Friday, April 08, 2005
So I am currently drinking my way through my meagre liquour cabinet. After starting on my favourite cocktail, Japanese Slipper, I have now moved onto more creative drinks relying on the fact that I am already a little inebriated and things don't need to taste as good.
I have never been one to drink at home by myself. Not even a sedate glass of red with dinner. I came from a family in which my father would declare after two light beers that he was getting a "little out of control". My mother would feel it was a big night if she were to have more than one glass of Lambrusco. So for me, drinking spirits at home alone indicates a rather morose state of mind. The last time I remember vividly attempting drinking heavily alone was not long after the ex-husband had taken his leave of me.
At that time, I realised there was something not right when I was drinking "slippers", with some Vodka added for a bit of extra "kick", and attempting cyber-sex.
Which brings me to tonight....
I have had a few drinks, which have rendered me a little less coherent than socially acceptable - surfing for porn and whatever else takes my fancy. And the cause of the recent degeneration....The Bangle Nazi of prior entries has made her presence known again. So here I am, at home, on a Friday night, drinking whatever is around and crying to whomever will listen. Thankfully Absum is online yet again - although a pizza with his name on it will tear him away very soon.
It is funny that no matter how many books about men and Venus and Mars are printed - some men just don't get that all women want sometimes is a bit of sympathy and a hug - not some fucking treatise on what you should be doing and how to do it. Earlier today when the faeces hit the cooling device, S provided me with words of wisdom along the line of "look for another job". I would have given anything at that point for just a bit of shush and a big boy-hug. Nothing compares and nothing consoles better.
Santiago has also offered some advice, and again it is just as meaningless. Do men need a script to tell them what women need to hear? It seems so. I plan on suffering tomorrow with a hangover - something which I rarely get - but feel perhaps is due punishment for me.
And why the cracking the sads tonight? More shit at work, more self-doubt about my purpose and direction, and more self-realisation about my lack of place in the world. Over-dramatic? Maybe. After a day like today I contemplate on many things. I remember in Grade 7 being told by our school principal, Sister Rita (yes I am a product of a Catholic Girl's school education - surprised? I thought not!), that all of us was good at one thing. One thing in all the world that made us unique from everyone else. One thing that was our "gift" from God. That one thing made each of us unique and special in our way. Since that time, I have often contemplated on this theory, and wondered what indeed was my "one thing". I have never been able to work out what it was. I was the kind of student who could do well in all subjects. I have since then been able to achieve modest "success" (by whatever definition you wish to use), in all things I set my mind at. I know there are things I definitely cannot do... but realistically, I have never found anything I can do particularly well. So after a rather painful day at work, I find myself over many an intoxicant contemplating all the things I cannot do and questioning my existence.
I can only hope I pass out soon from the horrid combination of alcohol and sombre music.