The Geography of My Mind – Drunken Confessions - Apollo Mapping
Posted on April 2nd, 2019

The Geography of My Mind – Drunken Confessions

I recently put a sticky note on my laptop that reads, “Quit sending emails when drunk!” (This should apply to texts, too.) Apparently I’ve taken a liking to replying to work emails after a few cold ones, and I’ve come to find out I can be a little more direct than I should be. Now, never fear, this has never cost me anything (yet, or at least not that I’m aware of), but I can tell it could, at some point. It’s more that I can be awfully biting in my tone. Some might say acerbic. I have to be better with my words; I don’t suffer fools well. Thing is, I don’t know that I’m all that much sweeter when I’m sober. But at least then I might give what I’m about to send a second thought. Drunken emails, to whomever, definitely get proofread, but they definitely don’t get edited for impact. It appears that booze encourages me to lash my tongue, to make it sting. Feel my wrath, baby.

I also send handwritten notes to people when I’m drunk sometimes. Once you’ve gotten over the fact that someone still writes letters, realize that what I’m probably writing at that point isn’t good. Not mean, never. But confession-laden. I tell people my wildest desires, most of which are not true after I’ve woken up. In some instances I can simply get the letter out of the mailbox; others I let ride, unsure of their full content. Some I wish I didn’t write – once I hear back from the recipient; some I’m glad I did – for the same reason. But for someone who prides themselves on being closed off, it’s a little ironic that I like to divulge so much of myself – in permanent form no less – after I’ve imbibed. I mean, emails last forever, and letters do, too. At least if you say something stupid in real time it fades away, eventually. No trail or record there. Unless you’re being recorded. Right, Mr. Trump? J

There have been more than a few times where the girl I was dating and I went out and got loaded, only to fall into one of those heartfelt and deep conversations that inevitably come around after midnight and a boatload of cocktails. I don’t know, I don’t think I blackout, but I also don’t think I process much of what I say fully. I just kind of spit it out. That doesn’t mean that I make stuff up per se, only that what I do say is in need of a filter. The girl always remembers everything. I almost always remember nothing, at least the specific content. I always remember the sentiment. And sometimes I regret it.

I’ve been hanging out with this new girl lately, we’ve probably been out about half a dozen times or so, logged about 20 hours of one-on-one, and it is a weird situation. We clearly click, yet she holds herself at a distance every once in a while, almost as if I fight to regain ground each time I see her anew. We always drink, which is probably an issue – would be nice to have some of our discussions in a zone of capacity at remembrance. She’s told me things, I’ve confessed to her, yet there still seems to be some impasse. If I’m being honest, I think I might be “the best of what’s around” for her right now; it doesn’t seem like she’s looking to buy in fully. And for whatever reason, I tolerate that. I don’t know that I’ve confessed too much that I regret yet, though I have had to explain some things I’d rather not. She has some hangups about aspects of me, though I think she’s looking for trouble more that trying to avoid it. I think that is something we all often do in relationships – seek out the points of contention. I’m far from a monk, but I would like to think I’m moving towards avoiding conflict; though I imagine most others would say the opposite about me…

Anyhow, she’s said a few things to me that are probably signs that there is no long-game, yet for whatever reason I hold on, just in case. I’ve often thought of spilling my guts – got pretty close last time we hung out – but I’d want to be fair if I were to do so. If all she wants is a platonic relationship (instead of what we’ve started), that’s fine. She’s really cool; I’d rather have her in my life just as a friend than not at all. This casual love interest limbo is wearing on me. Not because I’m falling in love, I’m not, but because it’s taxing always wondering. I guess this is where the benefit of a late night email, text or letter would help me – at least to get out what I can’t seem to say. In fact, I told her that I almost sent her a letter; I think she responded, “Why didn’t you?” I’m too drunk to remember what I said, I just kissed her and then went from there…

Well, I’ve done this before, so I guess I’ll do it again, only this time I won’t be drunk for this “drunken confession” (not that I ever have been before for these columns – I don’t think…): “[Woman], I didn’t expect to like you as much as I do, and that is not solely because I often sit in front of you fascinated by your physical beauty. I know you think of me as crude at times, and certainly because I bring that out in you – which you mostly seem to enjoy when I invite you in to my world of unrefined humor; it seems like something you hold against me. I’m captivated by your personality, and especially by the playfulness that ensues when you interact with my childishness. I find myself hanging on your every word, and I try to retain everything that seems to mean the most to you. I watch your body language, not solely because it is seductive, but because it lets me into your world, the parts that you block me off from. You once accused me of not being open enough, which has never been true with you, so I know that is simply the reflection of yourself onto me. And that is fine. I’d open the door to my thoughts and aspirations for you as wide as possible, letting in all of the dirt and bugs, if only I thought you might come in too. There are things about you that I’ve gleaned from what you’ve said that I imagine I wouldn’t find desirable in the long-run, but that is not to say that I would shun you for them, only that I’d do my best to become comfortable in your full being. The faces you make, your animation, pulls me in; I can tell you’d be a horrible poker player. The things you’re interested in tell me more about what you value, and because of that, maybe I find some value in those things, too. We don’t stay in regular contact, far less than I’d like, but when we do, I embrace it. I look forward to hearing from you. The last time we hung out we were to go to a show, so we got drinks beforehand. We met at 6pm, the show was at 8pm. You apologized for having me meet you so early (you thought it started at 730pm), I said, “I don’t mind, I like spending time with you.” You replied back that you did too. Yet here we are, distant, as always. My guess, my bet if I made them, is that we’ll pass each other in the night. And that’s okay, I guess, simply because that’s what it is. That’s what you want, I have to assume. So, just know this: I’m here if you want to, as a friend, or something more (of course I’d prefer the latter). And if you’re ready to move on, then I’ll still be here. Not waiting for you, no, not at all. But maybe, just maybe, the light will hit your eyes someday, causing you to reflect on some moment we shared, and it will all come rushing back to you. I offered, you passed. And life went on…”

Marco Esquandoles
Sweet Nothing

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