Happiness from the Bottom of a Bottle

A toxic love affair with alcohol.

Image by Agustín Farías

At the tail end of a house party, the host asked if I wanted another cocktail. At this point in the night, I can’t tell my right foot from my left. I can’t feel my face. I’m squinting at things that are far away and shouting at things that are nearest to me. 

I leaned towards the offer of another drink, stood up, took a few steps forward while leaning backwards, and extended an appreciative handshake-fist bump monstrosity—if this were a hand shadow puppet show, it’d have looked like a disappointment.

I realised that the host was across the other end of the bloody living room, and I was still seated, gesturing at nothing in particular. 

I sculled one more Old Fashioned over my undesirable limit and decided to leave. I mumbled something to the host about another Halloween party. The host thanked me for not vomiting in his house and sent me on my way. “OK, but don’t die,” he joked half-heartedly — the horror. 

At Ann Siang Road, a bustling nightlife belt, I stumbled ou…