Vodka Goggles

I want to drink. And no, I’m not talking about water, or milk, or coffee or any other non – alcoholic beverages you may have in mind.

I want to feel the warmth and faint stinging sensation of the vodka on my taste buds, through my throat and finally, down in my stomach. I’d let it wallow there, even for just a fraction of a second and watch the whole world in a dazed, slightly drugged perspective. I want to roll over stained bunk beds, to eat the corners off glossy magazines, and to throw cabbages and chocolate at people. I want to trip and crawl my way to the kitchen and wonder what got me there in the first place.

I want to silence the contradicting voices inside my head, to tame my demons, and to hear only the thumping sound inside my chest even just until the next hang over. I want to drink until my breathing becomes a bit labored, and my skin is flustered with the toil of my heart to keep pumping blood through constricted blood vessels.

I want to drink. But all I have is water, or milk, or coffee, and you in my mind.



My heart pounded as I acknowledged my inability to continue. I had a hard time concentrating on what she was saying because of the periodic beating in my chest and the agonizing sensation all over my body. Wait, was she even saying anything? I don’t know. My memories’ a bit clouded.

I winced at the sight of mild urticaria on my upper thigh, and the rashes that came along with it. But they were nothing compared to the nausea and head-splitting headache. God, did I really sign up for this? I’ll be damned if I make another idiotic decision in my life.

After I napped it out, I reached under the pillows for my phone. The text messages were mortifying. He wasn’t spared from the sporadic gibberish I sent to the people in my contacts. I can’t imagine the difficulty of explaining what had happened to someone as level-headed as he was. He probably won’t understand.

Then again, just this morning, I saw two entries with his name on the conversation view. I let out a sigh of relief. I texted his old number.


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).


To the quirkiest girl I know (the same girl who made this handsome art), I hope you find your happiness. Then, we’ll drink to that, after!