Just to follow up...*

...on that last post:

Today, in a staff meeting, in the company of my co-workers, I was forced to view video footage of myself on the aforementioned Saturday night. (Not, I hasten to add, because anybody thought that watching me would be a good anti-drinking lesson or even remotely interesting, but because other stuff went on that night and damned if we weren't made to watch it, for our own improvement.) Seeing myself booze-annihilated on camera, all pixelated and 'cutting a rug,' as my boss wryly commented, filled me with a potent mix of emotions including a) the desire to run the f away, to like Brazil or some shit and b) the desire to ask for a copy of the tape in order to study it in great detail, you know, to check out the correlations between my memory of the night and the actual, physical record of the night. For metaphysics sake. And narcissism's sake. Caught thus, I rather stuttered and stood there, and no one really cared, because let's face it, no one really cares what embarrassing things you do or how drunk you may become unless you screw them over somehow.

The moral of this story: well, there is no moral to this story. I will continue to serve alcohol. I will continue to drink alcohol. Occasionally, I will become utterly retarded from over-indulging in said alcohol. I will waste entire days feeling riotously hungover, and I will fail to recognize people when I see them in the street the following day. I will kiss boys and then not call them back. I will dance poorly and behave like a complete and utter moron.

You probably will too, so don't get all high and mighty with me.

(* This blog was supposed to be about adventures serving booze, not consuming it, so apologies to all of those who are feeling misled and, frankly, badly used.)