A little something I wrote for a timed exercise with my writing group almost a year ago.
Have you ever wished you hadn’t of drunk those 7 shots of tequila? Like, if you hadn’t of done that, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now, afraid to even open your eyes?
And what if you didn’t have a type? Then you wouldn’t of smiled at that witchy girl with the green hair or let her buy you those 7 shots of tequila. Your predictability will be the death of you.
But even if you did open your damn eyes, then you’d have to see your reflection in the mirror over the bed again and that would undoubtedly open a floodgate of half-remembered embarrassing moments from the previous night that, even now, are screaming for attention just behind the headache.
If you hadn’t of drunk those 7 shots of tequila, you could be home in your own bed with the dog without the fear of having to watch yourself doing unnatural things with a green-haired stranger. Mirrors over beds are a red flag and if you didn’t know that before, you sure know it now.
And because you went home with that stranger, you know the dog is sitting by the door, hungry, and you have regrets, sure, but the dog will survive one missed meal and you’re not sure you’ll survive the next ten minutes.
But straight up, those 7 shots of tequila cannot be blamed for your numbskull decision to stay even after you saw those weird paintings and markings on the wall and that altar and that … other thing that, in your drink-addled mind, looked dead but wasn’t actually dead. Shit goes down after 7 shots of tequila but that doesn’t mean you had to participate. So who gets the blame for that? Who’s gonna pay for that decision?
When the door opens, when you feel her next to you, when you smell that smell and you hear her whispering your name, you’re gonna be wishing you hadn’t of drunk those 7 shots of tequila all over again.
But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.