Relationships

Why Acting Like A Crazy, Drunk Bitch Isn't Hot Anymore (So Get It Together)

by Zara Barrie

Jan. 13, 2017

Wave

Acting like a crazy, drunk bitch isn't hot anymore, babes, so GET IT TOGETHER, OK?

I know, I know, I sound like a condescending, self-righteous Republican, but I promise you, I'm not.

OK, Confession: I might be self-righteous at times, but I'm not condescending, and I'm most definitely not a Republican.

When I was an adolescent kitten, I glamorized the crazy, drunk bitch. All of my idols had reputations for being the same thing.

Courtney Love with her torn stockings and smeared lipstick not giving a shit about when anyone thought of her:

Untamable Kate Moss, never speaking to the press, but hanging out of windows with a cigarette pressed between her lips:

Angelina Jolie (before she became a Goodwill Ambassador for the UN) jumping in the pool in her sequined gown, after she won a Golden Globe for playing the role of former lesbian super model Gia Marie Carangi in the HBO biopic "Gia":

There was something feminist about being a crazy, drunk bitch in the '90s.

Drinking had always been considered a boy's sport. Getting kicked out of bars was something that happened to rowdy dudes. Women had their hands on their hips, pissed AF when their husbands stumbled home drunk at 4 am.

Screw that! It was like women collectively decided they were sick of letting the boys have all the fun. We, too, can get kicked out of clubs, come home at ungodly hours and tell any fucker off with our alcohol-fueled bravado.

And I've always idolized wild women.

Seriously, I love a woman with a rebellious spirit, and I came of age at a time when being rebellious meant dropping out of mainstream society, donning a pair of sliced-up denim jeans and getting as wasted as the boys.

It was fashionable to look like you hadn't slept and didn't even have the wherewithal to brush your hair.

I just couldn't wait to be a teenager and a crazy, drunk bitch. I was one of those kids who secretly knew I was going to be a smoker when I was older.

Angie was a smoker. Kate Moss smoked Marlboro Lights 100s. And the first time I bought my own pack of ciggies at 17, I bought myself a pack of Marlboro Light 100s and vowed to get black-out drunk later that night.

And you know, it worked for me as a teenager. When you're 16, rocking a fishnet shirt and have acne on your chin, it's sort of cute to be a drunk a mess.

It's what's expected of you when you're new to booze, new to sex and tossed into an adult world before you're ready.

I was a wild drunk, too. Drinking gave me a get out-of-jail-free card for whatever the hell my aching teenage heart desired.

I made out with other teen girls at high school parties. I punched a homophobic scene kid in the nose after he called my friend a fag. I took ecstasy, made a big scene and hid under the bed at a random house party because I had a bad reaction to what was probably a dirty pill.

People were happy to take care of me. There was always someone there to hold back little Zara's hair as she threw up six shots of tequila in the toilet bowl.

And that's because I was young AF. I was innocent because I was still a kitten, and kittens are expected to rip holes in the furniture and crawl up the walls. When someone is so little and so fresh, anything they do is sort of cute.

But you know what's not cute? Being in your late 20s/early 30s and still acting like a deranged, drunk teenager.

I think this hit me sometime around 28 years old. I had sucked back too many cocktails too quickly at a queer bar, and I was loaded.

You know when you're drunk, but you have this bizarre moment of acute clarity? It was like my sober brain ascended outside my body, and I was watching myself in horror as I made a total fool out of myself.

I could hear myself slur and yell at my girlfriend, for no good reason. I watched as she took off and left me with red eyes, clutching an empty champagne glass.

My head as spinning. I could see two young girls snickering in the corner — the "hangers-on" of my friends and I. We had been the cool, older gays, and they had followed us around like desperate puppies for years.

But suddenly, the tables had turned, and my worst nightmare had come true: I was the girl who was too old to be getting this fucked up.

I was no longer the young babe whom everyone felt responsible for. I was a hag pushing 30 who the 20-year-old girls were rolling their eyes at.

I woke up the next morning, called up a therapist and an "intuitive reader," broke up with my girlfriend and decided it was time to get it together.

I always knew, since I was a little kid, that I had something really cool to contribute to this world and that I was going to fall in love with someone amazing and do really adventurous things.

But that dark, hungover morning, I realized if I wanted to meet a decent partner and be a respected person in my community, I couldn't be blacking out every weekend.

Seconds after this dramatic epiphany, I realized my purse was nowhere to be found.

It felt almost spiritual. It was the universe screaming, "There is no one around to tote your designer bag for you, you drunk mess. You have to keep track of your expensive things on your own now, girl."

It definitely took me a while to get it together, and I'm still slipping up from time to time. But I really feel in the depths of my soul that now is the time we clean up our act.

We can be wild, rebellious women, who do and say bold things without needing the false courage of booze. We can be radical girl creatures who aren't too drunk to forget to pay their bills.

Plus, it's not sexy, romantic or "complicated" to be vomiting at the bar at our age. It looks sad. It looks like we're holding on to a time that has surpassed us, like we can't deal with reality.

And while I know reality is terrifying, you and I are more than equipped to handle anything.

SO, if you're at the bar tonight, and you're tempted to get out-of-control wasted, I get it.

But think of how much fiercer you'll be when you tap into your authentic wilderness — the kind that doesn't get sloppy or out of control.

And if you're tempted to get out of control tonight, imagine me as your bartender. I'm wearing long, black hair extensions and a leotard with black tights.

"Who does this bitch think she is, not wearing pants to the bar? Lady Gaga?" you think to yourself.

And as if I read your mind, I nod and say, "I'm wearing these because I wanted to wear them. And I'm sober. And I've learned that you can be bold and make wonderfully awful fashion choices while you're sober, thank you very much."

You still think my outfit is tacky, but you get the point. Plus, you just got a really chic new purse for Christmas, and you don't feel like losing your designer bag. You lost it last year when you were wasted, but this year you want to keep your nice things, don't you?

So you're going to keep it together. That way, you can hold back the hair of the drunk 19-year-old, who will inevitably need help at 2 am. It's time to pass the crazy, drunk bitch torch to the young ones. And it's time for us cats to step up for the kittens.

Message me if you have to!