I’m a wise and serious woman, mother of three children, careerist hard worker, highly educated and smart. As every human being on this earth, I have needs, but mine are few different. Nobody likes to be hungry, neither me, except that my food is drinkable; I'll stop you right now, I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not addicted to alcohol; I’m addicted to drunkenness. Most of the time, I have to content myself with nourishing my body several times per day with some boozes. And like everyone who, during his working day, has to make do with a bowl of cereal for breakfast and a sandwich for lunch; I only drink to survive. However, when the evening comes, it is essential for me to satisfy myself with more consistent things. And above all, to finally feel the effects of the drunkenness that I love so much. As soon as I get out of work, I greedily swallow large swigs of alcohol directly from the bottle, then go to school to pick up my children before returning home or from a bar to meet my needs. This daily ritual is barely enough to quench the thirst that gnaws at me. Certainly, every evening at home, I stagger, I stammer; often even, I collapse on the ground or lose consciousness, but that is not enough for me. I need orgies and excesses of my nature, I need to soak my body down to the last cell with alcohol and narcotics. Every day I dream of long or even permanent drunkenness, of bestial lust, of profound forfeiture and dangerous madness. Because yes, I have an unbridled passion for self-destruction in all its forms. This is why the carnival period is so important to me; under cover of make-up, I can open myself up to everyone's eyes to my inner nature. For three weeks, each year, I wander from town to town in search of the slightest celebration, the slightest festivity, the tiniest drinking establishment. Day after day, I get drunk without limit; in public, of course, but also at home or on the journeys that take me or bring me back from my places of perdition. From the moment I wake up to the moment I collapse I just drink. I like to feel in me the effects of these unbridled intoxications which accumulate. Over the days or nights, feeling ever more soaked when I wake up. I love to feel this progression, this degradation of my being. I love to feel this wise woman that I am gradually being diluted in alcohol and disappearing to give way to a wild creature without moderation; obsessed with these pleasures and vices. During the first mornings, I wake up muddy at first, then my waking hours change, shift; I wake up later, swaying, hazy; later, I stagger up from where I collapsed, stammering, struggling to recognize where I am. I grab then with a trembling hand the nearest bottle, although my eyes roll in their sockets, I don't feel drunk, from the first sips, my guts twist as if to get back in place. It is then necessary for me to drink lengthily so that I feel a state which I would define like an ethylic sobriety. With uncertain steps, I go into the shower, clinging to my bottle which rarely leaves my lips and while I let the water trickle over me, I try to reach a comfortable drunkenness as quickly as possible. When I feel ready, I then leave the shower, put on a bathrobe that will take care of drying me and head with an uncertain step towards the mirror. With slow movements, I cling to the sink, my vision is too blurry to see my reflection, so I lean forward on the sink to cover my lips with lipstick. I apply colors on my eyelids and cheeks with varying degrees of success. I put too much, too much, but it's carnival, who will care. I then go back to my room to put on one of those many cosplays that I use throughout the year to get men horny. I like short, low-cut, but above all perverse clothes; I have sexy costumes of all Disney princesses, nurse, police officer, maid and other succubus. It excites me to put them on, to tell myself that I'm going to go out in these naughty outfits, and although I'm already struggling to button my bustiers or close my zippers, I drink tirelessly. I drink until I feel drunk, and I drink again because I like it, I like being drunk, I like being depraved, I like being a wreck. I then slip my feet into high heels which are bound to make my movements even more complicated, to accentuate my swing, to make me stumble. I then get up from my bed on which I was sitting, grabbing everything within my reach so as not to lose my balance, I need to feel the world spinning around me, I need to feel the state in which others will see me in a few hours. It makes me wet, it excites me to tell myself that I will again be fucked by strangers, that I will still drag myself on the ground, wallow in my own urine and that I will continue to ask for a drink. I then finish my bottle and go down the stairs carefully, well I can barely stand up in my pumps, I like to take them down standing up, like a challenge, a test that I have to accomplish to demonstrate my superiority over all alcohol that I took. Each balancing act and each slip demonstrates my mastery of my condition; it makes me feel strong, it reinforces the idea that I can drink more, that I'm not drunk enough yet. Once downstairs, I go to my office, sometimes I see my children in the living room, sometimes not. But when they're around, I like to ask them how they find me, if I'm sexy, if anyone notices I've been drinking, and of course, if they think I'm drunk enough to go out. Then I lock myself in my office, insert a dildo in my vagina and masturbate while letting the alcohol enter me. I don't drink until I cum, then I dissipate my drunkenness with awesome lines of cocaine. And it takes a lot to give me the illusion of being perfectly sober. Sober enough to make me want to ruin all my chances of lucidity during the upcoming festivities. I then grabbed a bottle of vodka in which I diluted a strong dose of GBL, it is a magic industrial solvent, it has the effect of rohypnol, it removes all inhibition and erases memories before they arrive. One glass will be enough for me, see two, but I want to feel the effects before leaving; depending on my condition, I sometimes take four or five, at least, as far as I remember, because I'm sure that well loaded, I've happened to take more, I know, because sometimes I I wake up lying on the floor of my office, this bottle in my hand, when I haven't left yet. When I start to feel the solvent fumes seeping into my brain, I get up, grab a fresh bottle, and leave my office. I bounce off the walls of the entrance hall like a pinball, and it's when I walk through the door that I see if it's day or night. It doesn't matter to me, it just tells me where I need to go to get the most enjoyment. I climb into my car and with my numb fingers, I launch the GPS, I intelligently programmed it several days before so that it gives me the direction to follow each day to join a carnival. I just have to, if I'm still able, select the right date. It is not certain that I will succeed, because in the seven days since the celebrations began, I have already gone twice to places where nothing was happening anymore. It's not really a problem for me as I like to drive under the influence, and the longer the ride, the more time it gives me to tear myself up. And that's good, because the further I go, the less chance I have of meeting someone who knows me. I can then afford to arrive on the scene already totally dilapidated. As the kilometers go by, I start getting drunk again, I swallow a few pills, I smoke weed joints mixed with cocaine. I like to feel my head bobbing around the bends, I like to realize too late that I've run a red light or that my shoes are slipping off the pedals. But that doesn't slow me down, I like to ride fast and I like to do it while drinking. This permanent danger excites me; I like to feel it flowing on my leather seat and slipping between my bare buttocks. I'm more or less tipsy when I get there. It's usually when I get out of my car that I take note of my condition; depending on whether I manage to extricate myself from my vehicle with just a few losses of balance or whether I collapse on the ground trying to get out, I know what I need quickly. My first mission will therefore be to find a shelter to quench my thirst, if possible not far from the passage of the processions. It would be a shame for me to come this far and not take advantage of the beverages so generously offered by the participants. Generally, a lot of men quickly praise my outfit, they appreciate that I am not shy or anything else. And the longer the evening will last, the more I will prove them right; my gestures becoming more and more open, more and more uncertain, it is common when I get up from a stool or when I try to sit on it that the people in my direction notice that I am not carrying any support. In the past, I used to have fun inserting a plug because I liked the characteristic noise it made when I sat down on a wooden seat, a noise that only a true connoisseur could recognize, but changed throughout the evening. quickly becomes uncomfortable; it ended up at the bottom of my bag or lost somewhere; the only really funny thing, when I was really trashed, I took it off to use it as a pacifier to excite the perverts around me. Throughout the event, I'm going to drink, I'm going to be offered a drink, I'm going to dance with a glass in my hand, clinging to men; it would be difficult for me to give you the details of these events, because the GBL absorbing earlier prevents me from knowing how things are going exactly, but when I find myself in front of a bar, my hand clasped around a beer and that my brain can no longer give the order to my arm to raise this glass to my lips, I know that I am on the right track. This moment never lasts long, my body is beautifully trained in these situations, in amazing reflexes it always manages to raise the glass to my lips at once and I chug it in one go while spilling on my nipple and my chest. The last sip is sometimes difficult to pass and I have to force myself to swallow the drink because my esophagus is filled with what I swallow and my dilated stomach can no longer pass. My hand then falls heavily on the counter, slamming the glass on the woodwork, which never fails to attract the attention of the waiter, which allows me to mutter to him that I want another one. My state degrading gradually, I like to show everyone and especially those who don't care how much I excel in depravity by sending me other pills; with approximate movements, I manage to put the drug in my mouth; my stomach is so bloated it hurts, one more sip could make me belch like a geyser, but I need liquid to swallow this pill. So, I down another glass in one go while trying to stay upright. I think that in these moments I have to be completely shit faced, but that's not what matters to me, what I'm looking for is that my brain becomes 'out of order'; that I can no longer think of anything, that I am no longer able to understand what people say to me, that I no longer know how to write, that I no longer know how to move, that I no longer know where I am or who I am. I find myself teleported from bar to bar, sometimes in a dark alley without knowing how I got there, but I hurry back to the music and those people serving drinks. It's extremely rare when I come to my senses that I know who's buggering me, but my ass has known hundreds of cocks, maybe thousands, that's not a problem. But what I prefer is when it happens in the middle of the day, I feel a deviant pleasure in screaming with pleasure when I know innocent families not far away. Besides, I feel just as much pleasure joining the crowd while staggering, hallucinating, semen streaming down my thighs or my buttocks, in an outfit that is becoming more and more dilapidated. These bartenders yelling at me to leave their bar and pointing at me because I'm about to pee on myself think they're embarrassing me, but theyfeed my perversion. Besides, I only have a few meters to go for someone else to serve me a drink. I find myself in the end in a semi-awakened coma, trying to grab the glasses in front of me, whether they belong to me or not; I just want to fill myself up again so others see me pissing. My goal is to drink until I'm sure I won't remember what happened, any extra alcohol I can get is a godsend. I don't care how I'm going to come back or if I'm going to collapse in place, I just want to push my limits, get drunker than I did the day before. I then feel defenceless, incapable of resisting if they wanted to carry me away, incapable of defending myself if they wanted to rape me, and this idea excites me; becoming a barely animated object, no longer being able to choose because on the one hand I no longer have the strength to push anyone away but also because I am incapable of making the slightest decision, becoming dead meat, offered to all, just good to drink, spilling it everywhere... How I like being in this state... I still don't know how these evenings end and I can only guess what happened when I saw the remains on my dress or what remains of it the next day. But when I wake up, I never know where I am, I'm always surprised not to recognize my bedroom or my living room when I wake up there. I'm still wondering how I got to my car and how I drove here, but I'm hoping I got drunk on the drive home, I'm sure I did, I who love drunk driving so much, I must have had orgasms close to ecstasy; I imagine myself crawling into my vehicle in search of something to drink or trying to make white lines to get hold of the steering wheel. Just writing it to you excites me. I was drunk earlier when I woke up, and I had to load myself with powder to manage to write these few words, but what I hope is that the next time I wake up, I'll be so drunk that before I even drink I know I've reached the point where I won't have any memories.
