With all the drama of this year’s election, the rising price of oil, the seemingly endless war against terror and the ever increasing threat of getting cancer from global warming and shit, there is always one thing in my life that remains constant; an unending, never wavering, emotional blanket of comfort that is always there for me, Booze.
It’s not just me. Alcohol is universal. It brings people together. It defies all language and cultural barriers and provides common ground for us to stand on. All that, AND it gets me drunk!
If there was ever a time when I didn’t go out at least twice a week, I don’t remember it. Lately, I’ve been going to the bar all but one or two nights a week, my primary reason being to grab a bite to eat. Reason is what fool’s search for, and I’m no fool brother, so to hell with reason, pour me a drink, I’ll stick around.
If I had a dollar for every beer I drank in the past week, well, then I would have drank a lot more because that would make the beer practically free. Unfortunately no major brewery, beer distributor or even bar has offered to sponsor me yet. I’m not sure why. I feel like it would be a great investment.
Last Saturday I ended up in Athens. FYI, it’s not possible to stop there for just dinner. We stopped into some pub early on to grab a beer and before we even started to look for a place to eat, we had pretty much made up our minds to make it a night. After burning my mouth on late night pizza and sleeping in the passenger seat of a convertible all night and on the way home, I spent Sunday recovering and getting ready for finals all week. Finals. What a depressing thought. I couldn’t handle the stress and I needed to crawl back under my emotional blanket.
By Tuesday I was three days into a two day binge. The effects of alcohol aren’t as apparent when you don’t stop drinking. In an effort to prove this, I decided to not stop drinking. Unfortunately, there are just certain times when it’s not practical to be drunk for an entire week. Fortunately, I don’t have enough good sense to know when these times are and even if I did, I probably would have disregarded it and done it anyhow. Considering I spend as much money in the jukebox as I do on beer some nights, I figure I’m self moderating pretty well. As it turns out I just spend entirely too much on the jukebox. Some say I have a problem with it.
By Friday I was done with school and it was first Friday so I decided to get sloppy and wander around downtown.
Having been on a steady diet of greasy bar food all week I decided to change things up and get some greasy Chinese food before heading out. It was pretty busy around town and I met up with Joe Tuff and five of his college girlfriends. Girlfriends like girls say when they’re talking about each other though, like the show Girlfriends. Everything takes longer when there are five girls in tow. Not just putting on make-up and getting ready, but simple things like ordering drinks, crossing the street, and, well breathing I assume, I mean everything. After hanging out at the bird for a bit we rolled out to see what else was going on downtown. We ended up spending some time at the Rookery and then Envy. At what seemed like 4am but was in fact only midnight, we ended up at Oasis, plowing through a variety of food greasy enough to power a diesel engine.
Somehow Saturday I woke up before noon with the strange ambition to clean my apartment. So I went to waffle house to grab breakfast. Eventually I began to clean up my place and to reward myself; it was back to the bar for a beer. Things ended up getting a little crazy. I think I ended up in every bar within walking distance for at least a few minutes. I remember shots being taken, people falling down, walking all the way to 550, realizing I left my credit card at Envy, going home, going back to Envy to get my credit card and then stopping off for another beer on the way home. Look, I swear, I’m getting help for my jukebox problem this week.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
I wish I was this Motivated When I'm Sober
I get a few drinks in me and I start making plans. Often I start making plans to lie in bed the next day and then grab Chinese for dinner. More often, I get these wonderful inclinations to involve myself in all kinds of ambitious activities beyond those concerned with the standard hangover recovery procedure. Water skiing, road tripping, sky diving, maybe even a triathlon or something. At the time, they are the most awesome ideas ever. It’s not often that I actually follow through with any of these plans. In fact, most of the time, no one I made plans with even gets as call, it’s just mutually understood that it’s not going down. Every now and then, I act out of character and surprise even myself. That hasn’t happened recently but I think next time I get drunk I’m going to make some solid plans and stick with them. Maybe I’ll go spelunking or something.
For the first Monday in a long time, I can remember the entire evening. I got a decent buzz and left the bar early to go home and finish some work like a responsible sober adult. Instead, when I got home, I made sandwich and watched Magnum P.I. until I passed out on the floor in front of the TV. Magnum is the man. I figure it must be the stache ergo I don’t feel I need to explain mine. All I need now is a Ferrari, a friend with a helicopter and an estate on the beach where I can do my “job” from.
Tuesday made up for Monday. Papouli’s for dinner and then to the Tic Toc for half price wine. It was then that I came up with the great idea for half dressed/half price night. The idea is simple. Ladies will wear half the clothes they normally do and the guys will buy half of their drinks. Wait. I think that’s been going on for some time now. Ahh, forget it; at least Tuesdays I can still get my drinks half price without sacrificing my dignity. I had to walk past the hummingbird to get home but, uh, I had to stop inside to use the bathroom, yeah, that’s it’s…the bathroom. Two games of darts and half dozen drinks later, I was using the alley for a bathroom on the way home. Don’t judge; God said not to.
Thursday was softball. The rules are ridiculous. The count starts with one ball and one strike, the walks are counted as doubles, the games are played for one hour; if this isn’t meant for combining alcohol with, I don’t know what is. Thankfully, I’m not the only one with that sentiment and there were plenty of PBR pounders to keep my electrolytes refreshed and my head in the game. The score doesn’t matter in a game like this (unless we would have won) and it’s the team that really counts. Some of us went straight to the bar afterwards, others (you know who you are) went home to shower and change before meeting up with us. The plan was to grab some food at the Red Eye but since it was pretty late and the kitchen had already closed, we skipped straight to the pitchers. There’s nothing like drinking on an empty stomach. Seriously, it saves soooo much money. So does leaving a tab open at the bar, unfortunately both these things always seem to catch up with me later on.
Across the street at Bird I began to solicit my idea for a bathroom review column and website. It would be done like a restaurant critic would do a column on food, but ummm…without graphic descriptions about how things taste. Apparently, plenty of people liked the idea (or they did after a few shots) and it was agreed that in an effort to remain un-biased and objective, both the men’s and women’s rooms would have to be checked out. Well, you can guess what happened from there, and if you do, please let me know, because all I remember is falling down on my way home later on, and I was pushing my bike, so that must have taken a lot of effort or a whole lot more to drink.
For the first Monday in a long time, I can remember the entire evening. I got a decent buzz and left the bar early to go home and finish some work like a responsible sober adult. Instead, when I got home, I made sandwich and watched Magnum P.I. until I passed out on the floor in front of the TV. Magnum is the man. I figure it must be the stache ergo I don’t feel I need to explain mine. All I need now is a Ferrari, a friend with a helicopter and an estate on the beach where I can do my “job” from.
Tuesday made up for Monday. Papouli’s for dinner and then to the Tic Toc for half price wine. It was then that I came up with the great idea for half dressed/half price night. The idea is simple. Ladies will wear half the clothes they normally do and the guys will buy half of their drinks. Wait. I think that’s been going on for some time now. Ahh, forget it; at least Tuesdays I can still get my drinks half price without sacrificing my dignity. I had to walk past the hummingbird to get home but, uh, I had to stop inside to use the bathroom, yeah, that’s it’s…the bathroom. Two games of darts and half dozen drinks later, I was using the alley for a bathroom on the way home. Don’t judge; God said not to.
Thursday was softball. The rules are ridiculous. The count starts with one ball and one strike, the walks are counted as doubles, the games are played for one hour; if this isn’t meant for combining alcohol with, I don’t know what is. Thankfully, I’m not the only one with that sentiment and there were plenty of PBR pounders to keep my electrolytes refreshed and my head in the game. The score doesn’t matter in a game like this (unless we would have won) and it’s the team that really counts. Some of us went straight to the bar afterwards, others (you know who you are) went home to shower and change before meeting up with us. The plan was to grab some food at the Red Eye but since it was pretty late and the kitchen had already closed, we skipped straight to the pitchers. There’s nothing like drinking on an empty stomach. Seriously, it saves soooo much money. So does leaving a tab open at the bar, unfortunately both these things always seem to catch up with me later on.
Across the street at Bird I began to solicit my idea for a bathroom review column and website. It would be done like a restaurant critic would do a column on food, but ummm…without graphic descriptions about how things taste. Apparently, plenty of people liked the idea (or they did after a few shots) and it was agreed that in an effort to remain un-biased and objective, both the men’s and women’s rooms would have to be checked out. Well, you can guess what happened from there, and if you do, please let me know, because all I remember is falling down on my way home later on, and I was pushing my bike, so that must have taken a lot of effort or a whole lot more to drink.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Sailing on a Sushi Boat Across an Ocean of Booze
I can’t think of many things that have gotten me so excited, and then let me down as frequently, as the Cherry Blossom street party. Except for the year that Morris Day and the Time rocked the streets, I’ve been disappointed almost every year. This year it was cancelled because of the rain all day leading up to it. I say screw the stage and the logistics, block the street off, do a BYOB and hand out trash bags for raincoats. The downtown police presence is typically prolific enough to handle a small riot anyhow, so no big deal; Right?
I really shouldn’t complain. There are plenty of other people to do that and I have a knack for fueling my disappointment with alcohol and cigarettes until it transforms into something a little more positive. I’m going to have a drink and forget about it. Had I known earlier in the week that the street party would be cancelled, I would have started this self healing process sooner. I played it safe and prepared to anyhow.
Monday. Ugh, seriously. I woke up still drunk on Tuesday. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Monday is the new Friday? Is it possible I’m not the pillar of sobriety I thought I was? Gulp. What? Shut up!
Joe Tuff got back from a stint over at the oceanless beach on Wednesday. I had been to softball practice that evening and was almost feeling like a healthy, active adult when we cracked the first of what would be a dozen beers. It was already after 2am and three hours later I was setting my alarm. I still managed to get up at seven. I’m getting better at this, the positive attitude thing at least, maybe not so much for the sobriety thing.
Thursday we hit Shogun which must be Japanese for “kick ass sushi served on a massive wooden boat” because twenty minutes after we got there and started flipping through the picture book for kids who can’t decipher sushi menu’s, that’s exactly what showed up on the table. It all disappeared pretty quickly, washed down with a few UFO’s and jokes about the boat being big enough for Gary Coleman to actually use.
Downtown at the rook they were doing some drink specials and playing some eighties music. It worked for me. As long as I don’t have to hear that stupid “apple bottom jeans, boots wit the furrrr” song another fucking time, I’m good. A few overpriced dollar shots later and we hit the bird for last call. Not to be discouraged my Macon’s puritanical alcohol laws, we stocked up on car bombs and masons jars of booze. I even closed an old bar tab. Yay me. Three down, one to go. I ended up playing beer pong until the sun came up and the next thing I know I was waking up in an office chair a few hours later. NuWay for breakfast seemed like a good idea around ten but it still didn’t sober me up and it was all I could smell for the next couple hours. I got some cherry ice cream down at the terminal station and went home to rest up for the first Friday shenanigans.
Under the impression that I was super human and that a shower would be the phone booth for my transformation, I left the house early to wander the streets. Vintage Treasure just opened on Cotton and after browsing through their awesome t-shirt selection it was time to eat…and drink…again. My front tooth is still loose from getting smashed in the mouth during rugby practice a few weeks ago. That means burgers with a fork and knife. It’s a royal pain in the nuts but unless I want to start looking like a Jones county native, I’m going to have to be careful until it heals up. I guess I could make a joke here about sticking to a liquid diet but that would be too easy. By the time I finished my food an a few beers all I wanted was another nap. It was around eleven when I walked up to the power station again to have Janaun Bon jovi rock my face off with eighties cover hits. It was their last show and I don’t think I’ve even seen the power station so packed. Back at the bird before last call, I think this was the only night of the week that I went out and didn’t get closed out of the bar after 2am. It gives me something to shoot for though.
I really shouldn’t complain. There are plenty of other people to do that and I have a knack for fueling my disappointment with alcohol and cigarettes until it transforms into something a little more positive. I’m going to have a drink and forget about it. Had I known earlier in the week that the street party would be cancelled, I would have started this self healing process sooner. I played it safe and prepared to anyhow.
Monday. Ugh, seriously. I woke up still drunk on Tuesday. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Monday is the new Friday? Is it possible I’m not the pillar of sobriety I thought I was? Gulp. What? Shut up!
Joe Tuff got back from a stint over at the oceanless beach on Wednesday. I had been to softball practice that evening and was almost feeling like a healthy, active adult when we cracked the first of what would be a dozen beers. It was already after 2am and three hours later I was setting my alarm. I still managed to get up at seven. I’m getting better at this, the positive attitude thing at least, maybe not so much for the sobriety thing.
Thursday we hit Shogun which must be Japanese for “kick ass sushi served on a massive wooden boat” because twenty minutes after we got there and started flipping through the picture book for kids who can’t decipher sushi menu’s, that’s exactly what showed up on the table. It all disappeared pretty quickly, washed down with a few UFO’s and jokes about the boat being big enough for Gary Coleman to actually use.
Downtown at the rook they were doing some drink specials and playing some eighties music. It worked for me. As long as I don’t have to hear that stupid “apple bottom jeans, boots wit the furrrr” song another fucking time, I’m good. A few overpriced dollar shots later and we hit the bird for last call. Not to be discouraged my Macon’s puritanical alcohol laws, we stocked up on car bombs and masons jars of booze. I even closed an old bar tab. Yay me. Three down, one to go. I ended up playing beer pong until the sun came up and the next thing I know I was waking up in an office chair a few hours later. NuWay for breakfast seemed like a good idea around ten but it still didn’t sober me up and it was all I could smell for the next couple hours. I got some cherry ice cream down at the terminal station and went home to rest up for the first Friday shenanigans.
Under the impression that I was super human and that a shower would be the phone booth for my transformation, I left the house early to wander the streets. Vintage Treasure just opened on Cotton and after browsing through their awesome t-shirt selection it was time to eat…and drink…again. My front tooth is still loose from getting smashed in the mouth during rugby practice a few weeks ago. That means burgers with a fork and knife. It’s a royal pain in the nuts but unless I want to start looking like a Jones county native, I’m going to have to be careful until it heals up. I guess I could make a joke here about sticking to a liquid diet but that would be too easy. By the time I finished my food an a few beers all I wanted was another nap. It was around eleven when I walked up to the power station again to have Janaun Bon jovi rock my face off with eighties cover hits. It was their last show and I don’t think I’ve even seen the power station so packed. Back at the bird before last call, I think this was the only night of the week that I went out and didn’t get closed out of the bar after 2am. It gives me something to shoot for though.
Dear Debra
Dear Debra McCorkle
We need to talk sometime. We should do it over a beer. If you’re half as boring as your article or the picture that accompanies it, we should probably do it over as few shots as well. “Cultural musings” reads like a bad left wing bumper sticker of a pusillanimous middle age brat. Maybe that’s an unfair characterization of someone I don’t even know, then again, maybe that’s exactly what you’re going for. The “mother earth” image you project is so clichéd that I feel like I can tell things about you that I have no desire to even know. Without a doubt you are more than familiar with yurts, marijuana alternatives, and…god I hope I’m wrong about this…the middle age orthopedic replacement for Birkenstocks, Crocs.
You strike me as the kind of typical liberal feminist taking up the same trite causes that define the worst of your type. I can picture you rambling on about Darfur at the same time you write of “angry Iraq war veterans” performing “free body cavity searches” at Bonnaroo, a festival people like you give a bad name to. I’ve served my country “Mama Karma” and I don’t know whether you have or not, but the attitude your statements project is one of self-service and nothing else. You seem like an educated woman that still struggles to deal with a period of your life that you feel like you’ve missed out on, and you now need to compensate for it.
I’m no Freud, no Kerouac, no brilliant thinker. I’m not a crusader of conservative causes and I have no desire to proselytize my political beliefs on anyone who doesn’t care to hear them, not even when I’m really drunk. I agree with plenty of your points but by the time you’ve delivered your message, you’ve turned me against you. The power of the libertarian ideas that you speak of is negated by the constant radical relationships you associate them with. You are one of the people that have taken up the libertarian cause as a device to trumpet your position on legalizing marijuana rather than denounce an ever increasingly controlling central government. The dualities are always there but you seem to promulgate them unnecessarily with your “musings”
You try so hard to be original that you have slipped into the same category as everyone else that tries as hard as you do; “Cultural musings” could be written by a left-wing programmed, veggie-burger fueled computer. It’s all been done mama, the pastor has been attacked as a hypocrite and the women’s tales of abuse have been told by many before you. Sure I write about getting drunk, but I try to be honest and a little bit insightful. I don’t talk shit about the men and women who have fought for, or contributed to, my freedom and I wouldn’t be writing this if you didn’t either. Change it up mama. We don’t want to hear you fighting for Mumia’s freedom or ranting about the most recent Dave Mathews generation jam concert. It’s cool you like to get your smoke on; you can be an advocate of the ganj to your heart’s content without attacking anyone else’s principals. Maybe then we can sympathize with your POV instead of being driven away by the divisive spike you drive between us and your perspective.
Love,
Alex Bender
P.S. Seriously, let’s get drunk together sometime, maybe you can show me some of your tattoos.
We need to talk sometime. We should do it over a beer. If you’re half as boring as your article or the picture that accompanies it, we should probably do it over as few shots as well. “Cultural musings” reads like a bad left wing bumper sticker of a pusillanimous middle age brat. Maybe that’s an unfair characterization of someone I don’t even know, then again, maybe that’s exactly what you’re going for. The “mother earth” image you project is so clichéd that I feel like I can tell things about you that I have no desire to even know. Without a doubt you are more than familiar with yurts, marijuana alternatives, and…god I hope I’m wrong about this…the middle age orthopedic replacement for Birkenstocks, Crocs.
You strike me as the kind of typical liberal feminist taking up the same trite causes that define the worst of your type. I can picture you rambling on about Darfur at the same time you write of “angry Iraq war veterans” performing “free body cavity searches” at Bonnaroo, a festival people like you give a bad name to. I’ve served my country “Mama Karma” and I don’t know whether you have or not, but the attitude your statements project is one of self-service and nothing else. You seem like an educated woman that still struggles to deal with a period of your life that you feel like you’ve missed out on, and you now need to compensate for it.
I’m no Freud, no Kerouac, no brilliant thinker. I’m not a crusader of conservative causes and I have no desire to proselytize my political beliefs on anyone who doesn’t care to hear them, not even when I’m really drunk. I agree with plenty of your points but by the time you’ve delivered your message, you’ve turned me against you. The power of the libertarian ideas that you speak of is negated by the constant radical relationships you associate them with. You are one of the people that have taken up the libertarian cause as a device to trumpet your position on legalizing marijuana rather than denounce an ever increasingly controlling central government. The dualities are always there but you seem to promulgate them unnecessarily with your “musings”
You try so hard to be original that you have slipped into the same category as everyone else that tries as hard as you do; “Cultural musings” could be written by a left-wing programmed, veggie-burger fueled computer. It’s all been done mama, the pastor has been attacked as a hypocrite and the women’s tales of abuse have been told by many before you. Sure I write about getting drunk, but I try to be honest and a little bit insightful. I don’t talk shit about the men and women who have fought for, or contributed to, my freedom and I wouldn’t be writing this if you didn’t either. Change it up mama. We don’t want to hear you fighting for Mumia’s freedom or ranting about the most recent Dave Mathews generation jam concert. It’s cool you like to get your smoke on; you can be an advocate of the ganj to your heart’s content without attacking anyone else’s principals. Maybe then we can sympathize with your POV instead of being driven away by the divisive spike you drive between us and your perspective.
Love,
Alex Bender
P.S. Seriously, let’s get drunk together sometime, maybe you can show me some of your tattoos.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Till it Hurts...
I woke up in the lobby of The Massee one morning this past week. I don’t live there and I don’t know what the hell I was doing there. I was still pretty buzzed (completely drunk) when some douchebag woke me up to ask if it was warm outside. Go check and see for yourself buddy, the doors right there and I’m obviously working over here, so can I get some peace and quiet, please?
It took me a few minutes to get my bearing and a few more to find my cell phone which had lodged wonderfully in between the cushions of the couch along with the other kind of goodies I can only imagine end up in between the cushions of a couch in the lobby of The Massee. Needless to say the walk back to Cotton Avenue seemed like an eternity and the cigarette I smoked on the way home would be the last one I’d smoke all day. It was as bad as it sounds, only worse, and somehow all worth it.
I think this was Thursday morning. I’m not really sure, and it doesn’t really matter. Despite that couch being comfortable as hell compared to that K-Mart parking lot or that ditch in Moscow that I’ve awoken in previously, there is something unsettling about waking up in a strange place and not knowing how you got there.
I had finished doing some work downtown around six and went to grab some wings and a beer. Next thing I knew I had managed to hit just about every place in town (I’m assuming) in search of whatever it is I’m searching for (besides the bottom of a bottle) when I go out. I had been off all week and had no real obligations before noon each day. Regardless, I had no intentions of becoming a sloppy mess. It had been done the week before anyhow, and if anything, I was hoping something interesting in the context of the evening would occur. The thing is, nothing had to. There’s a reason I stayed out all night and it’s not because I was sitting at the bar drowning my sorrows in a beer.
I’ve gotten tired of going out and having a visual train of the mundane and monotonous run on me. You know what I mean, the same crowd in the khakis, North Face jackets, tucked in plaid shirts, the “I’m tryin to dress up so I can get in the club and act like a whore” outfit. I’m not bitching, if fact, I like “people watching” and it’s these things that I observe and amuse myself with that get me through the moments when real entertainment is lacking. I guess in my drunken stupor I figured it was time to re-evaluate the reasoning of others as I perceived it. I tried and I probably failed but there are several things that I have realized over the course of my drunken excursions, and not to belabor an already hackneyed point, but I feel as though I need to elaborate. If I come across as specifically ambiguous, it is intentional so please don’t get confused.
There are different types of nights in the mindset of both males and females, there are the nights when crocs and sweats are acceptable (never in my book) and there are the nights when certain attire is expected depending on the situation (khakis and a blue oxford and loafers or khakis and a suit jacket depending on the circumstances{I do not condone any of these atrocities, this is merely an observance})Typically individuals go out with a specific goal in mind, the most common being to get sloppy drunk in an effort to impress friends with the ability to consume large quantities of alcohol, the other being the intention of going home with a girl they meet out that night, one who typically possesses the same level of tact and class as themselves.
Don’t be these people. Getting drunk is fun enough; don’t ruin it for the rest of us by giving it a bad (worse) name than it already has. Drink as much as you want and wake up were you so desire, but in the process, please avoid the aforementioned tendencies that could potentially tarnish the image others may potentially have of you. Enjoy going out and getting schwasted for the sake of getting schwasted, don’t do it for any other reason. Or do, it makes me look that much better when I’m drooling on myself in an apathetic drunken daze.
It took me a few minutes to get my bearing and a few more to find my cell phone which had lodged wonderfully in between the cushions of the couch along with the other kind of goodies I can only imagine end up in between the cushions of a couch in the lobby of The Massee. Needless to say the walk back to Cotton Avenue seemed like an eternity and the cigarette I smoked on the way home would be the last one I’d smoke all day. It was as bad as it sounds, only worse, and somehow all worth it.
I think this was Thursday morning. I’m not really sure, and it doesn’t really matter. Despite that couch being comfortable as hell compared to that K-Mart parking lot or that ditch in Moscow that I’ve awoken in previously, there is something unsettling about waking up in a strange place and not knowing how you got there.
I had finished doing some work downtown around six and went to grab some wings and a beer. Next thing I knew I had managed to hit just about every place in town (I’m assuming) in search of whatever it is I’m searching for (besides the bottom of a bottle) when I go out. I had been off all week and had no real obligations before noon each day. Regardless, I had no intentions of becoming a sloppy mess. It had been done the week before anyhow, and if anything, I was hoping something interesting in the context of the evening would occur. The thing is, nothing had to. There’s a reason I stayed out all night and it’s not because I was sitting at the bar drowning my sorrows in a beer.
I’ve gotten tired of going out and having a visual train of the mundane and monotonous run on me. You know what I mean, the same crowd in the khakis, North Face jackets, tucked in plaid shirts, the “I’m tryin to dress up so I can get in the club and act like a whore” outfit. I’m not bitching, if fact, I like “people watching” and it’s these things that I observe and amuse myself with that get me through the moments when real entertainment is lacking. I guess in my drunken stupor I figured it was time to re-evaluate the reasoning of others as I perceived it. I tried and I probably failed but there are several things that I have realized over the course of my drunken excursions, and not to belabor an already hackneyed point, but I feel as though I need to elaborate. If I come across as specifically ambiguous, it is intentional so please don’t get confused.
There are different types of nights in the mindset of both males and females, there are the nights when crocs and sweats are acceptable (never in my book) and there are the nights when certain attire is expected depending on the situation (khakis and a blue oxford and loafers or khakis and a suit jacket depending on the circumstances{I do not condone any of these atrocities, this is merely an observance})Typically individuals go out with a specific goal in mind, the most common being to get sloppy drunk in an effort to impress friends with the ability to consume large quantities of alcohol, the other being the intention of going home with a girl they meet out that night, one who typically possesses the same level of tact and class as themselves.
Don’t be these people. Getting drunk is fun enough; don’t ruin it for the rest of us by giving it a bad (worse) name than it already has. Drink as much as you want and wake up were you so desire, but in the process, please avoid the aforementioned tendencies that could potentially tarnish the image others may potentially have of you. Enjoy going out and getting schwasted for the sake of getting schwasted, don’t do it for any other reason. Or do, it makes me look that much better when I’m drooling on myself in an apathetic drunken daze.
PART II
I get flashbacks. Often. A song comes on and reminds me of a cool fall day when my bedroom window was open in the middle of the afternoon. I don’t know how this is significant at all but it feels good. I want to be there right now. I walk into a room and I am overcome with a feeling of excitement that is almost too much to contain. I smell a cigarette and I can transport though time. Seeing the sky in the afternoon on a cloudy day, I am suddenly in a dream, and I am in complete control. My movements through life have been dictated by the flashbacks of things I have not even experienced. I have flashbacks of the future. I am looking back on things I’ve never experienced, but eventually will. I don’t understand this and I don’t know if I want to. It will play a crucial role in my demise. Although I’m looking back on it right now, I’m not sure if knowing this will help. From what I see, I won’t be able to change a thing.
Monday, March 3, 2008
enough to leave you wondering
It feels like I’m buried in wet sand, the crushing weight momentarily numbing the pain until the sand seems to melt away and the numbness subsides. Now it’s just pain. Hot, wet and sharp. Everything is a blur. Noise and light seemed to collide. All I can hear is the echoing in my ears of whatever just knocked me on my ass. All I can see is the dirt that fills my eyes and when I rub them, a cloudy, almost tranquil brightness pierces through. I can’t tell if the blurry grey figures around me are moving or not and for a second, I don’t know if I want them to be. This all seems last an hour but it can’t be more than a few seconds.
“HELP! Mommy! HELP ME!” is the first thing I hear. It’s barely decipherable at first. Maybe because it surprises me. Maybe because I think I hear something else, or am at least expecting to. I try to get up but begin to stumble. The indignity of the situation is one of the first things I feel. That can’t be right though. I must still be in shock. It isn’t a child screaming. It’s the kind of voice that is deep and commanding, and the desperation in it scares me more than anything else…
“HELP! Mommy! HELP ME!” is the first thing I hear. It’s barely decipherable at first. Maybe because it surprises me. Maybe because I think I hear something else, or am at least expecting to. I try to get up but begin to stumble. The indignity of the situation is one of the first things I feel. That can’t be right though. I must still be in shock. It isn’t a child screaming. It’s the kind of voice that is deep and commanding, and the desperation in it scares me more than anything else…
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