Pissed (2)

My sister came into the pub. I introduced here to a Jamaican named Joe I had been talking to. We left. I saw Ralph outside, he’d been kicked out. I bought some fish and chips. I think I did, it may have been a memory from the night before that I got mixed up. I watched Sky News. The CD that was my brain skipped over entire tracks at this stage, and yet I didn’t panic til I woke up on the couch with a duvet over me. My Ireland jersey was filthy. I went into the kitchen, got a pint glass from the press and filled and drunk out of it at least four times. Then I just sat in the kitchen for a while. I had no idea what happened. I didn’t know what time I’d got home at, went to sleep at , nothing. But at that stage it was 3am. Ireland was out of the World Cup. Damn. I went to bed and woke suddenly at 6am. I was in work at 9am that day. I looked out the window at the greyest sky I’d ever seen and felt utterly disgusted with myself. Here I was, in the most familiar place I knew; my bedroom; and yet it felt different. I’ve woken up half-pissed many times, but nothing compared to the way I felt looking at that dark Monday morning sky. My mouth tasted like someone had pissed in it. I was sick of myself, completely sick of myself, and I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. I realised that just about every time I’d gone out in the past six months, I’d gotten blind drunk. Not jolly, not merely talkative but actually face-on-the-floor drunk. I began to count in my head how many people I’d come in contact with that day, and even today – over a week later – I’m still cringing as much as I did that morning. I can’t go on like this.

j

p.s. Happy entry to follow. Eventually.