Punks in the beerlight, burnouts in love

Last night, Anton and I were waiting for Lyle and Carlo to arrive in Magallanes. Anton picked me up from Sherwood (I was drinking with Trish, Kim, and the boys.) We got to Magallanes a bit early, Lyle and Carlo were still on their way. We decided to get some beers from Select in the meantime. So there we were, parked behind Jollibee, sitting inside Anton's car, just swilling our beers in the darkness, waiting for them. Lit up some cigarettes, and between us, good friendly conversation as always. We made sure to hide our bottles when police or the Magallanes barangay people passed by. It was my fifth beer of the day (having started early with my college friends, we haven't gotten together in a while) and I was thinking, "Holy shit, I feel like an alcoholic." I thought about  how many hours of this week I've spent guzzling down alcohol...and when it dawned on me what it implied, I just wanted to stop. It makes me seem like I don't do productive things when I do. But it must seem like that to other people. I don't feel guilty at all though; in the end, drinking is self-acknowledged tomfoolery, a slow demise to the liver; but it is state-approved tomfoolery nonetheless, as legal as waking up early on a Sunday to hear mass, legal the way stoners wished bud was. I'm not a criminal because I happen to drink a lot, it's tragically common enough.

A lot of people know alcohol in its escapist guise. And they'll all tell you, it's fun while it's flowing down your throat, your belly, then the warmth is smoothing it's way up...but honestly, nothing's ever worth how murderously painful your head feels the next day. It's the truth, and I agree. Jack Coke and a couple of hits, you'll feel like you can do anything. But upon waking up, the sensation of being hit by a 10-wheeler truck, twice, is evoked. Not pleasant. So when I said that I don't like what it implied...I meant that I didn't like how the habit implied me as someone who needs to escape every day, and does it cheaply with drinking, who knowingly suffers pointless pain in all those mornings-after. Because that sounds sad.

But in life, I guess there just comes a point when a bucket of beer or 14 shots of Jager stop solving anything. When it stops being a mystery, when you know exactly just how high (or low) your alcoholic tolerance is, when you know what drinks (or other substances, let's not pretend) tickle your fancy and give you the best high -- it stops being a ride and just becomes a habit. When sobriety becomes precious... that's the point where I ask myself, what have I been doing? Sure, it makes it easier to talk, it strips away almost all of my inhibitions, already good music sounds even better, we all laugh a little louder, the night is our muse, the whole world becomes ours. But doing it every night... wow. I'm too soft for this shit, seriously; it messes up something inside me, and I'm not talking about just my liver. I like my alcohol as much as the next person, but when I've been drinking for consecutive days, all I ever feel like doing upon waking up is eat, play with the kids at home, and have sweet innocent slumber in the afternoon in my bed. But I give it to inebriation: it makes wholesome things more distant, and therefore more desirable. Nothing makes me enjoy Sunday lunch with my family, talking and eating happily, or having coffee with my significant other, than being hungover. It's like, here's the opposite high of drinking or baking out: the simple wonder of being with people I love. And it's that contrast that makes me say "I'll never drink again."

But we all know those are empty words, right?  It's a funny life.