It is widely acknowledged that we do not drive when drunk, or operate heavy machinery. Or get married. Unless you’re famous, bored, in Vegas, and can afford a good divorce lawyer.
Mobile phone use on the other hand? No restrictions. Knock yourself out! Text, Call, Tweet away with drunken glee. If you are lucky, you may lose the faculties with which to operate your phone. Unfortunately this rarely happens. In personal experience you have a higher probability of dropping your mobile down a toilet, or leaving it in a taxi, than actually being unable to use it.
But the worst thing is, technology has a memory. So when you’re lying in bed the morning after the night before, pillow over delicate head, stomach gnawing with the fear, your friendly phone will remind you just what a prat you were.
I need the rules to be changed. I need to be barred from being drunk in charge of my personal life.
Sooo… before I delete the evidence. Here are the texts I sent my Ex whilst drunk at my Christmas party. Peel hands away from eyes and commence typing. ARGHHH.
- ‘HAPPY CHRISTMAS. JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT MIKE SAYS HI!’ – (A random pointless text, blatantly designed to elicit attention. FYI Mike is my boss. Mike has met my Ex once in his lifetime. And no, Mike had not said ‘hi.’)
- ‘OOPS! YOU KNOW WHICH MIKE. MY BOSS MIKE. AM AT XMAS PARTY. TIPSY. X’– (Over clarification a tad unnecessary. Kiss, very unnecessary.)
This is the point I should have just left it. But no, sometimes rampant lack of self control is like an itch you just have to irritate.
- ‘WHAT YOU UP TO TONIGHT? ARE YOU IN TOWN?’ (Desperate.)
- ‘NOT THAT I WANT TO MEET UP WITH YOU.’ (Trying to claw it back.)
- ‘UNLESS YOU WANT TO MEET UP?’ (And we’re straight back to desperate.)
A half hour pause in textual activity. During which time I pointlessly/pathetically/hopefully waited for a response. And, usefully, drank more wine.
- ‘I NEED TO SEE YOU TO GIVE YOU YOUR STUFF BACK. NOT THAT I HAVE YOUR STUFF WITH ME TONIGHT. THAT WOULD BE WEIRD.’ (No. I keep texting someone who does not reply to me. That is weird.)
- ‘WHY ARE YOU NOT TALKING TO ME?’ (When sober I’d assume this is a natural symptom of him dumping me. Or… that he was in the cinema…. I really hope he wasn’t in the cinema.)
- ‘DO YOU EVEN WANT YOUR STUFF BACK? OR SHOULD I BIN IT?’ (Ooooh getting angry drunk now. This is where my phone should forcibly shut down and only resuscitate if needed to call the emergency services. Or my Mum.)
This was followed by a ten minute Black Sambucca session. Like that was going to help me retrieve my dwindling rationality.
- ‘DON’T NEED YOUR SHIT IN MY HOUSE ANY MORE.’ – (Well if I keep being this charming, of course he’ll get back in touch!)
If memory serves me right it was then onto tequila shots with the idiot guy from Marketing.
- ‘FUCK YOU ASSHOLE.’ – (Classy Evie. Classy.)
There was then a brief interlude, where I gave up on the texts and fruitlessly tried phoning my Ex instead. My final bedtime text when I got home was lovely, simple, and humiliating.
- ‘I’M REALLY RELLY SORRY RELLY SORRY I JUST MISS YOU I LOVE YOU I LOST A SHOE TONIGHT I LOVE YOU MISS YOU XXXXXXXXXXX’
Awesome. What really distresses me is that I even lost the ability to punctuate.
Needless to say he hasn’t been in touch. I don’t particularly blame him.
Bring on 2013, the year where I don’t make a complete and total divvy out of myself. Although I may be being a little optimistic there.