Liquid Regret Remixed
It was a tough week in the realm of fermented goodness; Monday saw a company Halloween party with vodka crans, mai tais and Scary-oke (not my invention, so you can't blame me for the name), while Thursday evening brought the annual Rosey Awards with virtually unlimited (and, for the most part, undeniably free) gin and tonics, whiskey rocks, whiskey ups, gin and tonics, and whiskey rocks.
(More on Skary-oke later.)
If you question SockMama about yours truly in a drunken stupor, she'll be the first person to tell you that I'm not regretful; I have my drinks, have my fun, pay for it the next day, and then move on with my life -- I don't look back and feel bad for the relative idiot I probably made of myself.
Until Friday around noon.
That's when clarity set in.
Flashes from the long evening, began setting up shop in my mind. There was me with a friend, chatting amiably. Things are still clear. We're having fun. Forward a half hour. Vision's blurry. I'm talking with someone from a local agency called FourStories, an accountant. She refers me to Jim. Nice guy. One of the few people in the room taller than me. Now, along with my vision, my mind is blurry. I find an incredible art director from Borders, Perrin and Norrander, the agency responsible for Columbia Sportswear goodness. I can't for the life of me remember our conversation, save for one sickeningly clear moment: He looks me in the eye and -- in an unwavering moment of seriousness severely contrasting my innebriated delirium -- says, "Yes. I remember you." Now I'm left to guess what the hell that meant; was he saying that as a comliment? Doubtful, given the relative evil eye I'm recalling; all I can remember is his face.
And that's just one moment. I can remember three more equally random, but unnervingly clear situations in which there's a chance that I'm making a complete ass of myself, drunkenly slurring my words and trying to gain contacts for future employment, not frighten them away.
I'm embarrased. Ashamed. My reflection in every surface a reminder that I'm unprofesisonal; a dissappointment to myself and all that I want to acheive in my career as a creative copywriter.
(More on Skary-oke later.)
If you question SockMama about yours truly in a drunken stupor, she'll be the first person to tell you that I'm not regretful; I have my drinks, have my fun, pay for it the next day, and then move on with my life -- I don't look back and feel bad for the relative idiot I probably made of myself.
Until Friday around noon.
That's when clarity set in.
Flashes from the long evening, began setting up shop in my mind. There was me with a friend, chatting amiably. Things are still clear. We're having fun. Forward a half hour. Vision's blurry. I'm talking with someone from a local agency called FourStories, an accountant. She refers me to Jim. Nice guy. One of the few people in the room taller than me. Now, along with my vision, my mind is blurry. I find an incredible art director from Borders, Perrin and Norrander, the agency responsible for Columbia Sportswear goodness. I can't for the life of me remember our conversation, save for one sickeningly clear moment: He looks me in the eye and -- in an unwavering moment of seriousness severely contrasting my innebriated delirium -- says, "Yes. I remember you." Now I'm left to guess what the hell that meant; was he saying that as a comliment? Doubtful, given the relative evil eye I'm recalling; all I can remember is his face.
And that's just one moment. I can remember three more equally random, but unnervingly clear situations in which there's a chance that I'm making a complete ass of myself, drunkenly slurring my words and trying to gain contacts for future employment, not frighten them away.
I'm embarrased. Ashamed. My reflection in every surface a reminder that I'm unprofesisonal; a dissappointment to myself and all that I want to acheive in my career as a creative copywriter.
posted by The Haiku Review at 2:14 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home