I say things I regret when I drink. I morph into this strange version of myself. I gripe about the stress of my student loans and my classes. I bemoan my childhood; I talk about how angry my parents were, and how my sister was a loose cannon. I cry about ex-boyfriends and guys who have been mean to me. I talk about how I have no money, and how I hate all my clothes. I unload on my friends in ways I would never dream of sober. I have sobbed in bar bathrooms and in the back seat of more than one cab. I have flashes of this mortifying memory where I’m sitting on a curb. It’s three a.m. My makeup
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