un hommage à Bridget Jones

24 July 2008

??? lbs., alcohol units, 10 (n.g.), cigarettes 8 (n.g.), bottles of water 3 (v.g.),

I woke up drunk this morning. Granted, I drank my weight in martinis last night all about downtown Minneapolis so I had it coming, but I’m here with my colleagues this morning discussing rhetoric and I am drunk. Go me.

In my pre-bariatric surgery youth, I could outdrink anyone except my Hi-my-name-is-Jason-and-I’m-an-alcoholic-who-failed-rehab-thrice ex-boyfriend. I drank everything: tequila, gin, vodka, whiskey, beer beer beer, shots, wine, beer bongs, you name it, I got drunk on it, and once I even drank Dickens.

Post-surgery, my life tends to mirror this cutesie poem by my current-obsession writer Dorothy Parker:

I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I’m under the table,
after four I’m under my host.

Tolerance? I have none.

Some days, I get drunk by merely smelling liquor. The inebriation also lasts much longer since my system tends to hang onto whatever I put into it about twice as long as it did before surgery. So, given my tendency to binge drink and slam all the alcohol in sight, I stay drunk for weeks at a time.

This post is a testament to the fact that I’m still drunk. Cheers!