The Opprobrious Drunk Dial

It’s always somewhere between drink number three and “go fuck yourself” being an acceptable salutation that my penchant for drunk dialing reveals itself. How one has a proclivity for such behavior is a mystery to me. Perhaps it’s that passion and pain, extremist personality type, who’s just looking, or rather calling, for trouble. I unfortunately do identify with such a type. I’d like to think I’m a borderline passion & pain’er, but some may beg to differ.
But anyways, it happened again one night…the signals went to my brain, screaming, “make phone calls to people that really don’t want to hear from you at 1:30 in the morning.” Yeah, how the hell does that happen? But it does and it did.
The victim, recent ex-psuedoBF mr. DV (pseudo because it lasted about a minute and was more important to me than it should have been / should be). I mean, what did I think would come from calling him at 1:30am? Did I think we’d have a coherent conversation with me drunk and him either drunk or mid-REM? Did I have something I just had to tell him, something that just couldn’t wait? That’s a firm NO. Then what did I want? To hear his voice because I’m some psycho stalker chick? What comes from the “drunk dial”? I suppose that’s a loaded question… what comes is the next morning. Next Morning = splitting headache, messy hair, a trail of clothes from the front door to the bed, a sleeping companion composed of your purse, the mail, your keys and last but not least, your phone… your phone that, yeay, has all the numbers you dialed from the night before. You review the numbers, cringing, eyes barely open to read the next name, “no – no – no I didn’t”… but oh yes, I did. Uuhhhhhh.
This habit of mine, affliction really, has got to stop. Oh wait, I’ve said this before.