Last Saturday I drunk myself silly with the tequila I've donated. It was funny because while I was in a state of euphoria, four (or five? or six? who knows?) of my friends are in a state of despair (oh love, what bittersweet syrup you are) ... or whatever state they are in, alternating between laughing and crying.

Even when drunk, I could still think *almost* straight. And if the alcohol haven't numbed my sense of hearing, I would've recalled what happened the whole night -- ofcourse excluding the time when I slumped on the bed with wet pants on (no, not with my pee you dumb fool).

I don't know if I'm better than the lot of them. Better be drunk with alcohol than be drunk on someone I guess. Hangovers of the former type only last for about a day. Unlike betting your heart on some scum or some jerkette and expect things to turn out ok. And even if it didn't, still be stubborn that there's hope. Oh how long can we stretch that hope -_- the thing must be made of industrial-strength bubble gum.

Hours before that, I texted my mom, see how she's doing. She replied asking when she'll have a grandchild from me, something of a wish on her part. I told her, she'll have one before she turns sixty. Which is ofcourse, less than a couple of years from now. She replied something like, "Promise?".

That's mom for ye. I didn't reply back.

I still love being free, almost addicted to it. I'm quite jealous of my time. That's why I find it ironic that my friends would tag me as some sort of boyfriend material. Because that just can't be true.

At least, not right now.