My words are no longer hermits, hiding out in a cave in my mind where I could not reach them. I did not even have to be secretly silent to regain use of them, as I had thought of here. Instead, I merely had to get them drunk.
Having a high tolerance for alcohol is both a blessing and a curse. One one hand, it takes a lot of drinking to get me drunk. On the other hand, it takes a lot of drinking to get me drunk. It boils down to getting sick quickly versus spending a lot of money quickly. On the whole, I would much prefer to throw down a few extra bucks than to throw up my dinner. After a Bass, three Guinnesses, two martinis (one apple, one French Cosmo) and a Maker's Mark on the rocks, however, it does not matter what kind of tolerance one has -- you'll be fairly well schtonkered (a word I learned from an Australian friend of mine -- I'm trying it on for size, seeing if I like it well enough to enter it into permanent rotation).
After my night of drinking and debauchery with this one, somehow my brain decided that it had discovered the perfect time to re-bleach my hair. It actually turned out fine, if perhaps with a bit too much blond to properly call it "highlights." I have to decide now if I will add some other color to the mix or not. The jury is still out. On reflection (well, on staring at my reflection for a very long time this morning) I have decided I rather like the look I drunkenly created last night, even if on the subway a bright light on the outside of the car kept catching my eye as it reflected against the window -- and I realized it was not a light at all, but my hair. Call it my lion's mane, if you like.
Today beckons. Lunch with the boy, games with friends after work, and then more boy after his concert. The fun never stops 'round here, I tell you.