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. Read more…
