They always start out innocently enough, the times I accidentally get drunk. At some point in the process a decision is made, yes, but I always start out with the best intentions. It usually happens at times when I’m really not supposed to get drunk. At least not thaaaat drunk. Like in front of Nana at my cousin’s wedding. Or a day and a half before I run a really big race. And always, always before an early flight. The internal dialogue usually goes like this:

“This time I’ll be good.”

“I’ll stay in.”

“I won’t smoke.”

“Ok I’ll smoke but it’s only because I can’t drink.” 

“Ok I’ll just go out for one drink”

“Well since I’m only having one I better make it count”

“…Well…let’s just see what happens.”

And I go from there. Last night a quick stopover at the Back Abbey after work snowballed into a full-on undercover shit show. Even after the first beer I still had intentions of pumping the breaks and reluctantly pedaling home to pack and do a quick blog post for work. Unfortunately, that never happened.

What’s this? You have a new beer? It’s delicious? Yes please, I’ll have another. Her name was Bink and she’s a golden blond bitch of a beer. The kind that woos you with her malty sweetness and then hits you over the head before you can see it coming. And oh, ok, you want to top me off? How can I refuse. Chef Raul (bless him) sent me over another? Oh god. Now you’re all going to the Kitty? Gotta keep it rolling, you know. 

So right now, after waking up only a few hours later, I’m sitting on the plane next to the spitting doppelganger to the Eugene Levy (minus the brows and add a decade) and his Ukrainian twiggy import wife as they each look through the Sky Mall Mag and fawn over EVERYTHING.

“Oh my, look, it’s a waterfall! For a DOG DISH.” 

“Oh Honey, this tropical thatch umbrella cover would be great for entertaining!”

“Ha ha ha this is too adorable. It’s a can holder made to look like an armadillo!”

I am fully entertained by them because I’m in that that state of being SO hungover, and knowing I’m just totally fucked, that all I can do is laugh. Because I’m on a plane. I’m on a fucking plane and not in my bed. And I just realized (in time, luckily) that instead of staying on the plane for a quick stop, I have an extended stopover in Vegas. And regrettably, I really can’t adhere to my “no sober flying policy” because my race is now TOMORROW. And the thought of drinking water on that nauseated stomach sends things preemptively churning. And I somehow managed to sever the wire leading to my right headphone so while I wish I could blast The Kills and relish in what a badass I am, the experience is lopsided and well, ruined. But that’s sort of the beauty in it I guess. When you act like you’re a sour cherry you have to deal with the consequences.