It's the Final Countdown...do do do, do do do...

I've come to terms with the fact over the last year, I've gotten a bit porky, alright a bit more than 'a bit' porky, fortunately, no one reads this, because only two people know it exists, so my confession is not really, a confession, but hey ho. I've spent the last twelve months drinking heavily, in fact I have probably consumed more alcohol in the last twelve months then I have in the last twelve years, a recipe for liver damage? Probably. Fun? Fuckin ay!

I've enjoyed every minute of it, sans the time I publicly chundered over a tree out front my house with my house mates watching and when dealing with the nausea, headaches and abdomen cramps (and on occasion, behavioural embarrassment) that comes with the excesses of 40% proof, or in the case of Chartreuse, 70%. I learnt about wines this year too so have shaken it up a bit with a few crisp Sem Sav's and the inimitable goon for when the booze needs to go the distance and the wallet crapped out two weeks before payday - monthly pay, quite frankly, is a cunt of a thing.

I've developed quite a love for the old social lubricant. I enjoy drinking, I enjoy meeting new people when drinking, I enjoy the ease of the jokes, the conversation, the laughter when there are a few brew-ski's down the old hatch. It's now something I often crave, I love the warm feeling I get inside, the rise of heat in my cheeks and the way I walk head held high (until it turns into a stagger) when the VB is flowing. Would some boring twat declare this alcoholism? Probably, but I just don't think they get it.

Like a typical white, middle class kid, I come with baggage. That baggage came to the fore at the close of November 2006 when I found myself in a situation way above my head, but I didn't know how to ask for help. The decisions that I made were evidently the wrong ones, but lessons were learnt and at the end of the day, that is the prime result of a lousy episode in ones life, don't worry, I'm not going to philosophise any further, this isn't the Erin Winfrey show. My point is that my mother once told me that I was a hard person to love, sounds harsh when not in a context, but it came to the fore that I've never really been open about stuff, don't get me wrong, I bitch, moan and whinge like a trooper. I am whinny fucker most of the time, (endearing ay?) but I don't necessarily open up. This was never more evident that when I found myself in a position when I should have asked for help and I didn't.

I didn't learn this by 'working through' my problems... I actually learnt this with a beer in hand. The vodka flowed and as did the ease with which my emotions finally started creeping out, getting easier and easier. By the end, it was a veritable explosion of what I was going through, what I thought, what I was confused about, what I didn't know I knew, what I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know and all the questions I didn't think to ask, myself and more importantly, others.

So, with the burdens off my chest, a reigniting of my self confidence, a revitalised recognition of my inner strength and an acceptance of my own mistakes, I carried on the way someone in their mid twenties should, having fun. This is the first time in my entire life I shucked a few shackles and decided to embrace some wild abandon...it was thrilling, even more so then the new acquired ability to be able communicate.

So, what was the consequence of this "wild abandon"? I got a little porky and with that comes it's own sense of insecurity blah, blah, blah. Like any girl, I don't want to be the dropped meat pie of the group, so I've been talked into joining a gym. Not just any gym though, the big chain one, the ones with the back packs, bottles, sweat bands...that's right, the McDonalds of the gym world - Fitness First. I refuse to use the ridiculous back pack, but at $30 fucking dollars a week, I plan to use the clubs right up until I again fit into my wicked little wardrobe I acquired after two years of hedonism in England's capital - Camden Town.

I feel like I have completely sold out, not just in a supporting corporate giants, but to the 17 year old in me that didn't think body image should have so much stock in ones life and the 26 year old in me who struggles to see the attraction of such arbitrary task as peddling a stationary bike being screamed at by a cougar with horrendous acrylics and bad leggings or using a ski machine while staring at a white wall or a room full of vacuous males resembling condoms full of walnuts as opposed to homosapiens.

Alas, in about half an hour, I make my first trip. From 1pm today I am turning my back on booze for a while, I'll be forced to sacrifice the expulsion of intoxication for inanely stepping on and off a 10cm step. Instead of the duckling, I hope to be the smashed crab that turned into the swan, lets just hope I don't turn into the chowder. While this is supposedly the healthier life alternative, stay tuned to hear just how much carnage a goon deprived girl with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon can do. I am your social experiment.