I hate drinking.
I hate everything about it.
From the before: looking for a dress that is tight enough to make you look pretty at the hotel bar without giving off the too-easy vibe and shoes that hurt so you can look good in obligatory selfies.
To the during: the loud thumping music about all the sex you’re not having, spending money on bottles with gaudy sparklers serving no purpose other than to declare to others just how fucking entitled you are. Drown the alcohol with mixers so you don’t have to taste it, queue up for hours to use the bathroom that has vomit on the floor and no toilet paper. Bump and grind enough strangers who tell you that you are beautiful but in reality are so drunk, that they would have found a fire extinguisher attractive.
But after a few shots and one too many rounds, the room starts spinning and faces will blur. You stop caring about your dance moves or the fact that the same three songs have been playing the entire night.
Some drink to remember while others drink to forget.
I drink until I forget that though I am surrounded by hundreds of people, not one of them is you.
I drink until I no longer look for you in the arms of strangers because trust me, I have kissed another another another, but I still taste you.
I drink until the memory of you gets muddled, until secondhand smoke and body odour drown out the smell of your skin that I have come to know so well
I drink until I can no longer remember the way your smile curves or how you would roll your eyes when I make a bad joke; that afternoon when we were both lying in bed naked and the rays got all tangled up in the topography of your body and for the first time – I find myself envious of daylight.
I drink until I forget my name and the combination of the syllables that make up yours no longer drives a stake through my heart.
I drink until all the things I miss about you are identified and catalogued as things and not a person anymore.
Then I go to bed – check my phone just in case – and do it all over again tomorrow.