Dear Pretentious Cocktails,
I always fancied myself more as a beer girl. You know, the
kind of girl so unbelievably down to earth and chill that she could kick back a
Natty Light and still own the room. That was totally me. My cheap, tasteless
beer and I needed no one to define us. We were effortless in our simplicity and
edgy in our bubbly roughness. I threw my head back and laughed at even the
sight of your kind. My beer was Serena and you were Blaire. Sure, you had style
and elegance, but we had gusto and personality. You were forced to cling to
snobbery while we were set free by our self-acceptance. We weren’t necessarily
classy but we had swag. When my Natty and I were together I was sure that
everyone was saying, “that girl knows exactly who she is.”
But as much as I hate to admit this to you, now that my body
is being operated by the corrupt despotism of hormones, you’re all I think
about. It's not really even alcohol that I miss, it's just the overwhelming need
to feel something festive glide through a straw and into my body. Sometimes I
wake up to myself screaming, “CLUB SODA WITH A DASH OF SIMPLE SYRUP, CRUSHED
MINT AND A SPLASH OF ORGANICALLY INFUSED BLOOD ORANGE VODKA PLEASE!” I don’t
even know myself anymore. I’m consumed
by the need to hold something in my hand called a “Stiletto” or a “Farmer’s
Skinny Daughter.” I’d even take the “Farmer’s Chubby Daughter with A Clubbed
Foot,” I really don’t care, as long as something is muddled. Sometimes I sit in
bed in my favorite French bulldog pajama set and look at the Fleming’s drink
menu online. I just want to feel close to you. I saw that they had a new drink
called “50 Shades of Rose.” I giggled for a solid 10 minutes at its subtle
cleverness. GOD THEY’RE GOOD. It’s kind of like Facebook stalking the guy you
used to “talk to” but stopped because he started verbally hashtagging
everything like a huge tool. He is now dating another girl with way better legs
than you. You want what you can’t have. That’s exactly how I feel about a
pretentious drink that involves lavender bitters or something. I’m Eve and a
“tini” is my forbidden fruit. I just want to get dirty with it for a minute
then toss it aside, just to know I can.
As a substitute, I’ve tried everything you can make with a
Keurig. There’s so much boba in my system from drinking bubble tea that baby
girl is probably playing marbles with her imaginary friends in the womb. I even
tried ordering a round of wheatgrass shots, “on me,” to try to feel like I was
a somebody again. “Oh, just order a virgin Daiquiri, or a virgin Bloody Mary (I
can’t decide if this is ironic or just gross), or a virgin Long Island Iced Tea,”
they say. Virgin cocktails… Is that some sick joke? Every drink is pale ale in
comparison to you. They call them spirits for a reason, and I’m not feeling
very spirited these days. I live my sober life vicariously through others now.
I go to a bar or restaurant with someone and find myself ordering drinks for
them just to see them imbibe. It’s like live beverage porn; I get my kicks by
watching strangers drink something on the rocks. “With a twist” never sounded
so sensual.
So this is what it’s come to. Sitting in the corner of a
Starbucks and writing you this letter you’ll never read. The thought of my
cheap beer has completely left me now only to be replaced by my mental affair
with you. You win.
White Girl Problems,
Katherine
No comments:
Post a Comment