#556: DON'T FORGET WHICH DRUGS YOU'VE INGESTED, BECAUSE THE WINE YOU'RE DRINKING MAY BE CONTRAINDICATED
I am drinking wine by myself on a Friday night.
I do, too, have friends.
What created this wild and crazy start to my weekend, a weekend which would normally be filled with drunken debauchery, illicit drugs, and sex I can't remember? Two things: the Palinode is out at a movie with Mr. Staffen, and I am actually studying for an all-day Saturday meeting. I know. You so wish you were me. Studying on a Friday night for an all-day Saturday meeting is what all the cool kids are up to these days. Or at least some of the cool kids who are currently grown-ups who take on extra-curricular responsibilities to prove that they're really and truly grown-ups and not just kids that like to hang around office cubicles.
I did mention that I am currently drinking wine by myself, right?
Okay, now that my ears are warming up from this Twin Fin, it's not so horrible. According to the website, I'm supposed to be kicking back and tasting the flavours of black currant, cassis, mint, and licorice in this cabernet sauvignon, but I'm picking up more on grape juice, sugar, and vodka overtones in this here screw-cap wine. I don't mind too much, though, what with this lovely buzz it's given me only half-way through my first glass.
Oh dear, half a glass and I'm losing track. I am supposed to be reading through a hundred pages of material right now. I'm obviously not doing that.
Now I feel mildly guilty. I must go smoke.
[Seven minutes elapse. It's bloody cold outside in Saskatchewan when it's nearly ten at night in late October. Schmutzie has already mentally tsk-tsked herself for smoking, so you are free to judge other things. She doesn't want your tsking muscles to wear out unnecessarily. Also, she would like to point out that she went outside to smoke and saved her cats the evil of second-hand smoke. She's thoughtful if a little self-destructive.]
So, I'm out there smoking, wishing that I had the foresight to pull my winter coat out of storage and giggling to myself about how my patella (that's the knee-cap, yo) is bouncing bouncing bouncing as my muscles dance against the cold, and it hits me. I'm kind of drunk. On one glass of wine. I search my brain for what could possibly have tossed my tolerance so low, because I am not a low-tolerance kind of person, when it hits me: I'M ON MUSCLE RELAXANTS.
No wonder this attempt at reading one hundred pages of bone dry material isn't going so well. I'm hopped up on muscle relaxants, pain killers, and cheap red wine. All I was trying to do was stay home on a Friday night all responsible-like to gear up for an all-day meeting, but then I go and get a tad bit forgetful and drug myself into a goofy, illiterate state. If I were my twenty-two year old self right now, I would probably give up, grab my unfriendly downstairs neighbour, and make her help me polish this bottle off before I downed it all myself. My present thirty-three year old self is actually intimidated as hell by the stiff demeanour of her downstairs neighbour and knows that this low-brow wine with a twist-off cap will only bring her sorrow tomorrow when she's trying to concentrate on understanding policy in a focus group of her peers.
Okay, one more glass, but then that's it. My forty-four year old self can stop at one glass of wine plus drugs in eleven years' time, but this woman is presently on a mission ...
... to toilet paper her cat!Geek Love and some much needed sleep, anyway.
I have one thing to leave you with, though, before fading into deep, alcoholic, drooling slumber: Asya Schween's photography (thanks for the link, Mr. Head). Neither you nor I will dream the same for a while, I'm sure of that.