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.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
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.
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.
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