As someone who owns a phone and likes the occasional glass of wine, drunk texting comes as easily to me as eating junk food or reading celebrity gossip: I know I shouldn’t do it, but I just can’t help myself. Unfortunately, as of late my sticky fingers have found themselves drawn to texting the opposite sex much more than I’d like considering I’m 24. I know people say that age is just a number, but I’d have hoped that after 8 years being a serial drunk texter I’d have battled my demons and gotten over it already.
It started at the ripe old age of 16, with a foolish crush on someone who was so obviously not interested in me. I’d use all of the tricks in the book to try and get him to talk to me: the ‘accidental’ text, the ‘oops, I thought you were someone else’ text and of course, the drunk text. I was already deluded enough, but once I had a couple of WKD’s in my system I became an attention-seeking monster who wanted nothing more than drunken validation that he actually liked me. Guess what? It never came. Not only was I quite firmly put in the friend zone, but I also solidified myself as a Miss Havisham type: destined to spend my evenings alone, crying and texting in the hope that my affection would one day be returned.
Years later and I’m still not much better. I miss you, I love you, I really want to see you: you name it, I’ve sent it. Don’t think that deleting the messages to trick yourself into believing you didn’t seem that desperate will work either: it always comes back to haunt you in the form of a horrific flashback or pity text. If you’re ever sat in a bar at 1am wondering whether listening to the voices in your head is a good idea: don’t, it isn’t. All you’ll get in return is a hangover served with a healthy side of regret.