When I hit 18, it was expected that I drop everything and rush to the nearest bar or nightclub and consume my body weight in alcoholic beverages. And I did…for a while at least. It wasn’t until my second year of college that I realized I wasn’t fooling anybody, especially myself. I simply wasn’t enjoying this lifestyle. Why would I want to spend several hours in a dark, dingy club pressed up against smelly, sweaty bodies that stumbled and slurred through their drunkenness? (Maybe I was frequenting the wrong places, to be fair – that description, though accurate, sounds veeeeery dodgy when I think about it. But hey, it was Manchester after all) Why would I want to wake up in the morning with an excruciating headache? Why would I want to spend so much money on things I was only gonna piss or vomit out again in a couple of hours?
I realized I’d much happier curled up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book.