I am my own worst enemy...
I had every intention of going to bed at a decent hour, but for whatever reason, and as is the norm, it didn’t really work out. I was going to write a bit, have a gin and Sprite, a couple beers, keep it mellow (yes, it’s a little sad as to what I consider "Keeping it mellow" on these harsh, cold, and lonely nights), then hit the hay by 11:00 PM or so. So I had a drink with my roommate Y– and as my drink disappeared rather quickly she asked if I was trying to destroy myself.
Was I?
No, not really. I just drink fast, which is why I try to stick with Pabst as the alcohol content is negligible, and I can pound it for awhile and still remain relatively safe and about my wits.
She finished her drink and went upstairs to paint and I turned on the stereo, made a quick On the Go mix on the iPOD that suited my mildly intoxicated brain, and set off to write.
As usual, I just ended up sending off a few e-mails that probably had no business being sent off. Then my other roommate, R– came home with some friends and they were off to the bar across the street, "Hey, you wanna come along?"–"No. Sounds fun and thanks for the invite but I have to get to bed early tonight. You kids have a good time though" is said through an uncoordinated tongue.
So they took off and I sent off some more e-mails, checked the news, all the things I usually end up doing when I am supposed to be writing.
Then my other roommate, D– came home and I have no idea how it happened but suddenly there was beer everywhere. We were facing off across the table, pounding beers, him berating me for being a douchebag, trying to motivate me to do something with my life, asking me to justify my currently-held belief that I am quite possibly doomed (I only half believe it. Honestly, I just like the way it rolls off of the tongue) . He got no answers from me but kept digging, and along with the 20 questions (more accurately 2700 questions) we talked music and other things... and it was probably the music subject, or something else, that prompted him to pay me the greatest compliment I have ever received... I just wish I could remember what exactly prompted it... but he said, out the corner of his mouth:
"You’re like two jerks pushed together."
All I could do was laugh, and hard, and write it down, because of all the things I assumed I would be forgetting on this wicked and polluted night, this was not one that I was willing to let go of. We kept on and I occasionally glanced at the clock on the microwave, crudely calculating the amount of beer I had consumed against the amount of time it was until I had to get up and go to work and how many more beers I calculated I could still down without being totally destroyed in the morning.
Unfortunately the only math I was capable of doing was the figuring out the difference between the time it was as I looked at the clock and the time I had to be at the bus stop, still in the dark of early morning. That whole part about factoring in sobriety and time to become sober and maintaining at work was lost to me, so I kept going. Sliding unopened beers across the table as D– was getting as drunk and sloppy as I was, cursing every time another beer manifested in front of him.
Then my roommate who went out earlier to drink came home, not too sturdy on the legs, and the next day I wondered if it looked funny that I said I was going to bed and then she shows up at 2AM and here I am drunk and flopping all over the table like a beached dolphin.
She disappeared into her bed to pass out and after the Tom Waits album ended I had to stop playing the music because her head only has about 4" of sheet rock between it and the speakers. Even drunken double-jerks like me have hearts.
So we kept on at each other, and honestly I have no idea what was said. I do recall noticing that it was 3 AM and me springing out of my chair like drunk people have a habit of doing, and saying something along the lines of, "Fuck... I have to sleep" and collapsing in my bed.
Two hours later my alarm went off and it was like a little slice of hell showed up in my room. I argued with myself over whether or not to call in sick, but I would feel like a chump for calling in a false sick day because I was drunk. If there was a pretty girl in my bed, that would be a whole different story, but the sad bed of mine was deserted and soaked in lousy beer sweat.
Had I been pulled over driving I suspect I would get a DUI, but I wasn’t driving so I sucked it up and took a shower in the dark. At some point, one of those 10 gallon jugs of shampoo that one can acquire at Costco or some such warehouse store fell on my foot. What can one do but swear? So I did. For a second I was sure I had broken the damned thing, the pain was unbelievable, but I could still move it. I squinted through the dark though and saw that I was bleeding nicely. It had hit that vein that runs right across the top of the foot and popped it.
A little more swearing, without much energy of course. Then I toweled off and got dressed and barely made my bus while listening to absolutely nothing on my big padded headphones. Some times I just like the muffling effect they have on the atmosphere and considering the weather they make a nice pair of ear muffs.
The whole day at work was pretty easy. It was a slow day, and I was moving even slower but I didn’t suffer a hangover, just a wee, lingering buzz that rose up occasionally as a dizzy spell that had me snickering at my incompetence.
I am my own worst enemy.
I had every intention of going to bed at a decent hour, but for whatever reason, and as is the norm, it didn’t really work out. I was going to write a bit, have a gin and Sprite, a couple beers, keep it mellow (yes, it’s a little sad as to what I consider "Keeping it mellow" on these harsh, cold, and lonely nights), then hit the hay by 11:00 PM or so. So I had a drink with my roommate Y– and as my drink disappeared rather quickly she asked if I was trying to destroy myself.
Was I?
No, not really. I just drink fast, which is why I try to stick with Pabst as the alcohol content is negligible, and I can pound it for awhile and still remain relatively safe and about my wits.
She finished her drink and went upstairs to paint and I turned on the stereo, made a quick On the Go mix on the iPOD that suited my mildly intoxicated brain, and set off to write.
As usual, I just ended up sending off a few e-mails that probably had no business being sent off. Then my other roommate, R– came home with some friends and they were off to the bar across the street, "Hey, you wanna come along?"–"No. Sounds fun and thanks for the invite but I have to get to bed early tonight. You kids have a good time though" is said through an uncoordinated tongue.
So they took off and I sent off some more e-mails, checked the news, all the things I usually end up doing when I am supposed to be writing.
Then my other roommate, D– came home and I have no idea how it happened but suddenly there was beer everywhere. We were facing off across the table, pounding beers, him berating me for being a douchebag, trying to motivate me to do something with my life, asking me to justify my currently-held belief that I am quite possibly doomed (I only half believe it. Honestly, I just like the way it rolls off of the tongue) . He got no answers from me but kept digging, and along with the 20 questions (more accurately 2700 questions) we talked music and other things... and it was probably the music subject, or something else, that prompted him to pay me the greatest compliment I have ever received... I just wish I could remember what exactly prompted it... but he said, out the corner of his mouth:
"You’re like two jerks pushed together."
All I could do was laugh, and hard, and write it down, because of all the things I assumed I would be forgetting on this wicked and polluted night, this was not one that I was willing to let go of. We kept on and I occasionally glanced at the clock on the microwave, crudely calculating the amount of beer I had consumed against the amount of time it was until I had to get up and go to work and how many more beers I calculated I could still down without being totally destroyed in the morning.
Unfortunately the only math I was capable of doing was the figuring out the difference between the time it was as I looked at the clock and the time I had to be at the bus stop, still in the dark of early morning. That whole part about factoring in sobriety and time to become sober and maintaining at work was lost to me, so I kept going. Sliding unopened beers across the table as D– was getting as drunk and sloppy as I was, cursing every time another beer manifested in front of him.
Then my roommate who went out earlier to drink came home, not too sturdy on the legs, and the next day I wondered if it looked funny that I said I was going to bed and then she shows up at 2AM and here I am drunk and flopping all over the table like a beached dolphin.
She disappeared into her bed to pass out and after the Tom Waits album ended I had to stop playing the music because her head only has about 4" of sheet rock between it and the speakers. Even drunken double-jerks like me have hearts.
So we kept on at each other, and honestly I have no idea what was said. I do recall noticing that it was 3 AM and me springing out of my chair like drunk people have a habit of doing, and saying something along the lines of, "Fuck... I have to sleep" and collapsing in my bed.
Two hours later my alarm went off and it was like a little slice of hell showed up in my room. I argued with myself over whether or not to call in sick, but I would feel like a chump for calling in a false sick day because I was drunk. If there was a pretty girl in my bed, that would be a whole different story, but the sad bed of mine was deserted and soaked in lousy beer sweat.
Had I been pulled over driving I suspect I would get a DUI, but I wasn’t driving so I sucked it up and took a shower in the dark. At some point, one of those 10 gallon jugs of shampoo that one can acquire at Costco or some such warehouse store fell on my foot. What can one do but swear? So I did. For a second I was sure I had broken the damned thing, the pain was unbelievable, but I could still move it. I squinted through the dark though and saw that I was bleeding nicely. It had hit that vein that runs right across the top of the foot and popped it.
A little more swearing, without much energy of course. Then I toweled off and got dressed and barely made my bus while listening to absolutely nothing on my big padded headphones. Some times I just like the muffling effect they have on the atmosphere and considering the weather they make a nice pair of ear muffs.
The whole day at work was pretty easy. It was a slow day, and I was moving even slower but I didn’t suffer a hangover, just a wee, lingering buzz that rose up occasionally as a dizzy spell that had me snickering at my incompetence.
I am my own worst enemy.
4 comments:
I have been there before my friend. My sympathies.
If your roomie thinks you're a double jerk, he's obviously naive and hasn't seen much of the world. Sorry, but in the jerk sweepstakes, you just don't rate very highly. Not when there are douchebags like Dick Cheney infesting our lives.
BTW, did you ever see Susan on her recent stateside visit? I wish I was on a south pacific island right now.
Yes, I did see Susan. It was a good time, and I got to pick on her for her political views. She gave me shit for joining the Rogue Nation club, where I save money on Rogue Beer. She was paranoid about giving out personal information. I wanted cheap beer. That was the least of it. It was a good time.
As far as the roomie goes, he was right. I can be a total cocksucker, but it is all in jest and sometimes I forget that sometimes some people don't know this. He is figuring it out.
And Cheney isn't a jerk, he is a baby humping lunatic.
does that mean that you just multiply when you get killed?
you are unstoppable, pinky!
you're also MY worst enemy. two squished into one, actually.
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