Sat here while the toilet level rises...

I'm sat here, three quarters of a bottle of Gordon's gin down, watching motherfucking Greys Anatomy of all things. I'm nicely, nay, beautifully wasted. Everything is dulled to the point where I can feel, where I can know how I feel, without being affected by how I feel.
Do you see what I mean?

At this moment in time, or at least up until about 10 minutes ago, my friend of German origin is being violently ill in my toilet. Some people just can't take their alcohol, hey? For dinner I cooked a beautiful sirloin steak, roasted new potatoes with garlic and rosemary and some steamed broccolli. All I have to say to that is... HELLZ YEAH. It was a lovely meal, yet here I am, typing, while my German friend, my guest, with whom I shared this beautiful meal, is expelling the fruits of my labour with unwavering conviction into my toilet bowl. But I'm not ill, so it can't be the food, he just can't handle his rum.

Alcohol has a funny way of bringing memories to the surface, not necessarily memories that want to be buried, but memories that have their place, and all memories have their place. I guess it's important for me to accept that some things from the past resonate into the present and will continue to do so until, like ripples in the water, consequences dissapate into nothing more than a smile, cast upon memories that have shaped me into who I have become. I like who I have become. Mostly.

Memories have shaped me and continue to do so. I guess that's what makes it so hard to let them go, because I equate myself so completely with the way I felt at that time...

So who you going to live for?
Who you going to die for?
Who's going to make it all ok?

And I'm not the kind of person that wants the answer to be "me" for all three of those questions, I'm just selfless that way!

Apologies for my rambling!