one of my quirks is this: i need to condition myself mentally when i’m about to be part of drinking sessions. reasons include the following: to have mental control, the strength to refuse shots and last but the most important of all—the acute, gut-twisting need to do so. when i am not prepared mentally, i get agitated to say the least. and frantic. you don’t like me frantic, that you should know.
take last night. after getting lost in wack-wack, i finally arrived at a friend’s place to hang out. of course, seasoned drinkers they are, drinking was THE itinerary.
and here is where the fact emerges: Fundador is a spawn of the devil masking as a brand of brandy.
my partner and i would always, always curse Fundador the morning after when hang-over has colonized our bodies and when I particularly would yearn to throw myself against the wall just to get past this nauseous stage.
but always, always, the spawn of satan wins. a friend loves Fundador so much it’s like water for her. at every party, she succeeds in converting us into worshippers. hours of drinking revelry would find us puppy-tamed, dreamy-eyed, with brandy breath before the spawn.
last night was no different.
the long and short of it is this: the spawn won. at 3am at home, i found myself writing poetry with a jittery hand and images all a bacchanal riot inside my head. so that was how it felt like to trip on words and brandy: the world tips; you wish to obliterate it but you wonder why the table is doing cartwheels. you egg yourself on and suddenly, utensils and drinking glasses break into a festive song.