Was thinking a lot about alcohol last night.
You know, Mother’s Milk. Horndog Juice, the nectar that blends previously divided nations, Poison.
As a, fuck. God this is hard to write – as a 26-year old, I should know the effects of alcohol. I’ve sure had oodles of practice. And I do know the effects. But one never learns.
I digress. I am perfectly not-hungover right now. But one should know the effects of what they can drink and what they can’t. Know thy enemy I say. Be aware.
1) Tequila makes one horny. Give me three tequilas and I’m ready to shtoink just about anything. Dangerous.
2) Cane makes me aggro and/or high maintenance. I don’t drink cane anymore. Not even at the The Colony Arms. Example:
Stranger: Hi Peas, how you doing?
Peas: What do you mean by that? I don’t like your tone, china.
Stranger: Was just saying hi. Jeez.
Peas: Like whatever.
3) Vodka makes everything right. Except Fitzy’s, which have an industrial amount on vodka therein. Choose vodka in an emergency. It doesn’t make one anything but happy, giggly drunk and falsely athletic.
4) Yaygiebombs. Incoherent, disorientated, horny, a feeling of grandiose and superiority, sessions of memory loss strung together with vivid table-top ass-shaking images. Wonderful stuff. Until the first mock charge the next morning.
But one needs to consider the possibilities of one’s behaviour, especially when the opposite sex is treblefold in the room with one. I get extremely touchy-feely, unbeknownst to me, which is quite blind. I think I become more admin than necessary when scutters.
This matters not at this moment, since at present, I really don’t give a royal flying fudge whether the opposite sex is opposed to my behaviour or not. This is liberating in itself, you know, getting broken and laughing off the fact I squeeze random people’s bottoms, hold their hands, feel their chest hair, occasionally lunge. (Although I haven’t officially lunged anybody that I can remember. Oath on a stack of Bibles.)
I think I ate too much chocolate mousse last night. I made one on returning home from the office. Happily pored over measuring jugs and whisked like a bitch on heat, mind you. I never bake. And ok admittedly, it was one of those ‘pour milk and stir’ efforts. But I feel a little moussed-out.
PS: The newzbubbles to the right. Vincent Maher patented those just for me, in the pink. Most people have the blue, but mine are Peas on Toast pink. You need to download Flash 9 in order to use them to the full. This shit is fresh out of the box.