Sweet Alcoholism
As I write this on the computer in my parent’s basement, still drunk from last night’s wedding, I have to wonder, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? The events of the last twenty four hours are not quite clear. It’s a little hazy. It started with me strolling into work, hungover.
You see, I recently moved. To avoid further shenanigans that have occurred over the last five years, I moved into a rather large apartment that was specifically not, “a party house”. We all agreed. Turns out, our definition of “a non party house” simply means not inviting thirty people from the bar. Instead, we rather quietly all drink together. It’s been less than a week and we have ten milk crates of empties we’re saving to recycle and buy toilet paper. Two roommates killed six thirty racks of PBR in six days. At this rate, we’ll pay the rent instead.
In my hungover state, I strolled to work with a fucked up back and knowing that I had a wedding to go to that night. I promised myself I’d only have one or two and take it easy. I left work and was double fisting by nine. When the song “Amazed” came on, I quietly mumbled, “fuck”. It’s that song that everyone hears at every wedding. The one that half of us have an ex it reminds us of. However, for the first time in five years, drunk as hell, I quietly listen to the entire song instead of pretending to go to the bathroom and think not of my ex, but some new girl I met. Realizing that to a drunk like me, this is scarier than approaching a Puerto Rican with a knife outside a bar at two am, I proceed to load up and get way drunker.
The bride, who, despite my alcoholism, has an apparently high opinion of me, attempts to introduce me to a bridesmaid, the one that looks like a model. I get so drunk I can’t even fake my dance, “the white boy” right. All I can think of is said new girl. This is not a good combination. I’ve got some gorgeous girl I’ve seen pictures of in a bikini in front of me and I’m thinking of some girl an hour away. Not good.
I pretend I’m drunker than I am to walk away for a second. Realizing I blew it with the hottest bridesmaid, I return to my table with two older women who have sat with me the whole night and have fallen in love with me in a kid brother kinda way. They promptly ask me what happened and I inform them of said fuck up. They agree to help me rebound and hook me up with a girl. I believe at least one of them wanted to hit me when they asked what kind of girl I like and I respond with “train wreck”.
At this point in my life, hell, I’ve dated nice girls and lasted all of two weeks. Some people are dreamers who want a picket fence. I’m a hurricane who wants another hurricane for the perfect storm. All things considered, I feel I deserve it, seeing as I have to be one of the most selfless and kind alcoholics I know. Within an hour last night I chased down two separate girls who were mad at their boyfriends and convinced them to reconcile. Somewhere along the line I woke up on a hotel room floor with no one in the bed and two bud light limes in my pocket. Not sure why I didn’t sleep in the bed or had bud light limes in my pocket, I don’t even drink that Mexican goat piss.
I woke up to some Spanish maid knocking on the door. Some people would be moderately embarrassed still being in the suit from last night and not having a change of clothes, but for some reason, black and Spanish women love me. As the hazy details of last night start coming into my brain, I quickly realize my car is two parking lots away and I’m about to do the second worst walk of shame ever (the first being my infamous two hour stroll through southie).
I realize I have two options. One, I throw my coat on, duck down, and avoid all eye contact with a rapid hustle to my car. Two, just say fuck it, throw the coat over the shoulder, and strut out, Travolta style. Thinking that my plans for the day include a going away party topped off with meeting up with two lesbians who promised me moonshine, I realize,” hey, would two attractive lesbians give a douchebag moonshine?”
Hell no. I must have some swagger. So I do it.
Toss the coat over my shoulder, crack open the door, skip past Rosalita’s cleaning cart, and strut out of that hotel, Stayin’ Alive playing in my head the whole time. Rather than avoid eye contact, I make a point of looking and smiling at everyone I pass by, as if my hangover shit smelled like kittens and roses. Old women look away. Young women laugh. Families move to the other side of the hall.
Five minutes and two parking lots later, I’m in my car realizing I could fail a breathalyzer just by driving past a cop and head to get coffee and a bagel. Finish said coffee, and crack another. It’s 2pm and I’m on to the party. I’m hungover, probably still drunk, and have lesbians and moonshine to look forward to.
Looks like I don’t need Jesus after all, because God definitely loves me.
