Casual, Drunken Confessions

I think one of the things I miss most about pre-pandemic life are those casual, drunken confessions. You know, the nights where you are at a party late into the early AM, you’ve had maybe one shot too many, you may or may not throw up in a toilet soon after, and you’re tucked away into some corner with an old friend – or a new friend – or someone you won’t even remember. Then suddenly, something catches your memory and you blurt out a random, deep confession within you that somehow, unknowingly, has been yearning to come out for who-knows-how-long.

Maybe it’s your previously unvoiced crush on Adam Driver – even before the Episode XIII six-pack – maybe it’s that one night stand you had a while back with someone you mutually know – maybe it’s that deep regret of yours that you never continued the pursuit of singing – but it bursts forth from your lips with a shower of relief and joy. Finally, someone to tell your secret truth to! For some reason, it’s a thing you’re not able to tell the ones closest to you, neither in sobriety or wastedness, but somehow, at 2:31 a.m. on a Saturday night in an East Village dive bar or someone’s crowded apartment, it’s time.
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What a day it will be when we finally gather again in drunken debauchery into the wee hours of the night, unashamedly, fearlessly, hungrily – and oh boy, the confessions that will utter forth! So many, many months of silent repressions, so many, many secrets just waiting to be set free into the reckless air – and the utter relief that will come to us all, as we purge ourselves of all the little wickedly harmless truths that are only permitted their magical release in these simple, wild, happy, tiny moments of drunken openness.