I hit the bottle again last Sunday in a surprisingly hard fashion, considering that a) it was a Sunday and b) i wasn’t feeling particularly celebratory or depressed, which are the two major reasons why I drink. I still have a really difficult time figuring out when exactly it is that I’ve had "quite enough," I guess. (You’d think that after the first four bottles of Pale Pilsen, I’d know enough to refuse the next two bottles of Red Horse, but noooo …)
Anyway, after about 4 hours of this thoroughly self-destructive behaviour, I decided to call it a night and drive myself home. I could tell from the very moment I got in the car that it was going to be a long, arduous journey, and boy was I right.
The house I was hanging out at was in the middle of Guadalupe which, past midnight on a Sunday, is a little less than 15 minutes away from my apartment in Eastwood. It took me at least 30 minutes, driving at 40kph along a really long, silent-movie-style EDSA. The funny thing about being really drunk is that everything seems muted, which I guess explains why most drunkards are noisy as hell; they can’t hear themselves talk.
It looked like I’d actually make it home without incident until, that is, I turned right at Galleria, hit the brakes, rolled down the window and puked into the street. Streamy white vomit hit black pavement. Buses hovered silently on by. If it hadn’t been me doing the barfing, it’d seem almost poetic.
Once I got back to my apartment, I puked a little more before promptly losing consciousness (on my bed, thank God).
My new drinking rule is now: stop after number four, no matter what. And fuck Red Horse, man. When I decided to call this blog "guttervomit" I didn’t expect to keep reminding myself of it every few months.