Alcohol

I believe that deep down inside, some part of me wanted to get drunk. To just forget about all the bothersome little things bugging me and just let go.

It was probably the part of me that resisted acting drunk just to escape having to drink. As I downed my ninth mug of beer (is there a stigma against getting drunk on beer? if you feel so, drink nine mugs at one shot in front of me and I'll make you HBOTW) I felt the last bit of control slip.

Somehow, it wasn't really what I thought it would feel like. Yes, I knew I was drunk and slurring uncontrollably, but I didn't feel happier. Untended wounds continued to fester, and puking really didn't help make things better. I must have crawled back to my bunk like a worm, because that was where I found myself at four in the morning.

And I lay awake on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and just thinking.

I'm 20. I haven't learnt to let go of very, many things, and until I do there will always be a patch of clear sky in my horizon (because I love rain you see). I haven't found the will or strength of character to pursue my dreams as actively as I should. I lack the moral courage to shape my environment and its people to what things should be. I haven't faced my deepest fears, preferring to run and dodge the inevitable.

And now I've found that even the much-lauded refuge-providing alcohol fails to live up to its name. Ironically, it has sobered me up. I swear I won't touch a single drop at the next mess initiation.

Milk, anyone?