The party is actually tolerable. This is because Amy makes me drink a bit of wine before we leave the room. This is a sad reality. I have let myself down. Finally.
But that’s okay.
Well, it isn’t, but it’s what I tell myself.
I am lonely. Depressed. And that brought out all the things I don’t like or want in my personality. It makes me needy. Sad. Destructive. Even if the destruction is simply having a couple of glasses of wine.
And the past is done. And my choices are to regret it and have a miserable time or try and understand what it is I have been fighting all this time. I go with the latter.
I don’t have enough to really matter. Wine. And maybe that is the problem; I’m not having any better of a time. It is wine. I can write that off more easily as “not really drinking.”
Pearl Jam comes on. I sit in a chair and try to decide whether to go with it or fight it.
I go with it.
Perhaps a mistake. I sing along, my eyes closed, trying to feel the song. And I do. But it is too much.
The song ends and I have to get up and walk around. It is too much. I’m not sure whether it is the drinks or the music. The room might be spinning. Or maybe it is me. People drift past me, talking, screaming. Least that’s how I feel it. I almost feel good. Which is weird. It’s like I am punishing myself. A release of some sort.
My head hurts. Stupid fucking cheap red wine.
Amy seems pleased with herself. This fact alone makes me want to never again get drunk. I don’t like her smugness. It is taunting. And it is certainly rude — she doesn’t care about showing me how to have fun. Several glasses of wine and I am no longer unique. I was hoping for some sort of guide. Some sort of friend. But it seems her whole point is to corrupt me. Not to nurture me. This realization stings me a bit. It dawns on me she isn’t as much as I have made her out to be.
I shake it off.
I have to. Another song comes on. I know it, too. I go through a “Do I sing or do I not?” deliberation. Like driving alone in your car. You listen for a minute, weighing the possibility of being embarrassed versus the feeling of screaming lyrics you love at the top of your voice. Or at least mouthing them to yourself like a silent prayer. I opt to not sing. This is the right choice. It saves some face; I need as much as I can get.
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