Never phone someone when you’re drunk, they say. This is because, invariably, you’ll say something you’ll regret.
Like, for example, that the receiver of the call, is your best friend ever
and that even though when sober, you could take or leave their acquaintance, at 3am, when inebriated, they’re suddenly the best thing
in your life. Or, possibly, you feel compelled to grovel at your exes’ feet, and beg them to take you back, even though you know in your heart of hearts that you could never
be with a man who picks his feet whilst watching TV (and leaves his skin-droppings on the couch). Or, worse, because you’ve got the booze-horn, you dial a fuck-buddy and try to convince them that it is in their best interest to give you a good seeing to, even though their breath stinks and their three-inch pubes got stuck in your throat last time you sucked them off (amazingly, such things seem forgivable when the possibility of sex is on the cards).
This is why I absolutely do not, (to the best of my ability), allow myself access to my mobile phone when under the influence of alcohol; I leave my phone in my bag and ignore it. I do not give in to the temptation to pick it up and scroll through its phone book, press ‘dial’ and then proceed to embarrass myself. I can embarrass myself in other, better, ways I think, like, say, having an orgasm in a public place
. But I rarely stoop to the shame of a drunken phone call: the outcome of that is never going to be good (and there’s no guarantee of an orgasm either, so clearly not worth my effort).
Not giving in to the drunken-phone-devil is hard, I have to admit, but not impossible to control: it just takes some practice. And a mantra-like chant that you repeat to yourself when inebriated, ‘Don’t fucking call him. Don’t fucking call him’ usually works.
What I do have difficulty with, however, is drunken internet behaviour (DIB©) This, I have very little control over. Many a time I have come home from a night out; having ignored, for hours, the drunken desire to use my phone. But my strength ends there: upon entering my flat, I somehow manage to immediately stagger over to my laptop, and then start typing out some bollocks that, when read the next day, makes me groan with mortified embarrassment.
You know the type of thing: it’s either writing a drunken post on my blog - ‘Oh woe is me, I want a boyfriend/I need a fuck/I wish I had some painkillers for my PMS’ - or, even worse, leaving drunken comments on others’ blogs
: ‘I need a shag, hahahahaha!!!’ Pathetic, really; I have had to apologise to some other bloggers for this in the past. Not behaviour I am particularly proud of.
What’s even worse than that though, are drunken emails. Yes, I know, we all do it, but I am particularly susceptible to the practice, being a ‘word-fiend’
who loves to talk. Combine this with certain drunken ideas of grandeur that I am Ms Witty Queen of the Year, and the resulting mix is a cringe-worthy blend of stupidity and desperateness, topped off with a dash of self-deprecating cheesy humour: not funny in the slightest.
Generally, I just try to ban myself from accessing my laptop when stumbling in a bit drunk; it’s the easiest way I’ve found to avoid potential sobered-up regret. Overall, because I am a control freak – I like to know that I can stay on top of events (and men, clearly) – this method works. But it’s not always dependable: only recently I found myself reading something I had sent to a guy the previous night, and then had to hold my hands up to the sky and ask myself ‘Why???’
I reckon the email had started off reasonably well:
‘I am quite a bit pissed.’ I had stated in the opening sentence. ‘This is a disclaimer, should I wish to disown this email at some point in the future.’
Good approach; two points for honesty at least. Then things got a bit worse:
‘I wanted to say thank you, and sorry,’ I offered, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. ‘I may seem to be sitting on some moralistic high-and-mighty horse about what happened, but really I’m not.’
Er, actually, yes I am. He
behaved like a twat, not me. But evidently, three martinis were now making me think differently. I lowered myself even more:
‘You're a pretty good bloke I reckon,’ I gushed, absentmindedly forgetting how self-centred he was. ‘It seemed like we connected quite well, so if you're up for the occasional beer and chat that would be fine by me. If not, that's fine too’.
I should really be a professional mediator with my optimism; always seeing the positive in people – no matter how much of an arsehole they might be. I grovelled some more and put the icing on the cake:
‘I just wanted to clear the air and make sure that if we ever bump into each other, we'll do so with a smile - and no unease.’
Ah yes, the ‘let’s be friends’ thing: always good in theory, not always in practice. Whilst I am on good relations with the majority of men I have slept with or dated, there are a minority with whom friendship is impossible. Where no matter how much I may have wanted to remain on good terms with them, their attitude, or behaviour, made it impossible for a friendship to occur.
But being drunk, and thus in a forgiving mood, I imagined that things could be smoothed out with this guy; that he was worth my effort to work at a friendship. Of course when I sobered up I knew it wouldn’t happen: we couldn't be friends. And whilst it was sent drunkenly, his total lack of response to my email confirms that: friendship, no matter how minor, is a two-way thing.
Where does this leave me now? Well, back to banning myself from accessing the internet when pissed, of course. Thankfully I don’t drink that much, or that often, to risk embarrassing myself on a frequent basis. Still, it now may be a bit more difficult to prevent this behaviour, given that I have recently purchased a new 3G phone with broadband internet access (in order to free me from being tied to my laptop to do email, plus, I love new gadgets, and this is the sexiest thing I have ever owned).
Guess I’ll just have to find a lock to put on my bag, to prevent myself from touching my phone when drunk and avoid succumbing to such twattish communication. Or, instead, perhaps just find something else more fun with which to occupy my hands... I know which I’d enjoy more, and somehow I don’t think the latter would leave me with regrets in the morning. Though maybe a few sore fingers.