When you find a drunk girl
One day back in August, I was driving home from a nearby state park, flipping through my usual sequence of radio stations—country, classic country, fuzzy-too-far-away-from-the-signal country, hip-hop, NPR—when I caught, at the opening chords, a song that almost made me crash my car. Let her sleep all alone. Leave her keys on the counter, your number by the phone. Pick up her life she threw on the floor. Leave the hall lights on, walk out and lock the door. You take a drunk girl home.SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: Drunk Girls Get Surprised With Puppies
SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: Sea of Thieves - When Girls Get DrunkContent:
- More by Sean Branton
- How To Pick Up Drunk Girls
- Helping a drunk friend
- Follow the Author
- 10 Things Not to Say to a Drunk Girl
- Was It O.K. to Leave a Drunken Woman With a Stranger?
- ‘Take a Drunk Girl Home:’ Is the song sexist?
- The Kavanaugh Hearing, Chris Janson’s “Drunk Girl,” and Country Music’s #MeToo Misfire
- 10 Things Not to Say to a Drunk Girl
More by Sean Branton
The day Koren turned fourteen she tasted alcohol for the first time. At fifteen she was piecing together forgotten fragments of drink, men and misplaced clothes. At sixteen she was being carried through hospital doors unconscious. And so it began Brought up by loving parents in a stable middle-class home, Koren was a sweet and altogether normal child.
Yet from her mid-teens until her early twenties, she thought nothing of regularly drinking herself into a state of amnesia. Alcohol became her safeguard and prop, providing her with a self-confidence she couldn't otherwise feel. And whilst drinking to excess was perfectly acceptable, even actively encouraged, amongst her friends, it quickly reached a destructive monotony that bordered on dependency.
It took a number of terrifying incidents - from stumbling home alone covered in vomit to waking up naked in bed unsure of whether she had lost her virginity - before Koren could finally say to herself enough was enough and seek help for her problem. Smashed is the shocking but all-too-recognisable story of a young woman coming of age within a society that finds it easier to turn a blind eye to binge-drinking than address the problem head on.
Beautifully written and brutally honest, compelling without preaching, this is a book that demands to be read. Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App. Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required. To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number.
Sure enough, it feels like death. On November 9, , I wake up between the Tide-stiff sheets of my childhood Banister Bed and one thought occurs to me: I'm not wearing any underwear. This is all the information I need to know that something horrendous has happened.
At sixteen, I am never naked, save for ten minutes a day under the stream of a morning shower, and even then, I turn away from the bathroom mirror before I drop my towel to step in. Even alone, I am ashamed of the arcs of my own pale skin, particularly in the whitest part that spans between my hips. Given my tendency to thrash in my sleep and kick down sheets, I would never sleep without underwear.
My bed looks like it's been made with me in it. There's not a wrinkle in the comforter; its patched pastel pattern is pulled smooth and tight, clear up to my neck.
When I start to unroll my arms and legs from the folds of the sheets, I feel a sharp pain in my elbow, like I've been sleeping on it, and I stop for a moment, trying to decide if that position is physically possible. I decide to fold back the comforter from one corner, the way someone might diagonally halve a dinner napkin. I do it slowly. It's like opening a hand-addressed letter with no return address; I have a feeling I could find just about anything inside. What I find under the covers looks like someone else's nightgown.
It is a thin, white, cotton smock, stippled with green, and it cuts off at my knees. I can't imagine who I borrowed it from, since my friends and I all sleep in nylon shorts and our dads' XL T-shirts.
When I feel around to the breach of cloth above my own pink ass, it dawns on me: I'm wearing a hospital gown. I'm immobile in the face of my panic. I'm stunned to the point that I don't dare breathe or kick my feet in a way that would make even the faintest sliding sound on the starched sheets.
I don't know how many minutes I lay like this, motionless in the small sag that my body makes in the mattress, barely breathing. I can't get out of bed until I've figured out what emergency landed me in this green and white gown. My room is directly above the dining room, and the littlest thump on the carpet can shake the chandelier; I don't want anyone downstairs to see it swinging and know I'm awake.
I feel like I'm arriving at the scene of an accident, like my physical self has been creamed in a hit-and-run and my mental self is the first one to find it. All I can do is run through the basic first-aid checkpoints, the first of which is: Can you move? I pull my knees into my chest and wrap both arms around them with no problem, aside from the throbbing deep in my elbow.
The back of my head is tender against the pillow, and my neck moves in a succession of arthritic-like cracks. But my joints move.
I'm not paralyzed. There are no clues in the form of a cast or a bandage or stitches. Lying down, I can't even make out any discernible bruises. Later, I'll be able to make out the purple impressions of fingers around my biceps, plus a golf ball-sized bruise on one ass cheek, a sort of yellowed half-moon around a raised, blue bump.
But for now, the only visible signs that I'm injured are the hospital gown and a pink, plastic wristband that reads zailckas, koren. The house is filled with the sounds of Saturday morning in motion. Bear is barking to be let in through the side door. There is the sound of coffee mugs clinking on countertops, and I detect the faint smell of bagels burning in the oven.
I might even hear the far-off sound of my mother's whirring laughter. My room appears equal in its sameness. There are dirty socks on the floor and stacks of Seventeen on my desk. On my bureau, there are notebooks on top of snapshots, necklaces on top of notebooks, and dust over just about everything, ever since I barred my mom from my room. Fall light filters through the window blinds and casts sunny stripes across the carpet.
I can see my back-to-school sweaters brushing elbows in the closet; the price tags are still stapled to some of them, and I can make out the orange half-off stickers from Filene's juniors' department. As far as Friday nights go, it was typical.
I spent it with my new friend, Kat Caldwell. She is a girl I made friends with a few months ago for no real reason other than we both drink and we're both sensitive. The first night I'd slept over at Kat's house, I saw that her sheets were streaked with mascara, and her Laura Ashley pillowcases retained the outline of her whole face: half-moon of foundation, faint ring of lip stain, black strokes from the flurried beating of her dripping eyelashes.
She'd opened the drawers of her bureau to show me the old liquor bottles she hid under her childhood ballet costumes, and I'd laughed at dozens of tiny Lycra bodices, net tutus, and loose sequins that smelled of Tanqueray.
Kat came with a silver cord to more friends, like Abby and Allen, and I'd gone with all of them, plus my childhood friend Claire, to a Friday-night get-together near the lake in the next town over. A girl whose parents were away in Vermont for a wine-tasting weekend threw the party.
Her parents must have warned her not to have friends over while they were gone because she wouldn't let any of us inside her house to mix drinks properly, in cups.
At one point, when I asked the girl if I could go inside to use her bathroom, she suggested that I drop my pants behind the hedges across the street. The whole ordeal hadn't been the least bit thrilling. I'd sat beside Kat on a splintering dock.
Our bare feet dangled over the edge of the black, rippling water, where we could occasionally hear fish jump, making plopping sounds like tossed coins. The wind propelled dead leaves across the lake's surface. The clouds swirled themselves around the moon. I started by taking small sips from the communal bottles. I knocked back a few sips of generic rum, which tasted strong and acidic, and bit my throat.
I also drank from a thermos filled with vodka that Claire had filched from a bottle in her parents' liquor cabinet. It was the same gallon-wide jug of Absolut that we always stole from, and then added water to, in an effort to recover the stolen inches. After months of adding and subtracting, the vodka had reached a diluted state that rendered it tasteless. It was as cold and wet as springwater, and we drank it fast.
The last thing I remember is telling Claire about the poet Frank O'Hara, the way he'd said that after the first glass of vodka you can accept anything about life, even your own mysteriousness. After that, my own mystery opens up. There are only so many calamities that could have warranted this hospital gown. My first thought is that I lost my footing on the path leading up from the dock and cracked my knee in the place where it still wasn't fully healed from the surgery.
One would think I'd remember that kind of fall, but perhaps the pain of it blacked me out. For one horrible moment, it also occurs to me that Allen, who had driven, might have had too many sips of straight rum and veered the car off the road on the way home.
It was only a month ago that a boy in our class got drunk and drove his car into a lake, where it sunk like an old tire, and he had to unroll the window to swim out. For a moment, I think whiplash could be responsible for my lumped head and stiff neck, not to mention the amnesia. But then I decide I'd surely remember something from the moments before we crashed: gasping, blackness spreading across the windshield, the sound of pine branches scraping the flanks of the car.
I should call one of the girls who'd been with me, to see if they can fill in the gaps. But when I look for the portable phone, someone has removed it from its cradle on my bureau, as if to prevent that from happening. I step softly to my full-length mirror, using the ballet-walk where you stand only on the balls of your feet.
The image reflected back at me makes me cup my mouth with both hands: I look like a woman in a zombie film from the s. My hair looks like it's been replaced with a Halloween wig; it is teased into a high pile of knots and dusted with dirt and leaves, and something sticky has lacquered the ends together.
From this position, I can make out a whole range of fingerprints that wrap around my forearms in shades of brownish-blue and yellow.
A cat-scratch is carved into the corner of my eye; aside from that, my face looks slack and pasty, but unmarked. I can see now that I'm wearing hospital booties with my gown.
They are blue ankle-socks with plastic beads on the soles, presumably so you won't slip on the linoleum floors while you're fleeing the ward. My alarm clock says it's That tells me that whatever happened must be serious because no one has bothered to wake me for my poetry workshop.
I was scheduled to spend the weekend at a conference for Worcester County's most promising young writers, and it started more than two hours ago. Just two months ago, she forced me to spend a week at diplomacy camp at Washington, D. I would stay in my room all day, trying to figure out what happened, if I didn't desperately need a glass of water.
My throat is so parched it feels raw, and each swallow is arduous. I keep the hospital booties on because the morning has the cold nip of fall, but I trade the gown for a sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pants.
How To Pick Up Drunk Girls
I am deliberately misinterpreting the intent of this question. My answer is Yes. I wanted them to be safe.
Should we go pee outside? Ninety-nine percent of the time I would find this disgusting but in this moment nothing sounds better than not waiting three more minutes to pile into a stall! Let's do it, bitch. I've got my freaking wine goggles on and I'm in the mood to make out with boys. What I'm not in the mood for is people who judge people for doing things with other people.
Helping a drunk friend
The day Koren turned fourteen she tasted alcohol for the first time. At fifteen she was piecing together forgotten fragments of drink, men and misplaced clothes. At sixteen she was being carried through hospital doors unconscious. And so it began Brought up by loving parents in a stable middle-class home, Koren was a sweet and altogether normal child. Yet from her mid-teens until her early twenties, she thought nothing of regularly drinking herself into a state of amnesia. Alcohol became her safeguard and prop, providing her with a self-confidence she couldn't otherwise feel. And whilst drinking to excess was perfectly acceptable, even actively encouraged, amongst her friends, it quickly reached a destructive monotony that bordered on dependency. It took a number of terrifying incidents - from stumbling home alone covered in vomit to waking up naked in bed unsure of whether she had lost her virginity - before Koren could finally say to herself enough was enough and seek help for her problem.
Follow the Author
Do not let their pretty faces fool you into complacency. Be aware that the general rule is: The prettier a girl is, the higher her propensity for drunken behavior. These drunk girls are wild creatures, so do not attempt to pet them because you will most likely get yourself bitten. Just stay at a safe distance and watch them make out with each other. The first stage is when they first get to the club and showcase their OOTD.
Harness your inner stength, confidence and stability with the essential guide from renowned hypnotherapist, host of The Calmer You podcast and bestselling author of The Anxiety Solution It's time to be the happiest, most confident and content version of yourself. Confidence is not something we either have or don't have - it can be built, and this straightforward guide will show you how. Renowned clinical hypnotherapist and anxiety expert Chloe Brotheridge has helped hundreds of clients with anxiety and low self-confidence, and in this book will use her own stories, scientific research, and the experiences of other women to show you how to:.
10 Things Not to Say to a Drunk Girl
John Tamar. Any person foolish enough to try any of the acts talked about in this book is an idiot and should be in a mental institute, or at the very least alcoholics' anonymous. This is a great book to give to the youth of America just soSEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: When Girls Drunk Dial - Girliyapa's ChickiLeaks
Not long ago, I took a vacation to another city, and something that happened there still troubles me. I went to a bar that was playing live music and sat at a table very close to the band. A young woman, probably 21 years old, noticed an empty seat at our table and asked if she could join us. Kim was a junior at a local college. She was friendly, intelligent and also clearly drunk. Not stumbling drunk, but slurring words and feeling no pain.
Was It O.K. to Leave a Drunken Woman With a Stranger?
Беккер с трудом приподнял голову. Неужели в этой Богом проклятой стране кто-то говорит по-английски. На него сверху вниз смотрел прыщавый бритоголовый коротышка. Половина головы красная, половина - синяя. Как пасхальное яйцо.
Правда. Самый гнусный Веллингтон из всех, что мне доводилось пробовать. Самая грязная ванна, какую мне доводилось видеть.
‘Take a Drunk Girl Home:’ Is the song sexist?
В четыре сорок пять ко мне на личный телефон поступил звонок. Вы можете сказать, откуда звонили? - Он проклинал себя за то, что не выяснил этого раньше. Телефонистка нервно проглотила слюну.
The Kavanaugh Hearing, Chris Janson’s “Drunk Girl,” and Country Music’s #MeToo Misfire
Он поднялся по служебной лестнице до высшего поста в агентстве потому, что работал не покладая рук, но также и благодаря редкой целеустремленности и заслуженному уважению со стороны своих предшественников. Он был первым афроамериканцем на посту директора Агентства национальной безопасности, но эту его отличительную черту никто никогда даже не упоминал, потому что политическая партия, которую он поддерживал, решительно не принимала этого во внимание, и его коллеги следовали этому примеру.
Фонтейн заставил Мидж и Бринкерхоффа стоять, пока сам он молча совершал свой обычный ритуал заваривания кофе сорта Гватемальская ява.
Свет от монитора Стратмора отбрасывал на них жутковатую тень. Сьюзан старалась держаться поближе к шефу на небольшой платформе с металлическими поручнями.
Мидж хотела возразить, но прикусила язык. И прижала ладонь к горлу. - В шифровалке вырубилось электричество. Фонтейн поднял глаза, явно удивленный этим сообщением.
10 Things Not to Say to a Drunk Girl
- Скрестив на груди руки, он вышел из ее кабинета. Мидж горящими глазами смотрела ему вслед. - О нет, можешь, - прошептала. И, повернувшись к Большому Брату, нажатием клавиши вызвала видеоархив. Мидж это как-нибудь переживет, - сказал он себе, усаживаясь за свой стол и приступая к просмотру остальных отчетов. Он не собирается выдавать ключи от директорского кабинета всякий раз, когда Мидж придет в голову очередная блажь.
Не успел он приняться за чтение отчета службы безопасности, как его мысли были прерваны шумом голосов из соседней комнаты.
Число возможных комбинаций приблизилось к 10 в 120-й степени - то есть к единице со 120 нулями. Определить ключ стало столь же математически нереально, как найти нужную песчинку на пляже длиной в три мили. Было подсчитано, что для успешной атаки на стандартный ключ самому быстрому компьютеру АНБ - секретнейшему Крей-Джозефсону II - потребуется более девятнадцати лет. К тому времени когда компьютер разгадает пароль и взломает шифр, информация, содержащаяся в послании, утратит всякую ценность.