9 posts tagged “funny”
"Non-recyclables this time," I yell. I hoist the trash bag above my head as I descend. I carry one of those unrippable bags that Glad makes, with the stretchy lines that make you feel like they're futuristic or qualified to be used in space. But, like an unbreakable comb that you can break, this bag tears in the lifting.
My neighbor told me I should recycle last week after seeing me cart several bags of cans out my door and down my stairs to the alley. He laughs from across the gap between our deks. As usual, he is sitting at the slick wooden bar he installed years ago, smoking a cigarette and reading a book.
In loose flip-flops, I struggle up wooden steps which swell with recent rainfall. I get to the top of the deck and hear my neighbor's voice. I miss what he says and I can't see him. There is a bright light on the corner of his roof, making him a Stygian cut-out of night.
"I said, 'What happened to your woman?'"
"Oh," I pause. I miss her, but, "I broke up with her." I explain how I wanted to get back together with her, but not before sleeping with someone else. He totally understands when I say, "But there are more out there."
"So many more, man. So many."
I echo, "So many," though I am enlightened to think of all of the women beyond my reach. And how, being someone who has lived here much longer than I, my neighbor can tap into any crowd or part of town. Not just the college scene. Especially being someone who opens/operates restaurants.
"Yeah, man, I hate being tied down." This is odd, I see him with a wide-eyed, dark, sinister looking bad girl often. She is, for once, absent.
"Aren't you? Uh," I make a hitch-hiker's thumb and jerk-off in the direction of the indoors.
"Oh, yeah, she's out of town right now. Even with her. . ."
I give him the thumbs up and say, "But good job getting tied down with her."
"She's smokin'," is his understated response.
We talk about her more and he reveals she is 19 years younger than him. Odd, she looks pretty old. No, he assures me, when you get up close, you know, when she isn't wearing make-up, she looks seventeen. I tell him to be careful and he laughs. She's 26, for real. But she's crazy, and he likes being the crazy person in a relationship. But, he says, she wins. I tell him I get that reserved, calm-crazy vibe from her. Like, she smiles at me, but I know she's got a lot more going on that that smile in her head. She's devious.
I tell him about my summer love. He says it's perfect. He says long-distance relationships are stupid and amount to two people being in love because they're committed, not because they're actually in love. Love takes you places. Love doesn't keep you from that person. Love them while they're here, don't when they're not. Or something.
I never would have guessed he was forty-five.
I am inappropriate about it.
"At forty-five, have you ever considered marriage?"
"Oh, I've been married before. No fun."
And I get shut down.
We move on to a few other subjects and he ends up talking about writing. And getting published. This excites me for two reasons:
1) I want to get published.
2) If I get a hold of something he has published, I will learn his name without grief.
You see, my neighbor knows my name-- says it every time he greets me. Hey, Hunter. What's up, Hunter? Hunter!!!! Where have you beeeeen?! Let's go get drunk at a sex party!!!!! Even that last one, where he was really trashed, he knows my name. It has been a year since I met him, and I still don't know his name. He introduced himself, sure, but do I remember beyond what's immediately in front of me, or what is constantly recurring in my life? Of course not, I'm too much of a disaster right now.
Every day that passes is another day further away from being able to politely ask for his name. I'm like a fat person who won't go to the gym because of appearances. I think his name is Steve, but if you knew someone for a year and they randomly called you Steve. Might be a problem.
I wait. Every day that passes, I wait for someone to say his name. Or I avoid him with shame. But then, tonight, when I talk to him, he gives me my solution. A book. He wrote a book, he tells me, and the title is Under a Hot Chicago Sun, by My Neighbor. Steve.
I tell my neighbor I am going to check out his book and that he should expect a full criticism. He says, I'm all for it, and I go inside to look it up online. My dreams shatter, splinter. Dream shards eviscerate my heart through my eyes, from the monitor.
On the screen:
Abebooks: 0 Results
Alibiris: 0 Results
Amazon: 0 Results
Barnes&Noble: 0 Results
Google Product Search: 0 Results
This is all google could tell me about the book. "By Lew." What the fuck is that? I click the "Find this in a library" link, and it gives me William and Mary. Some forty minutes away. And I ride a bike. Yeah, great, now how am I supposed to cheat in the name game? Ask to borrow a copy? If he has a few laying around, does that make him pompous? Should I call him Lew? I can see him as a Lew. The hip 45 year old who reads, opens 11 restaurants, fucks women almost half his age, installs bars on decks, has a dog, might have kids. Lew, if that is your name, you're a bad ass.
The next short story I will write starts something like this.
There are five kids that hang out with my son. My wife makes them cookies, drives them to the movies, and all the while they ogle at her. That's right, my wife is the MILF that your twelve year old sons would like to fuck. And then there's me, the husband-- protective of my wife from your little perverts. This is a fight to the death, and only I will leave victorious.
Her love and attention will always be mine and never their's for a reason-- I am bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, and better looking.
I go to the gym.
I do taxes.
They just play on playgrounds.
They chase girls, like little men. Little kids dressed up in adult clothes. Big shoes to fill, and they're trying so hard. So hard to get the girl. To get my wife. But I'll always be better than them. Always.
*a farce-- point out how ridiculous the narrator's jealous is, how ridiculous his "superiority is"
*kids are the replacement units for the parents that produce them
*each of the [five] represents some aspect of being male, and what is expected of that classification in society... and how what expected is what is fucked up about them... people should just be them, parents should raise kids, not society, not these preconceptions
*childhood - chasing girls with plastic knives
*how society shapes males into these fiendish little perverts
I may be a dick for this, but this is up there with Engrish.com.
Follow this link to see what I'm talking about.
I believe this is a poem. It reminds me a little bit of Group X lyrics.
You might think this disclaimer detracts from the hilarity. You'd be wrong.
My favorite quotes:
"PLEASE~PLEASE~ let me know how the feeling~"
"love to accosting with pretty woman."
"i wish i can have more self-confident!!!"
" i love to buy earrings and i need to put somewhere to be clear about."
"take a box you can dress up the box"
So, I read this article a long time ago and was telling the story to my friend Sean. Of course, I got the facts wrong, saying, "5 times the lethal limit," and that the pedestrian was from Indonesia. But, here's the real thing, it's nuts:
" A Bulgarian man presented at the local
emergency room with a blood alcohol level so high the doctors checked
the level 5 times. The man had a reading
of 0.914, or more that 10 times what would be considered drunk in most
states. Lethal blood alcohol levels usually occur at the 0.55 level. In
most
areas 0.08 is considered legally impaired. The man was conscious and
able to communicate."
Because I want to write about something, and I was just reminded of the first time I ever got high:
It is freshman orientation, and I am working the Fencing table with a friend of mine and my girlfriend at the time("Jane" again), who was a junior. We have fun cracking jokes on freshman, because, hey, we're no longer one of them, and that's what we do. Freshman suck.
Jane gets a call on her phone. It is Paul Ruecroft, a senior at James River High. He and my good friend Luke are hanging out and want us to join them. I didn't know Paul well, other than the fact that his father taught my sixth grade science class, but Luke and I had become pretty good friends by this point, dominating any class that we shared. So we go over to Paul's house, enter, and head straight to the back of the one-story building. It is kind of run down and packed with random shit.
Let me explain the setup to you. Paul's parents were both huge hippies back in the day. His mother is sitting on the bed, his younger brother is sitting across from me. Another family member, female, is there. The rest of us are positioned around a gravity bong(GB, for all of you who don't have better things to do with your time than say everything out, fully). Now, you may be thinking, "where is the father?" Good question. While we're in this nearly vacant, white room smoking bud, the father of the household is paralyzed from the hips down in the room next to us, asleep. Mr. Ruecroft had been in a biking accident a year prior, and was basically fucked.
9:00PM: Mrs. Ruecroft tells us we have to be relatively quiet. There is someone in the next room who works for the county. Yeah, my sixth grade science teacher. We could get "in deep shit." I get the impression that people who smoke too much are really paranoid. Paul takes the first hit off of the GB. The resevoir is dirty. As my first time smoking, so far I am unimpressed.
9:05: I am taking mental notes on how to hit a GB. Of course, being a noob, I botch the first two. I drop the bottle, half full, into the water and it looks like a jet engine streaking across the sky, smoke pluming up and into my face.
9:15: A lot of sexual inneundos about "sucking correctly" are made. By now, on a fourth GB, I have it down. I turn to Luke and inform him that I, and I qoute, "Don't feel anything yet." His only response is, "You should take more."
9:25: Luke is telling me not to talk to Satan if I see him. Being stupid and naive, fear washes over my heart. I am not an atheist at this point in my life, and my belief structure allows the fear to be acceptable to my reality. "Don't talk to Satan if you see him, he might convince you to give him your soul." I believe him, but quickly forget and begin poking things.
9:30: I take my seventh and final GB. Somewhere between 4 and 6, I have been poking my girlfriend relentlessly. She is visibly uncomfortable. So, instead of being logical, I be high. I continue poking and groping on her body.
10:10: I am in the back seat of a car, on the right side, Luke to my left. In front of me is my girlfriend, and, driving, is Paul. We are on one of the most treacherous roads known to man--Old Bon Air. Let me explain. This road is home to over thirty car-related deaths, ranging from people flipping their cars at the bottom, in a creek and drowning, to vehicular manslaughter. It winds, with many trees and branches hanging over the gnolls that encase the road. Mostly drunk people die on this road. Luckily, we were just high as shit.
I decide that unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door will be a good idea. Apparently, I didn't realize we were in a moving car. I begin stepping out of the car as Luke bounds across the backseat, slamming me back with a swift elbow to the chest. He basically saves my life.
10:19: We have arrived at Wendy's. I didn't realize, until now, that we were on a food run. I had been viewing our exodus from Paul's house as I would view a movie while high. If you've watched movies high, you know exactly what I am talking about. Every scene is interesting and totally unrelated to the subsequent scenes. Like a group of interrelated short stories that have nothing to do with eachother. What I am saying is there was a lack of cohesion to my thought, and I'm not going to lie, it was awesome.
10:03: We are still in front of the bright menu. There are like 3 cars in line behind us. Paul slowly turns around to look at Luke and I, probably to ask us what we want. I just see two bloodshot eyes and a huge grin. I begin laughing uncontrollably. Everyone laughs, but Paul pulls us back together to focus on food. The employees in Wendy's are alerted to our high, I am sure.
11:30: We are in Luke and Paul's friend's house. His name is Cory, and his entire family is getting high. This is awesome. I feel like I am on the Underground Railroad for Smokers. The Wendy's is long since destroyed, my girlfriend has left, and Paul has lectured me on making her uncomfortable. I say, "whatever," and proceed to join a group of people sitting in a circle passing a pipe.
12:40AM: We finish passing the pipe around. I am riding another high. Cory, Luke, and I go for a walk around the neighborhood.
12:50: I decide that ding-dong-ditch will actually be fun, for once, since I am fucked up. Luke and I go up to a random house. Cory stays behind on the street because he is a very paranoid person.
12:50:05: I ring the doorbell as fast as I can. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.
12:50:15: We have forgotten that the "ditch" is key to playing.
12:50:20: The door begins to open, we freak out and start bolting.
12:55: Cory is nowhere to be found, and we can't find his house. Nothing in the neighborhood looks familiar.
1:00: We see a man in a robe and boxers marching down the street toward us. We walk by and say hello, immediately cracking afterwards. Definitely the guy who came to the door. He is now stampeding around the neighborhood seeking retribution. We are apparently bigger than he thought we would be, because he doesn't even question us.
1:10: "Psssssst." "Pssssssst." What the fuck is that sound, I ask Luke. We are in front of Cory's house, but aren't sure which one is his. All the lights are off.
Luke: "Were the lights on when we left?"
Hunter: "Uh, yeah, I think so."
"Pssssst," a sound eminates from the bushes.
Hunter: "No, seriously, what the fuck is that?"
Luke: "Cory? Cory, is that you?"
Cory pops out of the bushes and stumbles towards us, scared shitless.
Cory: "Dudes, I thought the cops were coming."
Apparently he had run back to his house, told everyone to hide, locked everything up, and turned off all the lights. He closed up shop.
Inside, I pass out under a table in the living room and have the best sleep I have ever had. Luke and I walked back to his house the next day, and I was a changed man.
My head is still spinning from the weekend. I went to Farifax to party at my girlfriend's. There is a terrifying amount of money in Northern Virginia. I was kind of sketched out at first, you know, a little uncomfortable at the prospect of being the peon of the group, what with my Richmond background and all. But no, the culture is the same almost everywhere you go. There is Subway. Sheetz. Taco Bell. Blockbuster. Everything you'd expect in any suburban area. The Suburbias of Richmond share all the same aspects, just at a different(see: lower) living standard.
It was my first time getting hit on by a 0-star girl(out of 5). According to Tucker Max, a 0-star is that fat girl who, in addition to being obscenely unnattractive, also has a terrible personality. She is loud, overly foreward, awkward, and all around obnoxious. He calls them "Wildebeasts" and says that "basic human rights do not apply to them." And she hit on me.
I am upstairs toking. Despite all the money in Nova, we smoke out of a ghettoblaster. I laugh at this in my head at the time and out loud after I've been smoked out. I am a bastard.
I head downstairs tipsy and high and I go to grab a beer. As I walk into the kitchen I hear, "I really wanna make out with someone." I glance over and see her--Allison, with her chubby cheeks, thick-rimmed emo glasses, and she looks at me.
I grab a beer. What the fuck is she thinking? No one will make out with her. She is She is at a party filled mostly with 18-19 year olds. Most of them girls. Is she lesbian?
She contorts her hefty body on the couch to see me grabbing a beer. She goes, "...But you're already taken." Damn straight, bitch. And even if I weren't... are you... are you serious?
I am not drunk enough to respond to this situation frankly. I grab a second beer. I want to be honest, so I load my proverbial gun of truth. In other words, I start drinking seriously.
It was a fun weekend, I just thought I'd document that one instance. Plenty of shit happened, including something absolutely horrifying. It's a subtle glow, warm and pulsing through your body like an ocean of vicodin.
This is mainly the story of my birthday party, the recognition of a problem, and the end to my alcoholism. I cannot believe I just wrote that.
The Girlfriend(this part is mostly background)
The first time I met her we were outside the dorm during a firedrill. It was a beautiful day outside. The sky was blue with ethereal plumes of white. It was beautiful. Just not as much as what I was in store for. She was the most attractive thing I had ever seen, her big Italian eyes and cute little Jew nose. Our eyes locked briefly, but I disengaged, because, hell, I was "dating"(fucking) another girl at the time. Though I was considering "breaking up" with her because she was a total psychotic bitch, I wasn't about to do her the injustice of cheating on her. I still find that to be the worst thing you can do to someone's trust. I would later learn that the girl I was dating was a cheating whore and an all around liar. I didn't care at the time of learning this as I was completely happy just being AWAY from her. Seriously, she gave me her family history while we were lying in bed one night and this is what I got out of it--MOTHER: Manic Depressive, OCD. GRANDMOTHER: BLEW HER HUSBAND'S HEAD OFF WITH A FUCKING TWELVE GUAGE. JESUS CHRIST.
So, there I am, separated from this gorgeous girl by nothing more than my unwillingness to even consider but one person at a time when John walks up and starts talking to her. John and I have hung out recently. Fuck it, I am in. I go over and act like my normal boisterous and happy self. She is sarcastic and very funny. We are visibly into eachother already. This is basically the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back. I invite both of them to a party I am attending, mostly so I can hang out with this girl some more. Luckily, they both decline. The reason this is lucky, and the thing I haven't told you is, it was at "Crazy's" apartment-- then my girlfriend. Yes, them showing up would have ended terribly. Instead, I go to the party alone, get excessively drunk, am unhappy, and burn myself with a cigarette. More times than I want to count. That's the story behind Bloody Knuckles. Me burning myself. Crazy makes fun of me the next day and I quickly dump her ass.
The first time I actually hung out with Sara, I was already trashed(see: The Things I Remember, same night) when she showed up. She comes in and I'm throttling a handle of vodka, swaying back and forth, singing Richard Cheese songs. If you don't know who Richard Cheese is, he is a cover artist who redoes popular songs in a lounge style. He was instantly my hero after I heard his rendition of "Down With The Sickness" in the Dawn of the Dead remake. I don't actually remember much about this night, as I have already downed about a third of the handle already, continuing to drink well into the night. All I remember is having a really intense conversation. Sara makes fun of me hardcore for singing and liking Richard Cheese. I make fun of her for liking Dream Theatre, because Alexi Laiho(lead for Children of Bodom) said they were gay, and if Alexi says it, it is true. She tells me my music collection blows. I attempt to argue that it doesn't, but ultimately lose. She has a huge proclivity for music that I cannot ever hope to match.
In the weeks that follow, I am awkward. I have never been more awkward around a person in my life. This is because I have never been so unsure of where I stand with a person than when I first started seeing her. Luckily, she is awkward too, and it works out. We start dating but continue the awkwardness for a short while. Eventually we loosen up. At some point she tells me how weird it is to be the witness to self-mutilation, or, rather, the results of it(my scars). She seems worried, and I jokingly say, "What, you care about me?" She says she does, and I am totally knocked off my proverbial feet. A sledgehammer shattering my mental shins, sweeping me to the floor. For much of my time with her I have been emotionally reticent. I have seen the damage caused by opening up too soon, too fast. I know my behavior, I know that I burn up to avoid rusting out. This is who I am usually. But I want to change.
I tell Sara that I'm done hurting myself, because I am happy now. But just being with someone doesn't make you happy. I now realize that happiness comes only from within. It is, to some extent, a choice of contexts. Only you can put yourself in a position that will either improve or detriment you. At the time I tell Sara I am done hurting myself, I have not learned this lesson-- the "how to" on happiness. At the time I tell Sara I am done hurting myself, I am not.
The Birthday Party
Skip a few weeks later to my birthday party.
Horatio and I get his brother to hook us up with some beer. And by some beer, I mean four fucking cases. We load Horatio's car with the beer. Inside the car, he tosses me a water bottle full of clear liquid, saying, "Happy Birthday, enjoy." It is vodka. Horatio is my best friend. I take a swig and wince. It has been awhile. I figure I'll need some mixer and food in my stomach before we head to the party. We drive to Sheetz.
En route, Horatio goes, "There are beers under your seat from the other night. Beer me." I hand him his first Natty swill. He nearly downs it before we reach Sheetz. He does down it immediately following Sheetz. I have a huge burger in my face, and am not worried about regulating his driving.
His second beer is done and he begins to "feel it." I am worried about regulating his driving. I begin the "double-check" method. He is drinking his third beer with one hand and driving half-heartedly with the other. I get the idea that I might die tonight. I got this idea much earlier in the week when I was told how much alcohol would be at my party. I figured alcohol poisoning would do me in, but now I am worried about becoming a roadside cadaver. I quickly forget this as I drink more of my Gatorade/Vodka mix.
We
drive around for awhile trying to find a parking spot. Richmond
parking sucks. Horatio announces, several times, that he has to
urinate. I begin torturing him, saying "Drip, drip, drip. Pssssss."
I decide that this is a bad idea since he is driving. Finally we find
a spot to rest the car. We are in front of a very nice town home with
a large street lamp blaring above us. We are not far from a stoplight,
where an audience of drivers no doubt watch us. Horatio says he is
going to pee on his car:
Hunter: "Dude, for real? Right here? You can't wait?"
Horatio: "Fuck it, I don't care, man, I have to piss."
Hunter:
"There's a huge lamp above you. We are completely visible. And have
beer. And are underage. We don't want to draw attention to
ourselves."
These were all quality reasons not to publicly
urinate, but in the most serious voice I've ever heard him deliver
anything, he says, with a slight pause:
Horatio: "... Back up, lest you get pissed on."
I
don't know why, but I grab three of the cases. I start walking across
the street. Horatio says, "Wait up," finishes pissing, and downs the
last of his third or fourth beer. A couple of minutes into our
five(or so) minute walk(Richmond parking sucks, remember?) to the
apartment, having two cases in one arm is a ridiculous waste. I insist
Horatio take one. He does, and now we both have two. He says he feels
badass just walking around with beer. I tell him this is how it feels
to "bring the party." He gets pumped and I immediately remember why I
only left one case for him to carry. Holding the handle, he juts his
fist outward, pretending the beer case is a boxing glove or something.
The handle remains in his hand while the rest of the case sails through
the air and smashes into the sidewalk. We just stand there for a
moment. We start gathering the scattered beer cans. Some of them are
rolling away from us, trying to escape:
Hunter: "Why was that a good idea."
Horatio: "I don't know, I'm already drunk, I think." (The "Drunk Defense")
Hunter: "Good enough."
Horatio: "No one can know about this."
Hunter: "Alright. We'll just let them explode on some people."
We
head upstairs and are immediately rushed by everyone inside. I am
bombarded with "Happy Birthday" and such and what not. This makes me
happy. In my vodka glow, I am already the center of the universe.
Awesome. After awhile though, I find myself having an iteration of the
following conversation... throughout the ENTIRE NIGHT:
Rebecca: "Hunter, your arm looks like fucking hell."
Adrian: "Yeah, you should put bandaids on them, they'll heal"
Liz: "What the hell did you do?"
Me: "Lots of bad stuff."
Rebecca: "Is this new or is this shit I've seen?"
Me: "All old stuff"
Adrian(pointing to my cuts): "What did you do? Is that when you woke up bloody?"
Liz: "Yeah, what is that?"
I try to convince them that it was a cougar attack. I then explain that the burns are from lye, like in Fight Club,
and that it was a gang initiation. Then I concede that I was playing
chicken with cigarettes. With myself. They say I am crazy, and
probably just like Tyler Durdin.
Some people enter and they wish me happy birthday. I announce that I have no idea who one of them is.
I
go to the bathroom and Calypso(of Pissing in Pools I & II and Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer)
tells me not to use the one I'm headed
to. I assure her I know what I am doing, and that I know the door
jams. I will leave it open. I stay in there for like two minutes
taking the most titanic piss of my life. While I'm breaking the seal,
I thank the toilet for drinking my piss. Am I already this drunk?
Seven gargantuan cups of jungle juice in the first hour or so? Yes, yes
I am this drunk.
I
come back and Horatio's brother has arrived. I am enamored at the fact
that such a cool motherfucker would grace me with his presence. He
holds out his hand:
Hunter: "Hold on, there were no fuckin'
towels in there, give me a second." I actually count out a full second
Mississippi style and shake his hand. I notice one of the guys
accompanying him:
Hunter: "Annnnd?"
Justin: "Justin. You don't remember me?"
Hunter: "No. What's your last name?"
He implies that we once "chilled" together, sounding hurt. Telling me what was involved with our "chilling" really helped. Apparently we smoked together once. I have no recollection of this, and therefore invoke the "High Defense." He takes off his hat and gives me the "Ehhh, ehhh, anything?" look. It doesn't help, but I do notice he has red hair, and therefore will fail to hit on any girl at the party. It is a well documented fact that red headed guys generally do poorly with women. True story. He hits on Liz but ultimately comes up short. She is one of the few girls Richmond produced that isn't a whore at all. I can't help but respect her for that.
I totally didn't catch this at the
time, but in the background Horatio is lamenting about his
ex-girlfriend. He tells the story of how they were together. Then how
the romance was stifled by a grounding of a month-long duration. He
got grounded as a result of the Friend's Mom Finds Out About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly
incident. He blames his failed relationship on the grounding, and for
mostly good reason. His girlfriend and him couldn't see eachother, and
he became what he refers to as a "Low Status Male," dumping his
emotional issues on her. Because of this, he helped her transition to
who she truly was. Upon breaking up with him, she informs him that she
is a lesbian. As he tells this, the three or so girls he is
talking to go into shrills and half-muttered explitives. I hear several "OMIGOD's" in the pity
tone. Yeah, everyone feels bad for the "transition guy." Seriously,
if you are dating someone when they switch sides, that is indicative of
you making them change their mind about their sexuality. Of
course, I know the truth. The girl is a lying seductress of a woman,
and Horatio is one of the coolest people I've ever met.
The Recognition of a Problem and the Resolution to End Alcoholism
Yetti: "No piggy-back rides tonight."
Apparently, a few nights
ago, we were all drinking beer and I drank way too fast, getting myself
well into Hyper-Hunter Drunk. I jumped on Yetti's back and we both
went careening into the asphalt. He is like 6'5" and over 200 pounds.
I am like 6' and 180 pounds. He is crushed under the inertia of our
combined weight, and I, on his shoulders, fall like 10 feet to the
ground. We squirm around in pain for like thirty seconds before
realizing we are intoxicated, and pain can't fetter us.
I tell
the story of how Horatio destroyed one of the cases of beer. Someone
overhears this from another room and asks which one is fucked up.
Hunter: "You see that one with the gaping hole in it? Yeah, don't take beer from that one, it will explode all over you."
Liz: "Who did that?"
Horatio: "Me, I can't feel my face already."
Hunter:
"Slow down there, you have all night." I find this advice particularly
funny because I am already working on being utterly shit-faced.
Calypso saunters over.
Calypso: "Don't you like the Jungle Juice?"
Hunter: "It's very good."
Adrian: "It's very lime-y. Did you put citrus in there?"
Calypso: "Yeah."
Hunter: "It's like, I wanna play some, like, tribal drums. No, not really. No, I have no rythm."
Rebecca comes along and says she can't feel her face, so I poke her cheek.
Hunter: "I can still feel your face, you're fine. You're still with us."
Rebecca
and Liz start talking to me about something, but my phone buzzes and I
totally just walk away from them to answer. I am sorry, girls, I guess
I am an asshole. That or I'm like anyone else when they're drunk, and
I just go with whatever. I have achieved Autopilot Drunk.
I re-enter the room and Calypso is taking pictures. I rush to shove my face into every picture taken. Seriously, if you guys read this and have those pictures, please send them to me, or post them online.
I approach Liz:
Hunter: "I heard you called me an asshole because of my stories online."
She grins and turns her head slightly.
Hunter: "AH! You can't deny it! See, that's the 'I can't deny it' face. OH!"
Liz: "Can't deny it. No, not going to either."
A
small crowd erupts into "OOOH." I say, "That hurts," jokingly, because
there is no emotional pain you can inflict upon Raving Drunk Hunter
that he won't embody in physical pain later.
She giggles. Apparently hurting me is funny.
Horatio: "Dude, there's nothing wrong with being an asshole!"
I
almost contend that I am not an asshole, and someone backs me by
saying, "He can't be an asshole, he has a beard." I'm not sure how
this logic works, but I did in fact have a beard.
I fully contend that I am a mix of "nice guy" and "asshole."
Liz: "So you're half and half? You are fifty percent asshole, that's still pretty bad!"
Adrian: "He's part sex machine, as well."
Hunter:
"This is true. Thank you for reminding me. But seriously, do you
really think I am an asshole? Like, back in the day? Other than when
I was on aderol. Because, I would come in happy one day and an evil
bastard the next."
Liz: "That's true. That applied, I don't
necessarily think you.... I don't know, but you're looking at asshole
as a bad thing."
This shocks me.
Yetti: "Girls like assholes."
It's
true, to some extent. Though, I still believe that some of the
qualities of an asshole can be taken away, applied to a nice person,
and you get the same results. Confidence mainly, but, unlike an
asshole, not overflowing with hubris.
Across the room, Horatio announces to no one in particular, "Shit, it's not even eleven o'clock and I am already shit-faced."
I
rally the forces to go out to eat somewhere, and we head out.
Unfortunately, with everyone's short attention spans, we only make it
as far as Seven Eleven. God damn convenience. I stand, staring at the Chip and Dip section for about five minutes before grabbing a bag. I tell Horatio what I'm getting-- chips and salsa. He says he'll buy the salsa, but, seeing the price, and being the Jew he is, decides he wants to buy the chips. I tell him I'll buy both, but he hands me the salsa. "Okay," I say. I don't even use real money, I just hand them my university debit card. The next day, Horatio complains that the bag of chips was like four dollars. I tell him the salsa was like three.
We get back and
drink more. Everyone engages in eating my tostitos and dip. I am like, "Didn't you fuckers buy anything for yourself?" I guess there's a Jew in me too. I start eating faster than anyone else, so as to get my money's worth. I am shoveling salsa into my mouth, getting the impression that I might shit blood later as a result. Alcohol and hot salsa do not mix well. Deciding that I have an iron stomach, I push the idea of bloody diahrreah to the back of my head and grab another drink. I am drinking unhappily, and decide to separate myself from
the crowd. I head outside with three cigarettes and a lighter. I sit
outside and smoke them, putting the last one out on my skin. For
awhile, I narrate my surroundings to no one but myself. Realizing
this, I immediately head back upstairs. To drink more. To drown out
the recognition of a problem.
I wake up the next morning with three hours of sleep under my belt.
I am either still drunk or very hung over. Horatio and I head out and
he takes me to my dorm. On the way, I rediscover my left-over gatorade-vodka
concoction. I don't want to waste it, so I drink it. I get back to my
dorm and never manage to go back to sleep. The day passes slowly. I
take some sleeping pills at night and pass out.
The next day, I see Sara. She grabs a CD and hands it to me, delivering a happy birthday. It's Richard Cheese's Lounge Against the Machine.
I am enamored. We chill for awhile and she notices my newly
incinerated flesh. She wasn't supposed to see that. I feel bad
because I told her I was going to stop. It wasn't like one of those childish promises someone makes you swear an oath to, but I still broke
my word. And, if I can't trust myself, how can I ever hope to trust
anyone else? This was my major realization. I have to generate
everything from within, for myself, before I can be happy with someone
else. Or make someone happy.
On that note, I have decided to stop drinking in excess, at least
until I can understand where the line is. It's okay to cross it, as
long as you acknowledge that it has been crossed. First, I have to
find it, to draw it.
So, the other night I was smoking with some people from my dorm, and I come back high as shit right? I'm standing with some people and one of them starts a conversation with me. I'm listening intently, but then another person starts a conversation with me. I do the back and forth head swivel, trying to keep up with both of them, but then it gets worse. A third person jumps in. No one is listening to her, but she keeps talking. Everyone is focused only on what they're saying. The forth person inevitably joins this conversation debacle, and I am faced with a firing squad of words. Too high to handle the verbal melee, I walk away. No one notices.
Standing by myself only five feet away, I turn around and watch them. Am I really witnessing four people all having different conversations? I watch for a few more moments, and yes, yes I am. Four people standing in a line facing a single direction, all spouting words that seem to mesh due to their overlapping nature. Possibly one of the funniest things I've ever witnessed. People are really selfish when they're fucked up.
So, about a year ago, my friend, Matthias, found the following sheet of lyrics crumpled up in a corner of the auxilary gym in our high school. Seriously, just read them. If you can't see, click the image for a larger version. This shit is incredible.
