My mother was never against me drinking. When I took my first shot of vodka about five years ago, she was beside me, demonstrating how I should immediately follow it up with a chaser of orange juice while my cousin, who was a nursing student, would nerdily go about how vodka and iced tea shouldn’t be consumed together (the latter was a diuretic and the former constricts the blood vessels, a deadly combination).
After three years (and during that notorious drinking game), I discovered that I was allergic to alcohol. It’s a bit of a bummer, I guess. Nevertheless, I still went out with friends to watch them drink because I loved the company. I love how drunk people would unintentionally lower their defenses down and act stupidly at their most vulnerable state. I love how they get so hung up on their crazy antics and how they would feign innocence the morning after. I love how the quality of the conversations plummets to the chatty, almost senseless type and how the merriment-making stands unabated even with the idiocy of everything.
An accumulated dose of alcohol makes one attain a certain level of wisdom. After a few more shots at the table, my mother mentioned that if I were to pick up the habit of drinking in the future, I should, at least, drink in lieu of a celebration. Never let alcohol go straight to your brain; let it go down your throat and waddle in your stomach.
I guess that explains my disappointment when you asked for a drinking session after a certain issue with your guy. But hey, cheer up! There’s more to life than love (Bautista, 2013).