DRUNK

If I had to describe weekends at Stanford with one word, it would be "intoxicated". As raw vodka or sweet rum flows down our tender throats, it seems to wash away ever-present anxiety and all-consuming heartbreak. Bottoms up. One shot, and another, and another. I always try to keep up, but never can. The "Asian flush", more accurately a genetic alcohol allergy, hits me half a drink in, as my weak Chinese blood flows to my cheeks and my surrounding world loses structure and direction. In "DRUNK", I smear my flushed flesh across canvas to represent how my drunken emotional states seem to morph and mutate into one another, how the ecstasy and depression that I usually mask simultaneously unveil themselves in my numb, red face. Is this uninhibited amalgamation of emotions the least or most genuine version of myself? Just like that, cheap vodka drains my sense of selfhood.