Hello. My name is Rachel, and I am a Drunk Dialer. There’s no point in denying it, because if your number is in my cell phone, you know it’s true. I don’t know what the driving force is, besides the obvious (two-or three or four-drinks), but past 10 p.m., Thursday through Saturday, I find myself wandering away from reason, and the dance floor, my fingers prowling through my Razor’s contact list, uncontrollably compelled to let everyone I’ve ever known how much I “looooooove!!!” them. After just a few glasses of liquid courage, the same confidence that says “I want to order two pizzas from Uncle Rocco’s and I just might eat them all myself,” also says it’s a good idea to phone anyone from exes who are happily dating someone else to my dad, who lives in Georgia, to find out how to make mac and cheese.
On the surface, it sounds harmless and even sweet. The trouble is this invisible hand that guides another glass to my lips and the phone to my ear has no regard for things like time zones, volume control, secrets that shouldn’t be shared, or the fact that one of my ex-boyfriends from high school now dates men and has no interest in repeatedly assuring me that his shift in sexual preferences had nothing to do with prom night.
Then one Sunday, trying to piece together the previous night’s events with my roommates and burning with shame during the morning-after scroll through outgoing calls and texts, the obvious solution hit me like a Kamikaze shot on an empty stomach: cell phones with breathalyzers!
When you register past .08 BAC, they could be programmed to only allow taxi cabs and your best friends, and to block certain numbers, like all the males in your phonebook and Domino’s. Not only could this save personal relationships, calories, and excessive phone bills, but think of the drop in DUIs, drunk tank, and ER visits! Genius.
God grant me the wisdom to create this ingenious product, and help me save myself, from myself.