Look out, you rock n' rollers

Back to school, back to all that entails, the apathy and boredom, the longing, all the commiseration, the mistakes and the drinking, drinking, drinking. Ryan Spain blew back into town in the rain, and we set off once again on that self-destructive road to oblivion. This weekend obviously we were too intoxicated for me to do much writing but now I am going to change that.

Drinking story, to be mixed with an account of the weekend.

So Friday Ryan and I set out to complete the Trifecta, that is, a flask of liquor, a bottle of wine, and a sixpack of beer each. Well we didn't quite make it, as after the wine (which we drank far too quickly) we both started throwing up, and though I don't remember much of this (Matt had to recount most of it for me) I do remember that I threw up for practically forever, and was in no shape to continue, though Ryan wanted to. I ended up having to wash my sheets, and I managed to forget about them and ask matt five times where they were, five minutes or so passing between each inquiry. I then managed to make my bed, though I don't remember doing it, but I definitely put the sheets on upside down. We may try again next week, and be more careful in our pacing. Friday was a lot of fun otherwise, as I hadn't been that drunk in a long time.

Yet the highlight (lowlight?) of the weekend was last night, at Mallet's long-awaited Pirate Party, where Brian did his best to get me stupid drunk and for the most part succeeded, and I had to fight down the bile towards the end of the evening but mainly kept it together. I had to try not to throw up, either. Seeing some people just makes it hard, wondering where things went wrong, realizing that it was me, always has been, always was me who fucked it up. I was reminded of when I was leaving, going back home, and she kissed me hard and I promised to be hers until the bruises faded.

And even though it was just a couple little marks, there was still a genuine sense of loss when they were gone.

Neglect

So I've been neglecting this blog, but this is for several reasons. School's back in session, and lately I've also found it harder and harder to get drunk. Sometimes the company we keep makes things difficult. I spent yesterday drowning myself in rum, and while I had an amusing moment this morning where I couldn't remember what I did for a few minutes, it all came back to me. Almost a fifth of rum will do that to a man. I broke my flask too, busted the weld on it.

There's really not that much to say right now. Maybe I'll be drunk and wordy later.

Sorry. I wonder how much of life we spend being apologetic.

These nachos were simultaneously a great and terrible idea.

A few weeks spent living, spending, living and spending far beyond my means but being something close to happy, a few days doing nothing I regret in Nashville, eating antelope in a whiskey blackberry sauce, sucking down cuba libres like there was no tomorrow, listening to music, spending time with friends I don't see enough, sitting on a riverboat, letting Tennessee wash my worries away.

Then back home again, long enough to touch base, before I was off again to the nation's capital, to Washington DC and an old friend I just met. Four days of letting myself ride the bitterness, of nostalgia and adventure, of finally getting down to living, being who I want to be, having all that pressure to be interesting but realizing that the best plan was just being myself, letting the self confidence my lovers gave me show through, being nice and dangerous, unapologetic.

A selection from my journal, the day I landed: "The life of the summer dead had begun to weigh heavy on me, and all this uncertainty has left me wanting more. I'm excited, exhilarated, accelerated, need need need to do something go somewhere be someone, I need to kiss every girl I love, need to be needed, want every love to be returned equally, exactly."

All this time spent regretting everything and nothing, all those things undone, words unsaid, all those things I can never say or do now, because it's too late, always has been.

I've resolved to be more, I've decided I am tired of being cut down, and the only thing standing between what I want and me is myself.

I really am relieved that she was like an old friend I just met, reminding me so much of her best friend, who when I saw her again that day all those years ago, it was like she never left, like all the years never happened.

Scribbled this on the plane:
Finally heading home
With some brand new tales
Got the sun at my back
The wind in my sails
I'd grown too old in my wandering days
Maybe it's not too late to change my ways

DC was an adventure, days of adventure, a nonstop whirlwind of expectations and danger and mystery, of realizing once again that I'd made a mistake, that I'd fallen a little bit in love with another forbidden fruit, recognizing that it wasn't because of who she knew but who she is, and how twisted the former would have been. I always leave a little bit of myself behind, wondering if you worry about me.

Kelly you were right, and you weren't the first to see it, everybody I've been close to has seen the sadness, the result of getting my heart shattered as you put it, telling me I needed to find a girl who won't leave or be left. It's because it's always been the same, I've always been irresistibly attracted to the same kind of person, because I am always leaving or being left. You're a wise girl, and I hope it is not another eight years before I see you again. Come to think of it, there are so many wise girls I have not seen in years, and I wish that weren't so. With few exceptions, I am closest to those who are furthest away.

As much as I try to hide it, the sadness, the bitterness, it's always the same, I get quiet, I look off into space, and you know something's wrong, I'm somewhere else now. Before then, after, those long spaces of quietness, I look at you and I smile and I really and truly enjoy you. She thought I was so deadpan but the truth is there is so much love, and I always try to hold on, never let go.

I long to lose myself again in the lips and embraces of my lovers. Always trying to light that fire. And here I am, swearing I won't go, wishing I could stay, anything to keep from moving on, from falling to the wayside, trying to remain first in your heart.

I'm realizing how far we've come since we were thirteen, how much has changed, how much we've grown up, how much we have changed, how much this place was meant for living and then for moving out, how much we needed our wising up, our growing up, our growing apart.

So here I am, leaving, being left, another day to cut me down, thinking maybe my heart is giving up on all this abuse. I miss you all. I always have. I always will. And I've never really blamed you. I'm always dreaming that you could be mine, and I could be yours, and really mean it.

I've seen the cruel and hard, and I've seen them hard on you

Another few days spent out of stasis, living in the half-life of the Tuscaloosa summer dead, another few days spent drinking and sleeping on the floor and trying not to let the night get to me. I'm not drunk right now but I am hungover so let's let this still count, ok? I've been hungover for days, waking up in the middle of the night covered in sweat, the last vestiges of a truly intense nightmare fleeing my memory, and all I can think of is I wish you were here, because maybe I'd sleep better with somebody to hold.

Another couple of nights spent making promises I can't keep, can't remember to remember to keep, even simple things out of reach. Trying to drink and occupy my time and try not to worry too much, erasing my memory with Irish Car Bombs and waking up on the floor again, another morning after with the sun streaming in the windows and wondering how I made it home alive again.

I'm ready, finally ready, I think, take a deep breath and jump in with both feet, to be you and me. Lately I've been thinking a lot about these things and how cute those kids are together and how love gets into our lives and messes us up, how we were regular people once, with regular people dreams and then those changed to be a big house, sixteen cats, enough room for everything we ever wanted. I've been thinking of being that right blend of nice and dangerous, and I started again because you can't be too perfect, you need something to disapprove of, because people need fixing. These past few days I've spent sitting in a half-empty apartment, trying not to succumb to the fear, staring into space and knowing I'm wasting all my time but unable to stop.

And so all I can do is talk about it, I guess.

Time for a drunk story. Yesterday, I was very hungover when michael decided it might be a good idea to pour everclear on an open candle. Well you know that scene in Joe Dirt when the oil-covered guy pees on a fire? The flame shoots up his pee stream and immolates him. Well, it was basically like that. The fire shot up the alcohol stream into the bottle, where it turned the fumes inside into a fireball, shooting burning everclear out of the bottle all over the floor and walls. We watched the burning puddles for a good couple of seconds before michael realized that he was on fire and began to furiously pat it all out. I got up and walked into the kitchen, got a glass of water, sighed, and poured it on the fire like this was an everyday occurrence.

Maybe it should be, it was definitely one of the more interesting things I've seen all year. At least these sorts of problems have actual solutions.

If I'm not the only one, I at least want to feel like I am. I'd try my best to do the same.

DIIIIIIIIIIIICKS

So last night was my birthday. Actually 2 nights ago was my birthday, when we went to celebrate it at midnight. The great thing about that is, you get drunk, you go to sleep, you wake up, and it's still your birthday. I can't really remember too much about my birthday except that I woke up and tasted jager and cigarettes. I didn't even have jager.

I didn't have a sense of balance today. That was pretty great, especially the part where I beefed it in the hallway outside my room and lay on the floor for a while. It's been an interesting couple of days. Apparently last night I ninja kicked open the door to the Downtown Pub and yelled DIIIIIICKS just in time for like 9 people to see me. I don't really remember any of this. I do remember talking to Dr. Eby about life, the future, and how much I appreciate his son. I remember paying too much for crappy Dr. Peppers. I kind of remember the 40 oz margarita. I remember the fine people who were present.

All in all, even though I didn't die, I think it was a good birthday. Even if I think it was the very moment I became old, where I wondered if 2 in the afternoon was too early to start drinking.

No Country For Bad Movies

So let's talk about something else for a change. Today was interesting, spent it with Ashley and Drew getting melted at the zoo, then drinking a bit and smoking hookah with them and the wujciks, where we tried to figure out some new names for matt and I's apartment. I'm feeling good about The Abattoir, he likes The League of Bad Decisions.

Anyway, I wanted to talk about No Country For Old Men. Maybe this is dated, but I think by now most people have seen the movie. Anyway, so it won Best Picture a couple years ago, but why? The movie is utter shit. If you've seen it, and enjoyed it, watch it again. This time, try to justify logically everything in the movie. If you still don't see a problem, ask yourself this simple question: Why didn't Llewelyn leave the state?

Maybe he did leave the state. Maybe I wasn't paying enough attention. That's okay. Why didn't he leave the country? This is the single biggest hole in the movie. Why didn't he leave? Let's think about it.

1. He found over 2 million dollars. This is a lot of money. This is important in a second.
2. He dragged it out of the hands of a dying guy, surrounded by more corpses. This was his first sign that this money was fucking trouble, and this is important too.
3. He sent his wife away, realizing that the money was trouble, and that they were in terrible danger.
4. Despite this, he STAYS in the state. We're coming back to the money now. He has 2 million dollars in stolen money. It is in CASH. He has a truck. It would be a simple matter to buy a plane ticket, or just hop in his truck, and leave. As far as he knows, nobody knows he himself has the money (and beyond that, at first, nobody DOES know). Therefore, nobody could track HIM. If he left, that would be that.
5. It's not like he had a lot keeping him around. He lived in a trailer. He sent his wife away. He knew people were looking for the money.
6. Hell, why didn't he even take it out of the bag?
7. The hitman tracked the money not with some fancy gps device, but a thing that beeper more the closer he got. With this electronic version of "hot and cold," there was literally no way the dude could have found him if he did something as simple as not driving just ten miles down the highway and sitting in a hotel for three days.

Here's the thing. The first thing any rational person would have done after finding the money is count it. Hide it. Maybe put it in a different damn bag. Then skip town. Especially if you had a crappy life in a trailer. Especially if you KNEW the money was dangerous enough to send your wife away. Therefore we can only conclude that the main character was, in fact, mentally retarded. In this case, the whole movie is a case of "look what happens to people who totally have it coming" and is a wankfest over the hitman character, who is a "badass" despite doing things that make absolutely no goddamn sense for no reason. The coin flip game? What? Why? What did that establish? That he's a sociopath? That's cool, we knew that already cause he kills people for money. And what did Tommy Lee Jones even do? If I remember right all he did was find the guy who found the money at the very end, dead in his hotel room, and say "oh well that bitch totally deserved it" and then eat a donut.

No Country For Old Men blows.

When anything that's anything becomes nothing, that's everything

It's been an eventful couple of days I guess. Where to start, since the last time I wrote? I've been bombing out my future. I don't know where I'm going anymore, and it's just a horrible feeling, being powerless. It's awful, wanting to do something, and not being able to, knowing that you were the one who messed it up. I didn't work hard enough, as ever. It was Nathalie who said, girls like to be pursued, and she teased me, for refusing to play the game. It's that way for everything in my life I guess. Post-graduate studies, girls, whatever. Anything, everything.

I'm not quite drunk. I guess just enough to appreciate my waking hangover. Guess I shouldn't have been hitting the sauce so hard earlier today. I've already thrown up, a few minutes of vomiting straight acid and beer behind a Steak-Out dumpster. I guess the easiest way to recount the days is to start with today and work backwards. Today we went on an adventure. Actually, it started that way and quickly progressed as we got lost, so I had to upgrade it to an Odyssey. Anyway we finally reached our Ithaca; the Cahaba River, a languid and memoryless body of water, perfect for a day of drinking. Inner tubes, beer, fireworks combined to make a decent fourth of july, better than last year at least, which I will recount as my requisite drunk story soon. But the Cahaba was treacherous, and I got pretty damn cut up. Also swallowed some disgusting river water. I'm not proud of what I did. Ups of the trip: the absolutely awesome dogs the owners had, the rope swing over the water, an inner tube holding an assload of beer.

Before I forget: the fourth of july story from last year. Montgomery has an annual fourth of july fireworks display and we thought it would be fun to go to it, so me and trevor and meghan and grace decided to grill up some burgers, drink a bit, and go see em. It started out well until I got to grace's dad's house and, seeing that nobody was there yet except for her, decided to get started. Bad idea. A bottle of peppermint schnapps, three hours of puking and a couple of adorable kittens playing in my shoes later, I stumbled out of the bathroom and asked if I missed the fireworks. Guess I didn't, since it was barely 8 o'clock. I somehow crammed an entire night of drinking and puking into about three hours. Oh well, it happens. There's a picture of me cross-legged and passed out in the bathroom on trevor's phone somewhere.

What else? Not much. Beyond the drinking, and the powerlessness, I've been spending some time with some pretty girls and some cool dudes. There's been a really nice cat hanging around the apartment at 3 in the morning. I've spent a couple days just lying around in bed. I've spent a week doing nothing I regret. I love it. I'd almost forgotten about responsibilities, about life. Not that I would have done anything about it. I guess I'm just that way. I need to figure out what's going on with my life.

face up and challenge all

Tired. Hungry. It's been an eventful few days I think, been to a couple parties, met a couple people. There's not really much to say that that effect. I had some trouble getting on the internet at all, and in case the timestamp is wrong, it is now 4:19 AM, so I'm not really up to anything. I've been thinking lately of the frigid north, of a bar where you can hear the blues and jazz without stepping outside. So tonight was Hank's birthday, and that youngin had a pretty decent party with a few decent people showing up.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the lives we lead. It seems like you know what you're doing, and that's something I wish I knew.

Let's tell another drunk story.

One one of my birthdays, I had a few friends over at my house. One of them brought some 151 proof rum, and another one thought it would be cool to have a flaming shot of it. Okay I thought, so I turned off the lights and lit this dude's shot, so we could all watch the blue flames dancing in the glass. Then we said 'hey man, maybe you should blow that out, nobody takes the shot when it's still on fire.'

He said it was okay. Whatever, I thought, and let him do it. The guy misses his mouth and pours a river of blue flame down his chest. Since the lights were off, we could see the trail of fire and alcohol flowing down his chest, and right after this he ran outside and puked in my hedges.

That's when I banned him forever from my house.

Other thoughts: We always seem to make a scene when we go out to eat, and I love it. We bring some sort of joy into the lives of the people who see us, and that's something beautiful and true. I hope everything works out.

we don't live here anymore

It's been an interesting couple of days. Went to Birmingham last night for a concert, had a good time there. It's been good to see what sometimes things do turn out okay. While I was in the Ham, Bexxx put a couple temporary tattoos on me, a Lovebirds one on my wrist (which is awesome) and a shark on my bicep (which makes me feel like a tool). It's okay though. Today I somehow managed to cut myself in two different ways - first by beefing it over a fence, which cut open my fingers, and second by somehow cutting a line into my wrist like I'm trying to commit suicide - no idea how this one turned up but I'm bleeding all the same. Today I went and fed the ducks at school with Holly, and I remembered how much those filthy birds managed to be cute and disgusting at the same time. It makes you wonder how they get along without people to feed them.

This shark tattoo makes me feel like a total fucking tool. I think I want a Corduroy tattoo somewhere. Anybody remember that book? It was my favorite children's book consisting of 100 words or less.

I've decided I should tell stories of my drunkenness on this blog, as it is only proper. I'll begin with my earliest memory of it. A couple weeks after I started college, when I was but a wee freshman, a couple guys named John and Tony threw a party to introduce the young'ins to boozin', and they had hunch punch. It was my first taste of that vile liquid, and my only memories of the party consist of my throwing up over their balcony, then vomiting on my hands and knees in the parking lot. After that, I threw up a little bit out of my friend's car window, and then a large redheaded man named Parker carried me into my dorm and threw me into bed, where I proceeded to throw up some more.

A couple weeks after this, the girl across the hall saw me and asked me if I was the one she saw being carried into the dorm a while back. She happened to be in my English class, so what could I say but "yeah, a large redheaded man dragged my carcass into my room the other day, where I proceeded to strip down and go to bed in my roommate's bed, and not realize it until he walked in and finally went 'man what the hell'?" Sure, that's what happened.

I can't wait till next year, I am going to be that party.

Now though, I'm kind of tired of my skinned knuckles and my uncertainty. I miss the game we used to play.

I think my drinking stories are better when I tell them in person, en voce if you wish. I guess we'll find out for sure next time when I tell another one. Right now I just remembered how happy I was in that picture you have of me, how my smile was unfeigned and true, and how lucky I felt to be in that moment.

I also remembered how I promised you I'd link you to this blog if I ever made a funny entry, and I guess that is the closest I'll get. Maybe I'll write another funny drunk story for you, but I think I told you all my funny drunk stories that one time on our date, when I was trying to be heartwarming and hilarious. Did it work? Hard to tell.

Hard to tell. Drunk blogs are still terrible ideas.

We threw our shoes into the ocean

I'm trying to be witty and nice and okay, and I guess I am. It doesn't really bother me much anymore, only when I let it, or when I want it to. I've been trying not to let it bother me that I have to double take when I see your name, because I don't recognize you anymore. I've been trying to let it be okay that it doesn't really bother me to talk to you anymore. Nothing's been put "into perspective" but I am reminded of how much things have changed, of how much I pretended, or still pretend.

So, let's talk about something else for a bit. I learned today that one of my classmates from my year in high school is going to be teaching freshman english at my old high school! It's super odd. She's my age, and here she is with a real job, a real job you associate with older people until you realize that when you were that age, when you were 14 or 15, people my age WERE 'older', they were that age where they could be doing this sort of thing. They were young, impressionable, freshly married, with brand new liberal arts degrees and they thought it could be enough.

I guess that's one of the most beautiful lies we can tell ourselves, that it will be enough, that it will be okay.

If it doesn't hurt anymore, then it's okay, right?

There's that mental equivalent of picking at it, how your mom told you not to do that, or you'd leave a scar. I guess she was right.

Maybe I realized that tearing myself up about it didn't accomplish anything, and that no matter how much I thought about you, you still lived your own life, you still followed your own heart, and you still were your own person. I knew I couldn't change that then, and I know it now. I especially know it now. I guess all I can manage to do for my own dumb self is be okay, really okay, and mean it. I can be there for you and I really am happy you're happy, really and truly, and I mean it with all my heart, even things you know I'm lying about, at least I lied and that means I tried.

I never drank as easily as when it was because of you. That was only once but I still remember it, no matter how hard I tried not to.

In the end though, here's what I'm trying to say. I'm okay, I really am. I'm over it, as much as someone can be under the circumstances. I still love you dearly as one of my friends, as someone who knows me better than almost anyone else. I know I haven't been there for you as often as I could be, but I hope that you will be there for me.

I hope that my dear friends know how much I love them, and that I mean it like I did all those years ago with you, and you alone remember what I meant in those years, when I couldn't say it, couldn't admit it out loud unless I truly meant it. I say it out loud a lot more now, but I admit it exactly as often as I used to.

All I need is a distraction, the first person to make me forget will be the last person I remember.

Don't want to be second best

So it's been a while I guess, as the ever-lovely Meghan pointed out this afternoon - maybe I've been neglecting my duties - drinking myself into an early grave but entertaining those few who follow this blog in the process. I'm in that awkward stage of intoxication where I'm not really sure how drunk I am, but I strongly suspect it's not really that drunk. I managed to drive home I guess, and I managed to call Nathalie and joke around with her reasonably well, so I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

And I guess the greatest triumph is that I am here and in fact, not dead in a ditch, no matter what anybody may wish.

I probably shouldn't have come out at all tonight, seeing as how the LSAT is less than three days away, and I am woefully underprepared, but it was Tricia's birthday I guess and while I may not have had an obligation I guess I just wanted to come out, to see some people, to drink and smoke and continue my slow slow death, like all the slow deaths that came before and never quite managed to catch.

So I guess there's that. I can talk all I want about friends and drink but it won't really change anything. I'm not sure what I want to talk about but I really want to change something tonight, I really want to make a difference. But there's nothing really to change, nothing really to say except I can talk all I want about drinking games and ex girlfriends and girl friends and hash browns and Waffle House and the fact that if you laugh at a historical joke, a really really obscure one, I just might love you forever.

Holly was right, I do need a vacation. After this test I am going to skip town and maybe I'll end up in the Gulf where I think I belong, drinking myself into a stupor like I want to be. Maybe lately I've been trapped by all of this fear.

Oh: the Waters in the daytime, while not quite as creepy, are just kind of disappointing. It looks like an abandoned seaside town in the daytime, cause all the houses are built with siding, and it's all dirty and makes the place look not like a haunted skullsoleum but more like a tourist town that's out of season. Waterscape, my other usual creepy standby, also now has a house in it, and something that looks like a bus stop.

My creepy pike road neighborhoods are all growing up! Sniff.

I should probably go to bed. I don't know what I'm talking about but I do know what I want to ramble about, and as usual it's nothing good.

I guess there's not much to do but just going to leave me to myself. I've been doing this too much lately. I do need a break, and maybe a taste of the ocean would do the trick.

Momma wouldn't like it

So let me tell you something about Montgomery. In this town, sometimes, we get drunk just to drive. As a wise man once said when questioned about this fact, "well, how else are we supposed to get home?" Well, tonight I was drunk enough to think it was a good idea to drive out to The Waters. Here's some facts about the Waters. Fact: it's a good ten miles at least from Montgomery. This doesn't sound like a lot until you think about the fact that there are no streetlights on the way out here, and you consider fact 2.

Fact 2: The Waters are probably haunted. This neighborhood is a nice Pleasantville esque kinda place, and therefore super creepy. Plus, when they built it, they had to move a civil-war era (or older!) graveyard and that is always super bad news. I'm always expecting a screaming disembodied head to pop up in the road and force me to crash. Whatever, without the ghosts, it's a nice kind of place. The kind of place you bring a blanket and a pretty girl to.

Well tonight I brought neither. It was Tim's birthday tonight, so happy birthday to him. He's finally 21, finally able to spend too much money on too little booze at restaurants and bars. Tonight I had just enough beer to be introspective, which is not a good thing. Maybe I should be out driving around still. It's so risky but it does make me feel better for some godawful reason. I'm not sure why. Anyway. I don't want to turn this into another weepy post but I'll say what there is to say and hopefully it'll turn out okay.

I guess that's all I've ever hoped, that things would turn out okay. I guess when I said I wanted to give it another shot I really did mean it. When I say things I usually mean them, really mean them. It doesn't matter if I'm drunk. I had to type that shit out and try my best with the spelling. If I hit send I really meant it. Who cares about the consequences? I've done some things that people have come down on me for, and damn it, the things I've done wrong have stuck to me. I deserved them and I paid for them.

So there it is. Hope for the best, expect the worst, right? Tonight all I can think about is what I left behind. Tonight there's not a thought for the future. Drinking and blogging was really a terrible idea. I guess the truth of it is, you have to decide what is real and what isn't for yourself. In this blog, you got what I want to say, what I meant to say, and what I couldn't say, and these three things are all things I said. You have to sort them out and decide what to believe and what to take with a grain of salt. But I guess in the end you have to believe that whatever I write I mean, I really mean. Whatever message I send, I'm trying my best, and I hope with all my soul that you can understand this dishonest heart of mine.

I understand more than just the jokes. The truth is there too. Hopefully, next time there will be less truth, and more jokes.

On the way

I guess I need to be drunk and happy but I'm not really that drunk and I don't have any real reason to be happy. When I say that it sounds like I'm horrifically depressed but I'm not. There's just nothing really to smile about right now. Life's been kind of crappy, and that's just what happens sometimes. I hope to make an amusing drunk entry soon, after a good night with good friends and good beers. No more of this Keystone Light shit. When I was little the first beer I had that my dad let me have a sip of was Miller Genuine Draft. I grew up thinking all beers were that bitter and shitty tasting. When I have kids I'm going to let them have some Keystone and make sure they know that not all beers taste that crappy, but there's going to be a long stretch of time when all the beers they can afford will.

"I tried my best" or "Oblique references to another blog"

I came home and decided I wanted some White Castle, and after warming up a couple burgers I realized I could neither really feel nor taste them, so I guess an update is in order. I should count myself fortunate that I did not fall to the same fate as Tim, who is probably vomiting into a tupperware container right this very moment. A glass of straight rum will do that to a man. It'll do it to some inanimate objects too.

So I'm home now. I mean home home, that house where you grew up, where you inevitably feel like there's a bed and a meal waiting no matter what (your mileage may vary). This means I now spend a lot of time sleeping, a lot of time reading, not enough time studying, some time listening to music and too much time think think think thinking, how did we get this way? People who spend a lot of time hacking into my Facebook account and reading my messages will recognize that last quote. Here's another one that's on my mind:

"I can be happy you're happy and wonder how you're doing, and wonder if I'll ever meet somebody like you again and think the silence means contentment and smile for it."

We can all try our best to keep it together. You can meet someone new and it's like a game (this is indeed the origin of the term 'game'), that is, you can try to convince her (or him, I'm no doctor) that you're that perfect blend of nice and dangerous, you do all the things she approves of and maybe one that she doesn't, so she can try to fix you.

You're sweet and sarcastic and witty and funny and you can try to pretend you're sexy and you try try try try to light that fire, cause when you got that you got everything, and it takes a damn lot of mistakes to put it out. You try your best to be your best, and you wonder how long it'll take before you fuck it up. And after a while, either you fuck it up or you fucking wise up, cause it's the first thing with the people who were worth every second and it's the second with people who weren't. The difficulty lies in determining who lies in which category because a lot of times, at first, more people are in the first than are in the second, and unless you got some goddamn impeccable taste, that simply isn't the case. You have to filter them out and realize that maybe things didn't work out but it wasn't your fault. Or if it was, you have to convince yourself that it's okay.

So then you spend time and talk with pretty girls you know you'd be terrible with, or pretty girls you know you are terrible with, those few members of the opposite sex where sexual tension simply became acceptance, then understanding, an understanding that you'd never hurt them and they wouldn't hurt you because neither of you would give each other that chance, or would give that chance again, and with that understanding you reached an agreement and you both realized that maybe both sexes, men and women, both have the same problems, that you both wonder what's going through each others' heads and you both think "oh they're cute" and that makes up for a couple shortcomings and you can comfort each other when someone says "this is nice but I'm just not feeling it" or "god, I just don't know how to feel" which is a great bomb to drop when somebody's been trying their best or at least pretending to be.

Maybe not everybody's this way but when I really like somebody and I'm spending time with them, I am so nervous, so terrified, because I know I'm just a step away from fucking it up, that my facade, no matter how shittily I may have constructed it, because it is still a step up from the reality, is still just something I have to hold up, and I am just one misstep away from fucking it up. I am just one itchy thumb away from calling too much, or calling too little, and when it's over I'm just left to thinking about what it was that drove you away. Unless I know what it was that drove you away. In which case I can blame freely, and unfortunately it may fall on myself.

Because we both know that so many things are just code for "I'm tired of him." Or "you won't have sex with me." Maybe you personally have never used either of those things. But I know that happens, and it happens more than people would admit. And you can be jealous that your beautiful friend who you love even got that message, but glad that at least they got something, they didn't just get a pile of maybes, and they didn't get that nagging fear that under all those maybes is just another no, and while they may have wondered once again "what is wrong with me?" at least they got that far, to ask that question in the context of a relationship and not outside of one, because inside that context it simply brings to question your emotional availability and stability, and outside it sheds doubt on your entire personality.

You think about how ironic it is that those who may understand you best are those you try to keep yourself from being with. It's complicated, you say, or you don't want to ruin it, you say. Another way to save yourself from fucking it up. You remember that you only hurt the ones you love.

The reason for this is simple - only you have enough of the ones you love to hurt them. And they have enough of you to hurt you too. When you kick an anthill, you better believe those ants are going to bite the shit of you.

But you know, I was hoping this drunk blog was going to be heartwarming and hilarious instead of depressing and self-pitying. I guess we all have disappointments. And if you're out there reading this, and this seems familiar, but not in the "I've been there" kind of way but more in the "Was that me?" kind of way, know that I've never held anything against anybody. People do all kinds of things for all kinds of reasons, be it fear or kindness or even true malice. I've done my share too. But it's not too late to put things right. It's not too late to give things another chance. You've hurt and been hurt and it's the same with everybody. These are all hard lessons, and we must repeat them until we learn.

Graduation Day

The purpose of this blog is to document the things that run through one's head while intoxicated. The name is supposed to reflect this - Sunday Syndrome, that is, what happens when you have drunk people over at your house (or you drink a lot yourself) over the weekend, and on Sunday the light filters through your windows and you drag your carcass out of bed and you go in the kitchen and you see all the bottles and you think "god why is this here? Who left all these beer bottles out? Who...who puked in my sink? Why is this wet?"

That's a really terrifying question. Why is this wet? You went into your kitchen and you saw, or god forbid, you picked up something that was wet and you wished, you wished with all your soul, you wished that you were just hallucinating, that you were drunk as shit and you didn't sit on your couch into a puddle of beer (or worse).

So tonight I was drinking with my friend Ryan. It's graduation day. We don't usually need an excuse to drink, and not having one usually doesn't stop us. But graduation day slows down the entire city. Parents come in and suddenly everything takes forever. Waiters become surly, gas pump lines are a hundred miles long, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But there it is, tonight was the last night for Ryan as an undergrad, and we had to drink beers and be merry. Merriness didn't really find us though.

Shirtless o'clock started early. Usually it's at 1 AM but tonight the bare chestedness began at about 11:30. This should have been the first sign that it was going to be a bad night. Perhaps physically it was not. I've managed to keep my dinner down at least. But emotionally, we all have tough times.

Speaking of which - I have a tough time typing this. This blog is going to be my drunk blog, and I am not going to update it unless I have been chugging down that vile liquid. That sounds like a blowjob joke and maybe it is. It happens. Sometimes bad things do happen to bad people. But all I can hope for is that tonight some people realize that because someone will not be around does not mean that they are leaving. And that maybe some people remember that they too used to scream with us, that all that emotion was never really out of our domain.

Tonight I wish that things had turned out differently, like I always do. Looking back we can always see what we did wrong, that maybe we could have turned things out differently, maybe we could have been stronger, maybe we could have laughed more, lived more, loved more, maybe in the end we would have had somebody to be crazy with, and maybe that wasn't too much to ask for. The summer is a long time and things do change. It's interesting how you wish that you want some things to change, growing up, but you don't want the conqsequences. Human nature I guess.

But in the end there's always something left unsaid, something left undone.

But you know, that's that. It's graduation night. People gotta sleep before they walk in a few hours. All I can hope for is the confidence that I too can jump in headfirst, that I can take a dive without cracking my skull on the bottom.