Notes on becoming alcoholic
It has always been my spoken rule, told to everyone if the topic should come up, that I won’t drink alone. My reasoning? Those who drink alone become/are alcoholics.
You could say it is my “red line” of sorts, similar to Obama’s red line, except mine affects significantly less people. Tonight I crossed it.
After maybe an hour of studying and listening to Alex Vargas sing a depressing ballad, I just said, “Fuck it!” I wanted a beer. I ended up drinking two.
So I wandered down from my apartment in the upper area of Hamra down to the main street, swung by the 24/7 market next to Starbucks, and purchased myself one of those good old large Almaza bottles. (Later I bought a small bottle of 961, which was actually more expensive, of course).
And I just kind of wandered through the streets that make up the Hamra area, passing the half empty bars–its Wednesday night after all and there is the storm. I saw people leaving work and taxi drivers under umbrellas searching for customers.
But I guess my mind was elesewhere . . .
One of my favorite series is called “Skins.” It is a British series–which was later somewhat awkwardly adapted by MTV for an American audience–that centers around the lives of a group of British teenagers. One of the characters, Stanley, is hopelessly in love with Michelle–but Michelle and Toni (who is Stanley’s best friend) are also “in love.”
Stanley is caught in this awful teenage love triangle. But then Toni and Michelle have major problems, at least about as major as it can get when you’re 17. They aren’t together anymore, at least not really. The feelings may still exist but there is a lot of distance.
Anyway, my point is that there is this scene happens when most of the friends are camping at the beach and Stanley runs off by himself. He is just standing there, looking out at the sea from a dune and then Michelle comes following after him.
Turning to Michelle, Stanley says, “Michelle, I’m so lonely.” She replies, “I know.” And then they are kissing and everything is somehow beautiful and confusing and passionate all in the same instant.
But I guess that is shit, because that doesn’t actually happen, not in the real world. Because I’m so lonely (pause . . . wait . . . pause . . . wait). Yet the problem is, I somehow believe ardently that it does happen, regardless of all the evidence and personal experience I have to prove me wrong.
Most of the time I wonder if perhaps the problem is that I’m the only one who doesn’t believe in this kind of over romantic love. I have seen so many films, read so many novels, watched so many series, heard so many true stories, all about how it just happened; how that moment came and that was it. It was perfect. The thing is, maybe I’m trying too hard to manufacture it or make it happen, but I don’t think so.
Because the thing is, I’m open to it. Every time I meet someone in which I see possibility, I open myself up to the opportunity to just constantly find myself rejected. While at the same time the few “relationships” I have had, have left me more broken than developed as an individual.
Fuck love, right?
From one side, it is trying to teach me to be less optimistic, to face reality and understand that its just a lot of heartbreak. On the other, I find myself wholeheartedly throwing myself in whatever positive seeming direction I find in front of me. Its like my hope and faith are impossible to kill.
I guess its like some people who believe in God. It doesn’t matter how much they learn or know to the contrary, the faith never waivers. I guess I believe in love. I guess I think love is beautiful.
Maybe someday I will figure it out. And then maybe I won’t have to drink alone anymore.