your kiss so sweet, your sweat so sour.

In 1969 I gave up women and alcohol - it was the worst 20 minutes of my life.

-George Best

it's been said that deep down in our reptilian brain we possess the fight or flight response, a mysterious (or maybe not so much) ability to determine when personal danger is imminent, telling us to stand up and fight, or make like mint jelly and be on the lamb. it seems to me that over the course of thousands of years of inebriation we have also developed a distorted, drunken version of this which can be labeled and the "fight or fuck response." this awareness (or lack thereof) in our brain allows us to discriminate in an instant whether we want to treat another person with no respect or class, or one becomes so enamored with another they regress to that drunken cliche of "I LOVE YOU, MAN! NO, NO, REEEAALLY. You're awesome..." and so on.
what i experienced last night was that the removal of the fuck from the fight or fuck options leaves little room for misdirection. when the booty calls disappear, it's either go home or start yelling obscenities at the unfortunate person who's been sitting quietly, perhaps politely, next to your drunken ass all night. poor suckers. they never know it's coming until you open your shitfaced mouth. then they are your crying shoulder, punching bag, and best friend, all at the same time. i hate doing this to friends or strangers, being the buzzkill in a house of buzz. the worst part? i was pissed off about not going home with a girl. mind blowing when one takes an objective perspective on the situation. i'd never met her before, and under the layers of silky drunken veils draped over my eyes, i was not even that attracted to her. i barely remember what we talked about. nothing real. she was from the OC, how would I justify THAT in the morning? nevertheless, when she departed for her bed, saying she had to get up at 7, i was broken, desperate...a sore loser?
it is a game. this makes me feel insincere in the long run (no pun intended, but worth noting), and i suppose any real connections i could make with other humans is slowly deteriorating in this ridiculous display of fakeness; my charm and attention in exchange for your loins. this becomes even more pathetic and misleading to my soul when i'm engaging someone i could give a fuck about but still want to fuck. maybe none of what i'm saying is new to anyone, but it's worth being honest to myself that sometimes i act like a sack of shit and screw with other people's heads for my own pleasure (so many puns intended...not sure about the sack of shit pun). but my mask gets heavy. being fake is depressing. so why do i do it? i know it's only lust. the ambrosia can damper my conscience, but i'm never in denial that my smile and innocent inquisitive eyes are fading when no one is around to tempt such a face.
maybe here and now i can make a tentative promise to myself. stop being such a drunken whore? no, i'd be lying if i said i would stop playing the game. sex is too much fun, and monogamy has yet to present any alluring qualities to me. maybe if I meet the right person i'll think differently...no...i promise to let raging hormones rage elsewhere from a good night of drinking with friends and potential lovers. they say seek and ye shall find. fuck them. that's a bold faced lie. stop searching. (BLANK) is always been in front of you. in other words, if you're always looking for sex, you're going to be fucked, one way or the other. enjoy life for what you've got, especially if a drink is in hand. Sliante!