Drunk-texting: The agony and the ecstacy

MANILA, Philippines - I used to be really good at drunk texting. My drunk text rap game was impeccable, from the ones that begin with “Hey, just so you know…” to the succinct but significant “You awake?” to the deplorable “omg Wru at??” If drunk texting were an Olympic sport, I could represent the Philippines, and then they’d have to invent a better medal than gold.

A few good things have come out of my preternatural gift, but more often than not, what I used to reap from drunk texts were a slew of morning-after feelings without the actual morning after. You know how it goes: you wake up hungover and under the cold torrent of last night coming back, you wince in pain at the thought of having to check your “Sent” messages.

What follows, when you finally do check, is more pain and apologetic follow-ups. I recommend the following message, which was saved on my phone as a template all throughout college: “Hi, sorry about last night. I was drunk and got carried away. I hope you’re all right and I didn’t wreck our friendship / turn you off / lose my job.” It sufficed, and most recipients of my drunk blathering were kind enough to either joke about it or let it go.

The thing about drunk texts is this: they’re not crafted to stop at your phone. Drunk texts aren’t empty words. They’re catalysts. By blearily punching words into a screen, with one particular person in mind, you are gunning hard to make something happen, right now. Whether it’s something you will regret or celebrate remains to be seen, but here you are, squinting at your phone’s cold light while the people around you fade into the background. “I’m a pusher,” Tina Fey tells Lindsay Lohan in a movie you’ve memorized, “I push people!” Drunk texting is just that: you’re pushing and you’re pushing hard.

Maybe you want to pick a fight. Maybe you want to get kissed. Maybe you want to find out if someone feels the same about you as you do about them. Those are all perfectly natural feelings, but rushing things at the speed of a sent message isn’t healthy for any of those. Drunk texting is still the most worthless form of communication because not only are you relinquishing power to someone who is not present, most drunk texts are designed to be disavowed the very next day. Lucky is the fool who wakes up in their soulmate’s bed despite having slurred their way into it. Lucky, and rare.

The last real drunk text (and by that I mean the feeling behind it was sincere) I ever sent was sent from the Saguijo bathroom a couple of years ago. It went something like this: “I’m sorry I keep confusing the desire to hang out with the desire to kiss you!” Except I didn’t say “kiss”; not really. Since then I’ve undertaken almost every method of avoiding drunk texts. I’ve deleted tempting numbers, had friends hold my phone, had friends hold me down.

I like to think I fixed myself, though. Things have changed. I don’t drink as hard, and having an iPhone means I have to examine what I’m typing lest Autocorrect decides to take the wheel. It’s literally sobering. The biggest change, however, is that I’m now in a long-distance relationship, which renders my drunk texts to him (all that pushing) null. Our 12-hour time difference means that the answer to “You awake?” will always be yes, and asking “wru at??” is ridiculous because we both know the answer: very far away. Saying “come over now plz” just makes us both feel bad.

Because there’s no possibility of instant gratification, all my texts, even the sober ones, to my long-distance love now carry a very real weight. What used to be the most worthless of messages are now part of a valuable correspondence, more bricks in the bridge we are constantly building between us. I feel the need to build with care.

At the core of every drunk text is the desire to change something and to change it quick. I’m pushing you to come over. Pushing you to get me out of here. Pushing you to stop being a jerk. Jeffrey McDaniel wrote in a poem, “On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more / than someone else’s presence,” and he’s right, isn’t he? That’s why you’re texting your cute blockmate who isn’t at the party, that’s why you’re racking your brain for a cutting remark to your ex, that’s why you’re tweeting passive-aggressive bullshit.

With a little growth and a lot of distance, and despite alcohol, you begin to learn the value of words and what they mean, especially when you shove them on someone who can’t immediately change anything. Your absence weighs more. That’s why at the end of every drunken night, after pushing as hard as I can against still-immovable certainties, I put my phone on my face and pass out alone, dreaming of change.