They say opposites attract, and maybe there is good cause for this. For the average homosapian, finding a mate who shares many of your qualities can also be a good thing. If you happen to be a feral degenerate with no understanding of your own limits, and meet another one of these barbarians, then everybody is in trouble.
I learnt this last night, lying face down on the side walk of 5th Avenue in a very elegant green dress. Somehow being fucked off your tits is worse if you’re in formal attire, especially if the person lying next to you is randomly shouting ‘Is it still illegal to punch your girlfriend in the face if she likes it?’
I was supposed to be responsible for the evening, and quickly lost control of the situation. It started off as a civillised affair; I’m a great hostess before I drink. There I was, blending up margarita’s in the kitchen and serving them on little trays. And then I started drinking. And drinking. And drinking. I had a few pitchers of beer down in O.B earlier in the day and was a little tipsy before I hit the tequila, and wasn’t quite aware of how hard the tequila would hit me.
I don’t usually drink tequila, and now I know why. The other important factor to all of this was I had spent my afternoon catching up on Game of Thrones, and sometimes when I get really, really drunk, I forget that I’m in this world and pass over into a fantasy realm in my head.
So we make it to a Mexican bar, and naturally the right thing to do after drinking two bottles of tequila is to order more drinks. As I walked into the bar, the ground violently moved direction and I began to fall.
‘Let’s not fight the natural order of the evening.’ I told myself as I plummeted to the ground, too drunk to try and save myself. My main concern was being kicked out for being too drunk, so I quickly blamed it on my shoes/special man friend and tried to retain an air of composure as I sat at the table.
Somewhere along the 2nd or 8th margarita, the boy starts talking about girls. Not in any particular way that a sane person would find objectionable, but I am not a sane person at my best; let alone when on a tequila fuelled rampage. This is the only flipside to having the best sex in the history of mankind. There really isn’t much of a difference between passion and violence, and the tequila demon didn’t like the mention of any other girl too much. I also may have been under the impression that I was Daenarys Targaraen, rightful air to the Iron Throne and Queen of the Dragons.
“If you so much as look at her, I’ll rip off her scalp and beat you to death with it.” the tequila demon said through my mouth. This is the way of the Dothraki.
“You are so jealous tonight.” he replies
“I am not jealous. I am Queen of the fucking dragons, and I’m from Brentford so I know how to cut a bitch. You Americans think you’re so tough with all of your guns. Fuck guns. Back in my school we fought each other with MALLETS. Where’s my drink? Why am I on the ground? Did I just punch you? Ohmygod, sorry. Actually, I’m not sorry. A KHALEESI IS NEVER SORRY. hic.’
Well why this is going on, he’s just screaming at random dudes walking by, ‘She’s jealous but she’s mine. She’s mine. Keep walking homo, I own this pussy.’
The rest is a bit blurry, but we decide the best course of action is to retire this night ASA-fucking-P. Unfortunately we had 5 blocks left to go before we could have sex and stop fighting.
So there I am, staggering/falling/swinging punches down 5th – and we both fall over. A lot. Luck wasn’t on my side, and I spent more time lying on the pavement than walking on it. An hour or four later, we arrive back to a shitshow in the lounge. One guy is screaming obsenities and trying to fight the landlord, and my nemesis is sprawled over the couch. Nemesis is a harsh word, because it denotes a worthy adversory. It’s just some girl who hates me because I have the guy she wants.
I, myself, am a fair and reasonable woman but the tequila demon is not. When I’m sober or regular drunk, I just avoid her. The tequila demon shoots a look. Women are territorial creatures, much like wild dogs, and sometimes you just have to let someone know whose the fucking alpha. I learnt this from my rottweiler I had as a child. You had to look him dead in the eyes until he looked away to assert your natural authority in the situation.
In my head my look denoted this:
But in reality, it was more like this:
At any rate, it worked and nobody got punched. Except for me and my male companion, who were just punching each other in the face because it was funny. Well, it was funny until I woke up and took a look in the mirror.
“I think people are starting to question the nature of our relationship.” I said as I was leaving, trying to figure out why my hair had a lot of dried blood in it.
“I think we should probably start questioning it.” he replied.
As I got back to my bungalow on the other side of town, my friends looked fairly horrified when I rolled in.
“What the fuck happened?” my room-mate asked, looking concerned.
“No, it’s fine. It’s funny.” I waved her off and found an ice pack.
“I can’t explain why it’s hilarious. It just is. And none of these bruises are from being punched, these are sex bruises. It’s a different intent so it’s fine.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t get it. I know I’m a fiend with a limited capacity for morality, so when he punches me in the head and laughs I just feel he really gets me. Y’know? I find it quite touching actually. Finally someone understands me!”
She pulls the duvet back over her head and goes to sleep.
I go and watch another episode of Game of Thrones. Just another Tuesday night in San Diego.