The moment when it is realised that the point of no return is in the dim and distant past, is when everything seems to smell and taste of concentrated alcohol, even the air being thick with it. Nostrils, ears, and tongue furred with it. Warm, chemical, cheap plonk- yummo. When I start to really dislike the taste yet am drinking it regardless, the problem stage is reached. Not quite drunk enough to not care that I don't like it, yet sufficiently intoxicated to not be willing to stop pouring it down my throat. Though these days, now I am an old woman and going out for the evening is an anticipated treat, a couple of glasses and I'm ready for a little nap. Aww, bless, one might think. Actually it's bloody irritating. Mind you, did give P a bit of a surprise when she found me 'resting my eyes' in a big pile on her bed which proved amusing.
My new favourite drinking game, 'I have never...', provided some very interesting revelations and copious amounts of giggling. The brilliance of the game lies in that the dirtiest peeps end up the most pissed, whilst those of us of virtuous nature can watch on with, marginally more sober, amusement. A few red faces resulted, yet no judgements made of the more scandalous discrepencies divulged amongst friends. Did make me feel a little too angelic however, I think it's about time the more devilish side (if I indeed possess one!) made an appearence.
I love how M can get so embarrassed and paranoid about such meaningless things, but just not care one iota about what anyone thinks of her unique and expressive dancing. The wildness, intenseness, and crackers nature of it is totally absorbing and I could watch it all day in the manner of a screensaver and the like. The fact that she is in her own little world, just doing it because she wants to and that's what she feels like, makes it so admirable and mesmerising. What a dude.
Thank goodness I was upstairs and out of harm's way when C expressed his manliness in the most primitive of ways, otherwise I would have been quite stripped (no pun intended) of my innocence. Though the laws of probability dictate that (as thus far I have managed to avoid it) due to the frequency of prementioned event, it is inevitable that my mind will be polluted with the image in due course.
For somebody who feels so wildly inadequate for the majority of the time, I am a bit of a goody two shoes. It is twice now, in only a few days, that I have been one of very few who have been present in timed essay lessons. I suppose I always feel better afterwards, safe in the knowledge that I have done the right thing and have gained more practice and useful experience than certain contemporaries, but at the time I just feel annoyed that I didn't have the forethought to skive. I hope I'm not in danger of becoming one of those self-rightious prudes that put themselves up on a pedestal in all their nauseating glory. A fate worse than... detention for ducking lessons.
Sitting outside the school with P and S (how oldskool is that?) in brilliant sunshine, bitching about each and every person that deigned to cross our field of vision, and all was right with the world. It doesn't get much better than that. Until the bell went for French of course.
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