being drunk - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
As Mike stood in the pub doorway the smoke from inside billowed out into the bitter wintry air. It swirled in the momentary light that streamed out until the door swung shut. He toppled down the step onto the cobbled street and the houses swayed like they were part of a fun house mirror illusion. After only six staggering paces he doubled over, vomit splashing on the stones and spraying his new jeans. He was found an hour later by an old dear who almost ran him down. He was kneeling in the street, slumped as if dead, but merely unconscious. He was cold to the touch. Now this was 1962 and there were no cell phones. The lady simply walked to the nearest door and rapped on it smartly.
My hands gripped the bottle in my hands, my eyes swiveling towards the back of my head in a distressed sense of a headache. I tilted my head towards the edge of the couch as I took a long swig of the dark substance that affected me. I sigh as the walls become part of a fun house, changing figure in a blink of an eye. My breath was the underlying cause of the smell of alcohol that entered my nostrils, and my mouth was sore from the amount of alcohol that I poured down my throat. I clear my throat as I stand up, just to fall back down on the couch in an unbalanced attempt to walk to the dark bedroom where I could feel the comfort of the bed to overtake the state of drunkenness. I stand again and stagger towards the bedroom, gripping on bookcases and tables to the room.
He was older than his true age. Years of drinking had robbed him of his youth. He was sober now, and it was a glorious day. It was late afternoon, late autumn, and the sunlight filtered through the trees. Oaks and pines stood tall and surrounded the building like soldiers on guard duty. With the leaves gone, we could see through the trees into the distance. Cliff and I sat on top of the roof of the building. He was the janitor and had scaled the ladder to check for shingles that were loose. Cliff had seizures, so I climbed up there to see if he was Okay. As we took in the view, he spoke of his family from the hills of Tennessee, of how he and his brother made and sold “light lightening.” He became quiet, locked his eyes to the sunlight through the trees, “The main trouble was my brother and I were our best customers. We got drunk every day.”
The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. Along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles; every vice that Derek had been ordered to avoid. He raised a shaky finger to call the server, and when they did not appear he turned his head slowly to his right to watch her scrubbing the glass of the chiller cabinet, recently re-stuffed with those stupid garish alco-pops all the teens were slurping faster than coca-cola. "It must be near closing," he thought to himself. Even in his alcoholic stupor his heart rate rose a little and his face flushed even pinker. "Hey!" he called, "'ow 'bout 'rink, 'iskey." The girl turned her head, the professional smile she'd worn all night was quite gone. Her eyes were pink, lids sagging and her face hung loose and long.
"We're closed, Derek. Go home." Then she returned to the glass. He wobbled on the high stool, his leg buckling when he stood...
Each drink offered seems like a better and better idea. The jokes get funnier, I become a comedian of epic proportions and I can flirt with that boy I've been crushing on. I feel pretty, witty and cool. I pull my dress a little lower and push my chest out a little further. I rumple my hand through my hair frequently to draw attention to it, I know he likes blondes. After reapplying my lipstick I head for the washroom. I'm barely in the door when I see a girl with clownish make-up staring at me. Her hair is a mess and her cheeks are flushed red. Her lacy bra is exposed above the low-cut line of her dress, which appears to have red wine spilt down the front. When I take a step forwards so does she, she's staggering like an inebriated tramp and invading my space. I try to swat her out of my way and strike the mirror hard.
The stairs I usually take two at a time are a mountain to be negotiated on all fours. My arms flap down on the carpet too hard, and with each push my back end sways like a horse under tranquillizer. My stomach begins to heave in a sickly way and my head is spinning in a way that just makes no sense. It's like the whole house just got put on a carousel, slow at first but gaining momentum. Then like a balloon just got inflated in my stomach everything ate and drunk for the past couple of hours is racing to be expelled. Vomit. There's vomit on the carpet in front. I can't go up, I can't face going down. The world spins one more time and it's lights out until the morning.
Being drunk was Harvey's coping mechanism. A bad day at work or an argument with Jill, drinking beer until closing time was always the answer. He'd stagger through dark streets, one hand on the nearest wall. If he was singing he'd fall asleep harmlessly on the couch, if not it wasn't a good idea to get in his way. Perhaps that's what happened to him this past Saturday... someone got in his way. No-one knows. Maybe he just misjudged the curb and tripped. Either way his legs remained in the road and his blood ran into the gutter, congealing into brown trickles.
Parker was propping up the bar, breathing in smoky air. His head had a way of lolling when he was close to complete inebriation and the bar tender had known him long enough to spot the signs. He raised his hand with less coordination than a concussed troll and slurred more than spoke, "Whiiiissssskeeey."
"Go on tell him you love him." Me to me after a few vodka shots, mind in a frenzy, world spinning faster than normal, legs giving way. Under the influence of alcohol, everything seems like fun. Conversations which under usual circumstances would be dull, become thrilling as a result of muddled words, loss of filter and a burning desire to be brutally honest. There is of course a small voice quietly nagging at the back of my mind, reminding me that I wont feel this way tomorrow and that my actions will have repercussions, and perhaps ones of great severity. But when I'm drunk I am well beyond the point of caring. My motto becomes," Live in the moment," opposed to my usual " every action has a reaction."