It must be a Thursday (insert [sic]s wherever you want, as I had not the wherewithall for editing)

So we sit and spin and feel all things right, wrong, misguided and right on. The drinks come in quick succession and they go down like honey. That is to say, slowly, and mucousy, but it is OK as we feel no pain, demonstrated by the fact that for every drink absorbed, 87 cigarettes are activated by casual and non-smokers. What is it with alcohol that makes some people that rarely, in sober times, light up like chimneys? Have the scientists look at that.
But here I am in a new bar with old people that I still don’t know but are nice enough and try to yank me out of my shell. The jukebox is awesome, Master of puppets, early Suicidal Tendencies and Black Flag, I hear Slayer for a second, then some other stuff I don’t recognize so intensely that I don’t even hear it, then “Mother” by Danzig. I laugh as I haven’t heard this since sometime in the early 90’s. I still know the words and wish I could swap that information with all of the vital statistics of some small island nation like Tuvalu.
But that isn’t going to happen.
So we sit and chat about this and that, some of us are in casts, some of us are unhindered by Scotch-fueled skatepark mishaps on 37-year old bones. I know I am drunk because I notice some girl, some woman, through my less than stellar peripheral vision, looking at me. I make the occasional glance over and smile at the brief eye contact, receiving a small smile back, and this tells me that I am drunk.
Here it is: If I get to the point where I believe any female, especially one that is this high class, is looking at me, it is time to get home and go to bed because I am obviously hallucinating and ruinously twisted on cheap beer.
So we up and go. My driver tired on Stoli, Percaset, and a big cheeseburger that made my incredibly not-hungry stomach want to eat..
So we go, through a desperate rain fall, towards my house where I have notions of confronting the guy who is living in my basement to tell him that when my fingers are typing he needs to not talk to me. Maybe, if things get heated and drunk (he is always there, drunk that is, as far as I have seen since he has invaded the basement) I will tell him that I believe him to be a walking, talking douchebag… but my, that girl was cute and she was looking at me… SHUT IT!…
But he is on the garage with the other roommate and another person playing some D and D game that involves 20-sided dice and diet Coke. They are drunk, that is some consolation, but I can’t tell on what as there is nothing but diet soda cans scattered hither and yon.
So I get to the kitchen table, throw on Return to Cookie Mountain in a loud way, and type these words.
The night spins and I reel off vowels and consonants of no consequence until I up and fall into my sad a lonely bed, nothing more than a second-hand, strangely stained mat on the floor.