Nathan- Alcohol and Decision Making- The Progenitors of Regret

Alcohol adversely affects one's judgement. Should you meet any of my ex-boyfriends, you'll find yourself in immediate agreement. We've all done it, though some, such as Your's Truly, more often than most.

Here's the typical situation. You've had a few beers, a couple of vodkas, an ill advised glass of wine, and a shot or two. You feel as though you can do no wrong- you're clear headed, the most attractive person in the room , and in complete control of your senses (even if your blood is forty-proof). Then you're presented with a decision to make, and human nature dictates that, when pissed, you will do the exact opposite of what you should be doing.

Some bad drunken decisions only carry minor consequences- such as deciding to cut through Westfield's on your way home after a mammoth Tea Gardens session and accidentally maxing out your credit card in G-Star.

Other bad drunken decisions carry more substantial consequences-  such as 'Your place or Mine?' to be followed up with a penicillin jab three to five days later, depending on when symptoms manifest.

And more than a few bad drunken decisions can alter the course of destiny, possibly destroy your life as you know it and can take years to recover from- such as 'I love you' to 'Lets move in together' and 'Its not what you think!'.

I started experiencing what could be interpreted as physical withdrawal symptoms yesterday. Headache, slight nausea, and general malaise. Not the sort of malaise that comes with Nicotine Withdrawal (and usually results in climbing up a bell tower with a bucket of fried chicken and a high powered rifle) but a general disinterest in nearly everything. I struggled. Especially being sat on my balcony while my flatmate and his fancy-piece attempted to singlehandedly drink the Australian Brewing Industry out of recession.

Thankfully, I was also shown what I was not missing. I have a very good friend, who we'll call 'Max' to protect his identity. We met soon after I arrived in Australia- in many ways he's a sort of evil twin of mine, and heaven forbid you see the two of us together in a licenced premises (or anywhere with a whif of booze) because that night won't be ending until well into the following day.

'Max', for all intensive purposes, is your typical spritely professional 30 year old. Very intelligent, social, attractive, and generally tasteful even when he is blowing off the steam of a high pressured job. He's also known for pretty sound decision making and level headed, rational judgement.

That is until this weekend when he decided to consume some alcohol. In the company of a Hairdresser. Who had access to bleach. Who I can only assume was also so obliterated he forgot his Hairdresser's Hippocratic Oath (To do no harm to anyone's appearance).

I give you Exhibit A.

"Ja ja- you give me zie cokes, und dann you can sheisst in meinem mund!"

The fantasy is James Marsters ca 2001. The reality is an East German Rent Boy.

I've been assured that as of today this abomination will have been covered over with a glossy brown and we can only pray that it is not so overprocessed as to turn the colour of gastroenteritis after a couple of showers. And don't worry, I'll lecture him about the tacky chest harness the next time I see him (most likely after NOvember ends as he's one of those 'High Risk' mates that were I to even find myself in the same post code alcohol consumption would result, despite my best intentions to the contrary).

But there you have it- insurmountable proof that making choices while under the influence is never a good idea. At best it leads to crimes against Hair. At worst- marriage, children, disillusionment, and ultimately death.

Moving swiftly on.

I woke up this morning feeling like a turd left out in the Sun, run over multiple times by cars, bikes, and snotty screaming children's velcro shoes. Normally when I drink, the next morning is a dream-  I fly out of bed like a nun out of a Bordello as soon as my eyes open. Sans alcohol, it's a different story. It takes me a good 20 minutes just to sit up and stumble towards my wardrobe to find some raggy shorts to put on so I can have my morning coffee and all important slice of heavenly bliss morning cigarette.

Once I managed to caffeinate myeslf however, I felt invigorated. The city reverberated with the droning blare of Cicada song, which is as sure a sign of Summer in Sydney as rat tails, singlets, and domestic disturbance call outs to suburban barbecues. It was also stinking hot, but undeterred and fuelled by 4 coffees and half a packet of Marlboro Lights, I went for my morning run (Yes- I smoke and run. The two are not mutally exclusive. Get over it) along the Harbour, then swam a few laps, and finally hobbled upstairs to find my flatmate and his company cracking their first beers of the day.

Rather than spend the afternoon sitting around and watch middle aged men get wasted and gradually regress to adolescence, I got the Hell out of dodge and headed east for a day at Bronte Beach- my favourite in Sydney. I never thought a Beach Barbecue without alcohol would be a pleasurable affair, but surprisingly it was. The water was freezing (by our standards, so still pretty tropical I guess) but with 33 degree sunshine it was bliss. Despite the swarm of Bluebottles (Portuguese Man o' War jellyfish for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere) hitting the beach, my sobriety allowed me to successfully dodge the little f*ckers and happily frolick in the surf with all the glee of someone who's broken their diet at the Haagen Dazs cafe. Without joining the alarmingly large crowd of people applying icepacks to tentical burns at the lifeguard's tent.

An added bonus was that I didn't get my head kicked in for spending too long drunkenly ogling at Bogan muscle mary's- so everyone's a winner!

So it was a successful day. Sun, Sea, and Sobriety. I never thought those three went together so well (let alone at all).

I think I'm getting the hang of this.