Honesty or otherwise, it was a pretty dick move.

Times like these I wish I had better mental faculties: ones that are capable of choosing not to think too much, or, at the very least, that could readily blame things on somebody else.

It would certainly be easier if, say, the sun stopped rising and left the world in perpetual daybreak that day; it would have stalled this guilt, this feeling of a line having been crossed, no matter if it’s real or made up.

I feel like there is so much — too much — said in between passing fancies and the momentary lapse of judgment when filled near to the brim with cheap alcohol and late-night laughter. Of course, it is just me. The others privy to this self-inflicted misery feel no such thing and have dealt with the matter(s) in an appropriate and clean-cut manner, and of that I am deeply, eternally envious.

I do not remember the last time I put up with something I did and came out looking like the mature, rational creature that psychology tests make me out to be.

D’you know, I enjoy the searing heat that hard liquor leaves behind in the wake of its path to my brain. In a way it’s amusing; never have I dreamed in a million years that I would truly enjoy drinking. Turns out it takes only a little nudge from certain directions for one to figure out the many wonders intoxication could bring; never mind that it’s a two-way street, that at night and depending on your state of mind it’s both boon and bane. That it is every over-thinker’s downfall come morning light, when the sun is out and the evening’s debris are laid bare for all to see and for one to lament over.

Don’t worry. It’s really not as terrible as it sounds.


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