Well, here we are.
I can feel my head pounding as I write this. My eyes are still swollen from crying last night and my mouth is fuzzy and filled with the taste of regret. I can’t believe the day is finally here. I can’t believe this is the end.
I met you when I was
seventeen nineteen twenty-one, and there was an instant connection. You were strong, and hard, and bad, and dangerous. People talked about you with a hint of fear. A hint of longing. A hint of wonder. I felt it all. For the longest time, I stayed away from you. I was too young, too innocent, and too scared to see what you had to offer. I didn’t think I was ready. But then, as is true with all good love stories, it happened unexpectedly. I was at a party with my friends, chugging beer bongs and hanging out with your less-hot brother, Gin. I don’t know who introduced us. I don’t think it matters. It could have been the host, a drunken frat guy, or just a little shove from fate. Whatever it was that brought us together, I instantly knew that you were special. That we would be special together.
That’s the night I fell in love.
You were so bold. So daring. So fucking cool. I loved the way you made me feel — like I could do anything, be anything. You were always up for an adventure. Always up for a long night. Always ready to toss our responsibilities aside and have a good time. I loved that about you. I loved that about us. Whenever I wanted to dance on tables, make out with a random, or drunkenly yell obscenities at my ex’s new girlfriend’s car, you got it. You didn’t judge me. Not only did you not care if I wanted to go home with the guy I just met, flash a bar filled with senior citizens, or drunkenly kiss my sorority sister, you loved me for it. You were always the one cheering me on. The one pushing me to keep going. The one double-dog daring me.
It was a beautiful thing that we had. But underneath that beauty, there was an ugliness.
Too many times, you made me drunkenly cry in public. You convinced me it was a good idea to text my ex forty-seven times in one hour. You told me the guy I was going home with was a 10, when he was really a 4.
You didn’t love me the way I loved you. And it’s been fucking miserable.
Sure, you’d make me feel good at night. In the moment, you were the best. But the aftermath of your love was hell. Do you have any idea how many times I woke up regretting having ever met you? How many times I’ve had to wash the taste of you out of my mouth after throwing up, because I couldn’t stomach what you had done to me? How many times I’ve been told that I “don’t even want to know what happened last night” thanks to you? Throughout college you’ve been the one I always came back to, but no more.
I’m done. I’m so done.
It doesn’t matter how sexy you make me feel, or how badly I want to take my clothes off when I’m with you. For every crazy night we’ve had together, there are two I can’t remember. I used to be okay with that, but I’m not anymore. I can’t lay in bed all day, feeling bad about you. I can’t handle sharing you with every. other. slutty. girl. I can’t afford the amount of Advil I have to take, because of you.
So this is it, Tequila. I’m putting the cap on our relationship.
The next time I see you out, I’m going to avoid you. I’m going to walk right past you. I’m going to say no, no matter how many times people try to get us back together. No matter how much I miss you, I’m (probably) not coming back. You’re smelly, salty, and you rely on a piece of sour fruit to make you appealing. And honestly, I’m better than that. I’m better than you. You’ll have to find another girl who is down to dance on a table at IHOP, kiss her taxi driver to avoid paying the fare, and knock on her high school boyfriend’s door at 2 a.m. with some fried chicken and condoms, because I’m out.
I’ll always love you, but right now? Right now I need to love my liver. And my morals. And my phone bill. And my social media presence. And the fact that my grandma friend requested me on Facebook. I need to love an alcohol who loves me back (unless, of course, I’m having a bad day, at a Cinco party, didn’t get a text back from that guy I’m talking to, received you for free, am dared, am eating Mexican food, saw my ex, didn’t see my ex, accidentally liked a picture the girl I hate posted seventy-two weeks ago. Then you might get a call from me. Maybe). Until we meet again, old friend. Cheers.
A Wine Drinker.