DRINKING ALONE

Is just fine. And I’m going to go ahead and say it’s just fine in any circumstance. That’s not to say it’s always safe. Or never fueled by depression. By “fine,” I mean understandable and okay. Like a man drinking a fifth of whiskey on a midnight train after his old lady threw him out when he caught her at the center of a bukkake session. Hey, I don’t know, there're some sick people out there. Sometimes drinking heals wounds. Other times it causes liver scarring. That’s not the point here though, folks. It’s that drinking solo can be absolutely swell.

Too many people bash on unaccompanied substance use. “Oh dude, you’re pathetic,” or “You did what? You smoked a buh, buh, blunt by yourself?!” My advice? Don’t listen to these people. They’re what I call naïve and young. You might call them Betas. Anyway, when the sun is out and the folks’ liquor cabinet is full, why not indulge in a little reenactment of The Graduate? Except in my case I threw in a little Big Labowski, for White Russians were my poison of choice. Oh, and on another note, had I shied away from this general practice, half my writing would suck tits. Oh wait.

The FACT of the matter is that the lone drinking man only screams distress when he does it with a frown. Seriously, if he’s drinking with a smile, he’s happy. Often, however, he is neither smiling nor frowning because he can’t feel his face. And if you’re Scott Mckay, your face will look as if it were made of wax that had been slightly overheated as to melt most notably in the areas of the eyes and mouth – not to be taken as a frown. Unless tears are coming out of the eyes. Another piece of valuable advice, take necessary precaution when approaching a lone drinker who may be crying. I’ve never witnessed this (they’ve always been drinking with others when the waterworks turned on), but especially if they’re a stranger, probably don’t want to touch that. You don’t know what the fuck’s the problem! But if you see the, perhaps even rarer public display of HEARTY (and even sporadically challenging ^^) singles drinking across the ol’ bar, this is what you do. 

She’s a gorgeous, high class woman not in a red dress, but in a black one that when she stands in front of the sunlight her legs are silhouetted and you notice that she’s not only enjoying a martini with extra olives, but she’s doing so sans underwear. Don’t stare at that. This is Lone Ranger 101, dick. So she’s sitting there, angled so as to better people watch – all the more important you time eye contact at the right instant. Mid beer pound, glass at a forty five degree tilt, and you decide to give her a glance, oh no! she’s winked at you! While sliding an olive into her mouth! Coughing and choking at your first singles match lost! you run to the men’s room trying not to cry. But when you come out, everyone’s transformed into pigs except her, and because you just bought a condom in the restroom, she forgets everything to go have sex with you.

Now, if it’s a bro, easy, “Hey yo bro! whatchu drinkin, man? Why’n’tchu come ova ’eah an’ talk abaaahd it wit me?!” If you’re a woman, pretty much even easier. No New Jersey Guido accent necessary. Don’t wink at the poor bastard though. Unless he looks smooth enough to know what to do about. In which case you'd kinda wonder why he’s drinking by himself anyway, though, right? Right? If da sonuvabitch can pull hoes like Coby? Kobe? Colby? What’s da fuckin spelling ova heah?!?

That guy Ian, who wrote all the James Bonds books? He was good. Earnest Hemingway, meh, some good, some okay. Don’t wanna hear it Jimmy. You're a Hermione fan right? I mean Hemingway? Drinking while you’re doing stuff is always nice, too. I like drinking while doing my homework so when my vision starts to fail along with any motor skills, and it’s not even half done... Study break. For the rest of the evening. Yestahday. Just unpacking some shit for the folks at their new house. Had a coupla coffees, nice and wired up, zoo-too-doo, and then 11:09 rolls around, and I’m like Mah!!?!! Coulda fix me up a white Russian, hey!
“What time is it?” she says.
“Ten after eleven, mah. Why? Wussamattah?” I says.
[Way too much sopranos and guido fascination.* More in About the Author]
“Okay, I make you one,” she say.
So she stops making the drinks for me after two, which means I’m on my own. I use the measuring jigger for about one more before tossing that out and man-handling this half gallon of Smirnoff. Also a little side tip. Stop using heavy cream/half and half/whole milk after about three. Harder to drink, and it’ll make you barf. I opted for good ol’ 2%, and by number seven or eight, I found myself drooped over our couch listening to the Beach Boys. Mah said “Let me go Home” made her want to cry, but she wouldn’t take my advice to start day drinking. We went to the mall where I dropped a little over a hundo on running shoes and other stupid shit. When am I going to run? You kiddin me? Anyway, I was drunk as shit, and all too happy to return home where I shed my clothes to the draws and stepped carefully into the pull and then getting on a floatie thing. Retrieve the drink, and I’m cool. Literally and figuratively. Cool cool cool wHip. Don’t really remember what happened between getting out and waking up in bed so I assume I fell asleep around six thirty, and now I can’t sleep and it’s 2:07 in the morning. If there weren’t an actually gate separating this community from the rest of society I’d go out and chill with the hoodrats. And then pop models. Instead, I’m gonna hop downstairs and look in the fridge and probably not eat anything. I hate doing that. Good night.

*I mean, they’re like unicorns, I’ve never really seen one (dancing), but I know they exist.