Drunken whores, one and all, raise up your glasses

from one of my best friends, so it’s safe to say, she knows me well enough to send it and know that:

a) it’s absolutely representative of times we’ve shared, so 100% justified

b) that I wouldn’t be offended

(and c) that at some point, I have actually looked exactly like the drunken whore on the right, all curly perm, wine glass and fag in hand, and not even at a fancy-dress party).

True or not, there’s no mistaking, it’s one hell of a personality endorsement.

I have been drunk many times, admittedly.  I hold my hands up and take full reponsibility.  Apart from that one time an ex-‘aquaintance’ thought it would be bloody hilarious to spike my drink and I was found passed out in the bar bathroom after I had flooded it, and my friend slept on the floor next to my bed in case I died.  I do not take responsibility for that.

I have not though, been so drunk so much in the last few years.  Hangovers are far too painful now and last a mammoth thirteen days and five and a half hours.  Also, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the liver.  And school nights, are absolutely out of the question.  (After I went out in the first few months I was here and drank free cava, mojitos and beer with my friend from Dubai, now Namibia, on a Friday night until 5am and got up at 8am to go to school for 9 o’clock classes that lasted FIVE WHOLE PAINFUL HOURS.)  One Word.  DEATH.

My tolerance is pretty much non-existent now too, especially after Dry January, as I found out to my detriment in Paris……….

And with reference to the ‘whore’ part, I wouldn’t go so far to say I’m all out ‘whorey’, but maybe, on a few occasions, I might have been a teeny weeny bit slutty?  But in the end, who’s to say what’s slutty and what’s not, hey?  Whose tart-ometer are we using, men’s?  In which case I retract my former statement, tout de suite, I’m a bloody SAINT!  And us women are reclaiming those words as our own anyway, so they have become terms of endearment and love and are no longer judgemental and hurtful.  Take for example, Madame L and myself, we quite often greet each other with a big kiss, a hug and the heartwarming words, “Hi slut!”, and I can asssure you all, Madame L is most definitely not one, in any way shape or form.  Quite the contrary in fact, she’s a very respectable, married mother of two, hot mama.   So you see my point.

I say though, from now on, if you do find yourself doing the walk of shame, do it with a swagger and give a nod to the receptionist on your way out the door (or the flatmate on the sofa).  Take one for the dirty girls’ team and hold your head up high.  The rest of us are right behind you and have your back.

And so another year has passed, time marches on and I have to scroll even further down the drop-down menues to find my year of birth.  But hey, age is just a number and remember, *you’re only as old as the man you feel.  (Can’t claim it as my own, but will squeeze the life out of it for the next week.)

*so by my reckoning, that makes me, oooohh I’d say, approximately thirty/thirty-one.  Will await confirmation.