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Mar. 4th, 2013 05:52 pmI had a good, good weekend. I got reminded multiple times why I do participate in readercon/conculture, I made food, I got not-Light snuggles. (Bespoke still inspires this weird combination of complete comfort and the teeniest undercurrent of something like fear. Not I'm-in-danger fear, more my-ancestors-were-prey shivers)
But! I had three weird moments yesterday night, all about drinking. And in the moment, I sort of snapped the spine of my own anger to the point where I forgot for the duration of the party that it had happened. And then, today, it all came roaring back, fiercer for the fact that I had ignored it. And I stand by my decisions, not to say the horrid thing, not to bitch someone out, not to disentangle myself. I wasn't even mad at the people, and I'm still not. Or I think I'm not.
I don't expect everyone to tread lightly around me. I'm fairly self aware, I'll remove myself from situations where I'm uncomfortable, I am usually pretty good at not putting myself in situations where I'm uncomfortable, specifically in regards to drinking. And I know that the con culture is full of people who don't drink, for a variety of reasons, not all of which are because they know that it'll never be only one drink, it'll be a bottle, and I appreciate that they can have fun at parties with drinking people, I am happy for them, but it doesn't usually work for me. But sometimes companionship is worth it.
So I'll take the unintentionally cruel statement, I'll take the adorable handsiness, I'll consider the coin well spent for the effort.
But there's still the black tar rage. The phrase that came to mind as this was all rushing back, while I was waiting for the t deep underground in porter square, is that I could write sonatas about levels of drunkness, masterworks of envy of people who can get a nice buzz on and stop there, novels about the spider sense I've developed in terms of where alcohol is around me. (The rule at my house is that it's like low-impact camping. You bring it in, you bring it out, which has worked nicely for Light's gaming group, except the few times people forget, and I open the fridge for cereal milk and there's unexpected beer and suddenly, the house is unsafe and I'll summon Light with that clenched tone of voice to dispose of it).
I sometimes have dreams where I've figured the trick of smoking or drinking, where I 've figured out how to drink wine for the taste, and have an occasional cigarette for the buzz and the companionship and it is totally okay to do those things. I really, really hate those dreams.
Later, I hope to write a positive entry, but this has been buzzing around in my fingers for a couple hours now and I'd like to put it down. I think I might have toast with chutney on it for dinner now.
But! I had three weird moments yesterday night, all about drinking. And in the moment, I sort of snapped the spine of my own anger to the point where I forgot for the duration of the party that it had happened. And then, today, it all came roaring back, fiercer for the fact that I had ignored it. And I stand by my decisions, not to say the horrid thing, not to bitch someone out, not to disentangle myself. I wasn't even mad at the people, and I'm still not. Or I think I'm not.
I don't expect everyone to tread lightly around me. I'm fairly self aware, I'll remove myself from situations where I'm uncomfortable, I am usually pretty good at not putting myself in situations where I'm uncomfortable, specifically in regards to drinking. And I know that the con culture is full of people who don't drink, for a variety of reasons, not all of which are because they know that it'll never be only one drink, it'll be a bottle, and I appreciate that they can have fun at parties with drinking people, I am happy for them, but it doesn't usually work for me. But sometimes companionship is worth it.
So I'll take the unintentionally cruel statement, I'll take the adorable handsiness, I'll consider the coin well spent for the effort.
But there's still the black tar rage. The phrase that came to mind as this was all rushing back, while I was waiting for the t deep underground in porter square, is that I could write sonatas about levels of drunkness, masterworks of envy of people who can get a nice buzz on and stop there, novels about the spider sense I've developed in terms of where alcohol is around me. (The rule at my house is that it's like low-impact camping. You bring it in, you bring it out, which has worked nicely for Light's gaming group, except the few times people forget, and I open the fridge for cereal milk and there's unexpected beer and suddenly, the house is unsafe and I'll summon Light with that clenched tone of voice to dispose of it).
I sometimes have dreams where I've figured the trick of smoking or drinking, where I 've figured out how to drink wine for the taste, and have an occasional cigarette for the buzz and the companionship and it is totally okay to do those things. I really, really hate those dreams.
Later, I hope to write a positive entry, but this has been buzzing around in my fingers for a couple hours now and I'd like to put it down. I think I might have toast with chutney on it for dinner now.
