The day I stopped reading fantasy, I started drinking. There was no smooth transition from one to the other, just strangely realise.

– “Why do you drink?” – He asked. A he that I do not really know the name anymore, if I must be honest. He is friend of a friend, I think. The kiss of the night, the arm and chest of today and my current dance partner.

He is feeling is fair share of my body and I don’t mind at all. I might have even started it, as I usually do; one fingernail rasping through the bicep. I’ve learned there’s not much men can do after that. It’s like a hook, works every time.

But I am derailing. Why do I drink? Why do I drink so much? So frequently? So heavily? I could use other things if I just wanted an escape, but I never do. I completely abhor any kind of drugs, pills is a no-way, tobacco is occasional, I like it but I never stick to it…

I think everyone as a vice of choice, mine is Vodka. And I chose her so many years ago that I can no longer remember how it started. Although, I know exactly how it makes me feel; as everything is possible. Vodka tastes like freedom, random strangers, sweet kisses, burning skin, sunrises and loud music. There’s nothing that compares to it. It’s magic, my kind of magic.

I have this believe that substances are only a problem if they mess up your day time. And I am pretty functional! I never lost a class, I am nearly ending my college degree with average grades, I go to the mass every Sunday, followed by family lunch. All by the book! How hangover do I choose to do all those activities? Well, that is entirely my problem. I own nobody explanations for what I do during night time. Nights are mine. Days are everybody else’s.

And that’s the other thing about me, I don’t particularly like to give explanations. I hate it, actually.

– “I drink because it makes me feel alive.” – I finally reply with my typical one sided smirk. And he greats me with a soft kiss on the lips after that. A kiss tasting like strawberry tequila and wonder. Probably thought I was flirting. And I was, but I was also telling the truth. I tell nothing but the truth, always.

– “Can I make you feel alive?” – He says, going with the flirting flow, but checking for consent, to make sure we are, indeed, in the same page. I like that! I pick them randomly, but usually don’t get them wrong.

– “For tonight, yes.” – The truth. For tomorrow, not really. But that feels useless to mention when tomorrow is still so far away. Selective truth, then.