Rarely do I get the opportunity to see drunk people. Since I was diagnosed, my exposure to the drunkards can be counted on one hand. Maybe two, if I think really hard. Housemate may indulge in a drink occasionally, but he tolerates it quite well and he has no cause for embarrassment much to my dismay. Mind you, who knows what he gets up to when he is out, but that is by the by.
Tonight, I got to see drunk people. Well, person. My drinking these days has to be in moderation. Nothing pleased me more this evening than walking home at 01:00hrs to see a man staggering down Balls Pond Road, looking like he had just seen a ghost with his fly undone and his trousers hanging down to reveal a bit of thigh below his pants. They were indigo. It was not because I am a cancer riddled pervert, no. It was because I like drunk people. I miss the embarrassment of drunk people. It’s too dangerous for me to be around them often, both physically and emotionally. I get to touch upon it periodically, normally on receipt of a badly written text message, but on few occasions do I get to see it live. It’s like going home.
I should clarify that I have never walked home exposing myself. I am a lady. I did once fall over onto a piece of glass and as a consequence slice my foot and bottom, well left butt cheek*, thus producing a fair amount of blood. It is nothing to be proud of, I know that. But my, to go back to the day after and for that to be my only care in the world…
… That would be nice.
* I still thank those who investigated the cut on my buttock 24 hours later. I should probably thank Mamma Jones too, for stitching the hole the glass created in my dress. I was young.
One day, I will be able to stay out and lose complete control, maybe I could piss on myself. Warm. Unfortunately, for now, I have morphine in my life and missing a dose of that bad boy is just not worth it. I have soup to make tomorrow.