much as anything else would. I become a li'l bit talkative after a couple, and that often spills over into a barrage of texts to whoever seems likely to reply (which, considering the erratic bedtimes of the student populace, is always a fairly wide selection of people).

Plus I make notes to myself, to give me clues as to what my thought processes were like during my drink-n'-club session. They tend to be dramatic, pseudo-eloquent, and usually pretty baffling. Here's one from yesterday:

'The phenomenon I've experience, where I've felt nothing but disdain for my fellow man, has been given a name by your constant writer; drunken sobriety (this being a common name for what I'm talking about, I was quick to find out the next day - Nash). This is when I contemplate the successes and failings of my fellow man, whilst wallowing in the vague aftershock of vodka shots and quickly dispatched cider. Playing catch-up, sharing those anecdotes of nights "just like this", and watching your liver give up the fight and take cirrhosis as it comes. Who gives a hoot? Right? Apart from parents, but they're never up to speed. Tonight is just "one of those nights". Loaded with alcohol, infused with cash, cruising to the end. Joy. Fookin' joy. "Drunken sobriety and a pack of scratchings, my good man"

We all walk a narrow path with jagged rocks on either side, but the urge to hop, skip and jump our way along is just too great. But hey, we haven't fallen yet, right?