I Got Hammered By Myself Last Weekend

I Got Hammered By Myself Last Weekend

There’s a very fine line between “having one or two drinks to take the edge off,” and “getting hammered on a weeknight by myself.” For some of us, it’s a slippery slope that starts out relaxing and ends with staring at yourself in the mirror wondering if all the things your ex said about you are true. Maybe you’ll send some text messages that you shouldn’t, or yell at your neighbor’s kid or something. Alcohol does weird things to people.

To clarify, I’m not talking about going to a bar and having a drink alone there. That’s the purpose of bars. I’m talking about planting your ass on the couch for a few hours with Season 3 of Shameless and a bottle of Jim Beam. It’s an oddly cathartic experience until you realize how sad it sounds.

Last week was a weird one. Nothing inherently bad happened, but at the same time, nothing really good happened either. Really just one of those weeks where the absence of positives makes you feel like shit. Friday morning I sent a text to the group message to try and see who wanted to get drinks. No takers. I poked around my office to try and see if anyone wanted to head to happy hour after work. Nothing. Despite my better judgment or knowledge of alcoholism, I knew I was going to need a coping mechanism.

It’s not like I sat down with the pure intention of only getting hammered. I feel like I need to get that down in writing. No, I really did take the time to make an Old Fashioned to enjoy while watching the show I’m currently binging. But that Old Fashioned was so good that I decided to make another one. And another one. And another one. And kept going until the bottle was halfway gone. The moment when I hit the point of no return was when I stood up to make a frozen pizza and the rush of alcohol to my head caused me to stumble and fall back onto the couch. Really not a good look, but luckily nobody was there to see it.

There’s a weird feeling when you realize that you’ve unintentionally gotten shitfaced by yourself. It’s similar to the feeling you get when your mom calls and says she’s worried about you. In reality, nothing is really wrong with you, but you start to create issues for yourself. Should I have asked that girl at work to get drinks? Do my friends think I’m growing distant from them because of my poor performance in Fantasy Football? What would have happened if I ordered the Denver Omelette instead of the Spinach and Mushroom Omelette? Am I just a host from Westworld? Is any of this real?

You know, normal things that people worry about.

After a while, I snapped out of it. Stop thinking, start drinking. In retrospect, probably should have just gone to bed. But at least at that point I switched to beer, and not long after, I walked to the 24-hour taco joint a few blocks away. And let me tell you something: no matter how you got drunk – whether it was with friends, coworkers, or just by yourself — I think we can all agree that a drunk taco in the early hours of the morning is enough to make the world seem like a better place. Your problems drift away, and all you need to worry about are your stomach and the diced up chicken, onion, cilantro, and corn tortilla that you’re shoveling into your mouth.

And that, my friends, is bliss.

Image via YouTube

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Using sarcasm as a defense mechanism since 1993. At any given moment I'm either tired, drunk, or stressed out. Get at me at or whatever.

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