There are two kinds of drunks populating the bar scene while so gaily sprucing up my life after midnight: The gushers, for whom alcohol-guzzling is such a feelgood experience that they end up lavishing you with praise so excessive even YOU don’t buy it, and the bitches, who find the booze to be a stimulant that stirs up piles of raging hate inside them which they’re suddenly brave enough to let forth like a geyser of Mace. In both cases, the drinking taps into deep wells of insecurity, but in the former case, it makes them try to get validation through flattery and in the latter case, it has them venting their frustration at not having attained that validation, leading to much spewing of negativity.
How many times has a booze-breathed clubbie cornered me to gurgle stuff like, “You’re such an icon! I’m not worthy to even talk to you! God, you’re fabulash!” And conversely for a nasty drunk to sidle up to me to moan, “You’ve finally entered bear territory…Remember when I made out with you? That was a joke…You’re more full of anxiety than anyone I’ve ever met. Why do you make it so hard for people to know you? You’re PSYCHOTIC!”
I actually detest both types of drunks—self-control is something I cherish more than my Swiss stamp collection—but naturally, I prefer the ones with the praise. Close your eyes and hold your nose and you can pretend it’s actually a credible person who’s telling you you’re the greatest. Alas, I’ve learned through experience that after just one extra drink, these flatterers can so easily turn ugly and veer into the nasty-drunk territory. When “You’re fabulous” morphs into “You’re psychotic,” THAT’S when prohibition needs to come back—and when I need to go home.