What do you do when a friend is way more fun to be with when smashed to the titties? Do you slip some rum in their soda, pop some pills in their stew, and secretly inject their butts with a bevy of pharmaceuticals from south of the border? Do you absolutely beg them to hit the sauce just so they can be livelier party guests, even though you feel like the devil leading them off the wagon and into eventual ruin?
It’s a real dilemma, kids, and I should know. Just to name one example, a club acquaintance of mine used to be a genuine riot, drunkenly making me dance with him in between gossiping and carrying on and doing all the multisensory things that make a nightclub completely bearable. Well, he’s sobered up and gotten completely formal and unspontaneous–so much so that when we recently got together, I almost nodded off from his clear-headed yet stupefying conversation. (“How are you?” “Cold, huh?” “Having fun?”)
I was dying to tell the former firecracker to please be a big mess again since the answer to “Having fun?” was a resounding “No!” I was desperate for him to hang from a chandelier or at least swallow a whole banana, but I simply walked away, happy that he’s gotten it together if not exactly anxious to ever contact him again. Honey, when the witching hour is nigh, give me Amy Winehouse over America Ferrera any day!