Travel/Experiences  •  The Art of

The Art of: Drunk Dialing

Kim Visudharomn rambles about embarrassing herself by drunk dialing, which—she promises—she wrote about while sober.

April 05, 2017
Oh, the power of alcohol: to open minds, mouths, and floodgates, spewing out gems of pure genius or—in the more likely scenario—complete and utter sludgy, sloppy, slurry rubbish; the power to teleport you, in a blood-shot blink of an eye, from a ‘nice’ club in a ‘nice’ part of town to, say, an abandoned railway track or a field full of feeding bovines with puke in your hair and no night bus in sight.  

Perhaps the most impressive power that alcohol wields over mere mortals is its ability to transform us into absolute monsters. If Pixar has taught us anything, it’s that there exists varying degrees of monstrosity. There’s the King Kong-type who, after drinking from the bottle, will behave like an absolute untrained and untamed animal; there’s The Thing-type guy who blunders around, picking fights with stray dogs; and there’s The Exorcist-type of gal who, well, you know the scene. Then there’s me, The Drunk Dialer.

I was sixteen the first time I drunk-dialed someone. It was my best friend, and—thankfully—she was very forgiving the morning after. “Just try not to do it again,” she laughed. So I didn’t. Not to her, anyways. Instead, I’ve since developed a distinctly drunken taste for of calling up the guy I’m crushing on at any particular moment in time and waxing some seriously incoherent, nonsensical lyrical that only comes with one too many drinks and not enough bread rolls at dinner.
Scream, 1996
We live in a time and in a society where all affairs of courtship are conducted via our phones, through various instant-messaging channels and apps. We find it hard to look someone in the eye but wouldn’t think twice about sending out slightly lechy emoticons, sexually-charged text messages, or stickers of humping bunnies.

With our phones attached permanently to our hands, drunk dialing is a widespread indiscretion among our generation. We’ve all been on the giving and receiving end of three-or-more-minute slurring sessions and inebriated confessions of love, hate, and everything in-between.

Apparently, there are apps one can download to block undesirable outgoing calls. Or you can do it old school: Option > Delete. I’ve deleted the numbers of any and every guy I might be liable to drunk dial and, yes, it did seem like a great idea at the time, till I actually had to get in touch with them in a sober and/or social capacity. Then comes the awkward dance of trying to retrieve their numbers from friends.

But sometimes, against all your better (albeit drunken) judgments, you’re left to deal with the morning after. The way I see it, there’s only one rule: absolutely under no circumstance are you to apologize for your appalling phone etiquette. Apologies mean admittance, and admittance means it happened. Naturally, it didn’t happen: you tapped the wrong buttons, you called the wrong person, that wasn’t even you: the entire thing was a re-enactment and all those people were actors. NOTHING HAPPENED. Including this article.