How it steals my senses.

I'm fairly sure normal, mentally stable people do not do the things I do when they've had one too many.

Popping down the pub and chatting up the human being that is closest to me, or taking off my clothes and skinny dipping, or picking a fight with a total stranger, or finding true love for a few hours, or laughing myself silly at the old stories of when we were all in school would be a more normal thing for a person to do.

Yet, I found myself two thousand words into a tirade about the human condition and the nature of survival at ten minutes past midnight. I am beginning to get the feeling that I am a bit of a jackass. All these grand ideas thought up when alcohol with a yellow label slips under my brain and goes "You know what? We should write a novel!" were laid out in the window that I am typing into now, in the drunken hope that my daft thought processes would blow the lid off of the entire world.

We all think these things and have these ideas: after a couple of pints we all become philosophers and gain the ability to put the world to rights, and then in the morning where everything is too bright and white noise is buzzing in the back of your head and the pound, pound, pound of dehydration and lack of blood-sugar is marching through your veins we find ourselves half-chuckling to ourselves and thinking at what a bell-end we were those few hours ago. I find myself quietly ashamed of the thoughts I have when I am hammering away at this poor, re-conditioned laptop's keyboard, but why should I? Another part of me thinks that these tangential thoughts are really what define us as individuals: my thoughts may align, but not replicate, someone else's, and that in itself is fairly wonderful. Chances are I'll look through this and think to myself that I really should smash my router to bits with a hammer to prevent the world from being exposed to this pseudo-conspiracy theorist brand of bullshit.

But hey. In forty years when I am sat at the same desk in the same flat with a gut that sags more and hair that is more silver than black I'll think to myself "Hey, at least you didn't wind up swigging the cider you're drinking in the park!".

Oh well, small blessings I guess. Chances are I'll wake up and read this, grimacing to myself at what, as above, a bell-end I am.

But as with everything else, I will leave it up as a monument to my inadequacy, as it is my faults and cracks and fractures and scars that make me who I am, and make me stronger as a person.

Fade to black, roll credits, something touching on a piano.