Wednesday. Hungover AF.

If you read my post yesterday and thought to yourself, “This isn’t going to go the way she thinks it’s going to go,” Congratulations! You’re right!

I set myself up for disappointment. You would think I’d know better at age 37. Everyone knows there is a reason why those of us who have worked as bartenders call St. Patrick’s Day “Amateur Night.” This is one day a year when people feel they have an excuse to be their worst selves. They put on that stupid fucking Leprechaun hat and go buck wild. It has nothing to do with celebrating Ireland or Irish culture or history itself. Most people treat it like an excuse to get trashed.

The first thing I did was go out for a bit o’ stew at the Irish pub I visit once a week to get my fix. It is, as far as I am aware, the only traditional Irish pub left in Hong Kong. Someone who has lived here since before the pandemic explained to me that there used to be many more, but they’ve all closed up shop.

Hong Kong is currently having a huge issue with small businesses closing up because landlords are driving rent prices up. It’s a whole thing. The manager at the adorable little coffee shop I am sitting at right now was actually just complaining to me about it yesterday.

That aside, this pub is located in an area that has become VERY touristy since the pandemic. It used to be a super chill spot where locals and expats mixed more, but now it mainly caters to tourists. Needless to say, this pub quickly filled up with tourists.

I was planning to cross back to the Island side to go to a different bar to meet my friend, but she canceled last minute. I did not feel safe going to a rowdy bar full of male athletes alone, so I chose to stay where I was. This was a mistake. I should have just sucked it up and gone out stag hunting on my own, but I was too crushed by losing my wing woman to move from my seat.

Furthermore, the staff at this pub already know me. They can help me out of trouble if need be. The staff at the other place don’t know me. I would be on my own. It was a serious safety concern for me. It is what it is.

Anyway, so there I was, at the pub, eating my stew and drinking a half pint of Guinness. As previously stated, I do not usually drink the Guinness. Therefore, I was not familiar with the potential effect it could have on me. As a professional writer, I drink quite a lot. I am familiar with how various alcoholic beverages affect me. Wine drunk is different than bourbon drunk, which is different from beer drunk, and especially, Absinthe drunk.

I felt Guinness belonged in its own category, especially after I drank one whole pint of it on Saturday night and realized the character formerly known as the “Hot Beef Stew” looks uncomfortably like my cousin (who I have not seen or spoken to in many, many years). To say I was concerned about how it might affect me while surrounded by total strangers in an understatement. Ultimately, I decided to cancel the stag hunt and conduct a scientific experiment on myself instead.

The first thing I noticed was that the Guinness was not having a very strong effect on me. It probably has to do with the fact that I had just eaten a giant plate of Irish stew and mashed potatoes, which was a good choice. But then I kept drinking and nothing. Then more nothing. And then more nothing. I didn’t feel a goddamn thing!

That is, until some random American guy sat down next to me and started chatting me up. OF COURSE HE WAS MARRIED! THEY ARE ALWAYS MARRIED! WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS MARRIED?! RAWRRRR!

I clocked the ring as soon as he sat down and was like, “Lord, please, don’t waste my fucking time conversing with me.” As if hearing my thoughts, he shoved his left hand into the pocket of his hoodie, turned to me, and started chatting away, as Americans oh-so-famously are wont to do. GRAND!

He spent the first half of the conversation with his left hand in said pocket, as if he had convinced himself he could hide it from me long enough to keep me engaged. I just sat there the whole time thinking to myself, “Why me? I need to go visit one of those witches under that bridge in Causeway Bay and get whatever bizarre curse this is lifted off of me forever.”

Of course, I am 37, so realistically my best bet at this age is someone who is divorced. I definitely don’t want to be with a younger guy, as I already tried that with my Indian ex-boyfriend and felt more like a mommy/babysitter than a partner. I also don’t want a man who is over 40 and has never been married, because that means there is something wrong with him. I don’t want to have to be the one who breaks him in, as they say, because I was already broken at a very young age and fixed myself. I ain’t got time for that shit. As Ali Wong says, “I want a man who has been pre-yelled at.” It’s a real thing.

So blah blah blah, he was talking about AI or some other dumb shit I didn’t care about, and then he got an appetizer plate and offered me food straight from the fucking plate like we were on some kind of date. The AUDACITY of these married men! It’s outrageous! I was very angry to have my time wasted like that once again. I really need to learn how to tell married men to fuck all the way off and leave me alone. Boundaries, Betsey. Boundaries!

Finally, he went away, and I was left alone to continue my Guinness experiment. The tab said I only had three half pints, but I know for a fact that’s bullshit. I had at least three before this guy sat down, then maybe two or three more during that wretched conversation, and then a couple more after that. Must have been the faeries out here buying me free dranks because I deserve them, or something. The bartenders kept asking me if I wanted one of those stupid hats and I refused by saying, “No thank you. I don’t need one. I am real.”

Anyway, so I drank all that, and then got up to go to the bathroom. I felt nothing. Nothing at all! I definitely felt a little… duller… maybe, but I could still walk straight and speak well. It didn’t affect me at all. At least, I thought it didn’t, until I came out of the bathroom and looked around the room. In that moment I felt like I was watching a minstrel show. It was horrifying.

It was like the Guinness had given me some kind of clarity of vision. All I could see was the horrifying reality that my people and culture (which I have barely even scratched the surface of learning and understanding) had been reduced to nothing more than this gross stereotype of a singing, dancing, drinking leprechaun. It was horrifying. I literally felt like I had walked straight into a horror movie.

So I did what anyone in this position would do: I upgraded to the Jameson. I had two doubles to numb myself down, paid my tab, and then left. I came back over to the Island side and wandered through LKF. It was more of the same. Just some horror movie minstrel show bullshit. I literally just could not even.

I walked to the cantina to find a safe space. My friend wasn’t working, but her aunties were. They gave me the safe space I needed in that moment. They didn’t ask me any questions or talk to me at all. They just welcomed me in with a hug, gave me a free drink and let me sit at the bar alone with my face in my hands.

After they closed, I walked home alone, as I do every night. I struggled to fall asleep and stay asleep. I tossed and turned all night. When I finally woke up from whatever half-trance I was in, I felt heavier than I’ve felt in awhile. Sure, some of it is the hangover, but most of it just feels like the weight of the world resting on my shoulders.

I just thought to myself, “St. Patrick’s Day is the worst day to be Irish. Every other day of the year, it’s grand. But today? Ugh. No.” Then I realized I should just get on a plane and go straight to fucking Ireland. What am I even doing here right now?

And that’s the story of how I didn’t get what I wanted, but definitely got what I needed.

The End