Diva drunk

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By: A. Cregg

Some like to say that drunk words speak a sober mind.  To them I say:

nope1[1]

Why?  Because Drunk Me is an entirely different entity than her sober counterpart.  Drunk Me wouldn’t have the first clue what the sober version of herself is thinking.  She is her own woman, and for that I am truly sorry (I will take no responsibility for what Drunk Me does).

Now I’m sure there are those out there who really do confess every detail about something when they get a little liquid courage, but I—and I’m sure many others—develop a different type of alter ego.  An alter ego with his or her own agenda and set of motives.

I have no qualms about telling you any of this, because—as I’m sure you’ve realized—there are a variety of drunks out there.  There are the quiet ones, the schemers, the fighters and of course, everyone’s favorite, the criers.

However, Drunk Me is none of those things.  Drunk Me is, to put it simply, a diva.  To explain what I mean by an “entirely different entity,” I should probably offer you a bit of context.  Although I’m not normally shy, I do tend to be a bit more reserved when I’m outside my close group of friends.  Normally, I have trouble standing in front of a class of 15 and usually stumble over my own two feet while standing stationary in line for a sandwich.

But when Drunk Me comes out, I’m not by any means laid-back.  I’m outgoing, I’m actually a little bit funny, I sing A LOT and for a brief moment in time, I truly believe I am not one, but three divas simultaneously.  For just a few hours on a Saturday night, I am utterly convinced that I have the voice of Whitney, the jokes of Chelsea Handler and the Hollywood glamour of Meryl.

What I think I look like:

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In reality, I have lipstick on my front tooth, a knot in my hair the size of a baseball and a Miller Lite in my back pocket.  

What I actually look like:

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Still, you couldn’t convince me I wasn’t Sasha Fierce if you held a mirror up to my face and forced me to look at my ID for 30 minutes straight.  After a hefty dose of liquid luck, Drunk Me struts into a room, and from the moment she hits the sea of college kids and flying pong balls, she wants everyone to know she’s a star.  

I would feel remiss if I didn’t offer you an example of Diva Drunk coming out during some sort of function, so here we go.

To set the scene, it was a brisk December night, and—as one does before this kind of story—I had a little too much to drink.  But you know what, I was living it up.  Some might say I was thriving.  Still, I was a little hot, so I decided I would head out back to get a bit of fresh air.  So I hoisted myself and my best friends out of the couch—it was one of those couches that literally tries to eat you—and pushed my way to the back door.  I should note that I was belting the Jonas Brothers this entire time.

When we reached the backyard, I found a beat up old lawn chair that no one was sitting in.  This was probably because it was cold and rainy, and the chair was soaking wet.  However, I, for some reason, dubbed it mine and popped a squat.

Now I can’t really say that Sober Me would ever in a million years have sat in that seat, but Drunk Me proclaimed it her “throne” and sat on it for two hours in the rain while numerous friends came outside to try and get her back in the house.  She wouldn’t budge, because to her, well to me, I guess, it was like being in an epic music video or like being Mia Thermopolis or something.  This is what I mean by having completely different intentions.  Since Drunk Me only concerns herself with being the next Adele, she couldn’t possibly be bothered with the love interests, grudges or worries of Sober Me.

So maybe your drunk words speak a sober mind, but this diva wouldn’t be able to tell you her own favorite color, let alone her deepest, darkest secret.  

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