Drunk

(I wrote this late one night when I came home from a party. I wasn't drunk when I wrote this though.)

My head is throbbing.
My clothes wreak of smoke and the mixtures of alcohol that were uncontrollably forced into the fabric.
Tonight I play the role of monitor.
I write this upon returning to my dark room with vivid visions still dancing in my head and the low ring in my ears remind me off the noise which we, the young, call music.
Did I partake in the fun?
Of course.
Did I partake in the college temptress?
Of course.
Did I fall victim as its prey?
The answer is no.
When I arrived, several hours after its commencement, I soon discovered other acquaintances, some of years past, and some of yesterday.
You can see it in each one of their eyes.
You can see their goal of the night.
For some it is to surrender to the sweet numbness that the fermented drink brings.
For others it is a time to forget.
Still others begin a quest with the bottle as the leader.
Tonight, oh tonight, was a time to relieve the stress without any assistance.
It is funny how their eyes change, and their speech, and their actions, and their attitudes.
There are good and there are bad.
There are those that are taking their first steps and there are those who have journeyed long on the wet path.
When the music starts, everything else ends.
Your age, education, wealth, background are drowned out in the hypnotic trances of the low droning bass.
The low becoming mighty, the mighty are humbled.
There is no difference between you and the dancer pressed up against your breast.
You both mock the drunk passed out in the corner.
You both feel no sympathy for the guy heaving over the railing showering the littered alley some three stories below.
Occasionally you are both surprised by the piercing plead of the beer lover for one more cup from the now empty keg usually stored in some dirty closet.
Nothing is new from last week.
Sure, the faces may have changed.
She may have brown hair instead of red, he may have shaven his goatee, but they are all the same and so are you.
What do you hope to get out of the night?
Some cheap room to have sex with a woman whose last name you don't know?
Maybe it is a little more ambitious, maybe you want to see how much you can do to your body before it revolts?
When you finally return home your shirt tells the night's sad tale.
The alcohol evaporates leaving the smell to recall visions of the smoke-filled dance floor.
The vomit dries adding color to your sweat stained apparel.
The clothes wash, the memories don't.