more Drunk than Focused.

Me and Beat Pervert talked about this one time. If you're drinking beer and talkin about gettin drunk, you're a fucking lightweight sissy ass bitch. Unfortunately, I had to break my rule tonight. A lot of these boys on here are FOCUSED. But there's a bit of the DRUNK factor missing, so here's a story...

It's Friday night and I'm not going anywhere. Jenny and I are sitting at the kitchen table; she's painting her nails pink-crimson and I'm complaining about my stomach. Jenny says "I want you to call me your girl. I want you to say it." We're not dating, we're not even together. Or are we? When did she make that decision and why didn't she include me in the discussion? She has a random emo band on the stereo ... shit, they all sound the same. I don't mind the music, it makes me feel young, like I'm back in high school. But that's the main problem with emo: it makes you feel like a pedophile. Like you should be 14 years old and crying about some girl who checked "NO" on the "DO YOU LIKE ME OR NOT" note you passed to her in 7th-period English.

It's around 8pm and I'm still bitching about my stomach. I've been drinking heavily for the past year, sheer escapism. But lately, even the smell of liquor makes me nauseous. I have a strong dislike for beer, but Jenny doesn't hesitate to comment: "What about beer? You might be able to stomach it." I stop and think, but she doesn't give me a chance. "I'll be right back. I'll get you some." she says and she's gone, out the door. I sit there and think "She should watch out. If she's not careful, I could stay with her." And realizing I haven't told her I'm leaving tomorrow and I may never see her again. Time passes and she's back. HOMEGROWN BEER... Yuengling Lager (the Yuengling brewery is an hour north of my city; go for the free tour, they give you two glasses of their beer for free). She tosses me a six-pack and puts the other in the freezer. I start in, going for a steady plan of one-beer every three minutes. Jenny goes back to painting her fingernails. The TV is on, a good show, That 70's Show. A decent way to spend the night.

This is my first time getting drunk on beer. I didn't have a sip of alcohol until I was 21. Technically, 20. February 25th, 2004, the day before my 21st birthday, I walked into the local State Store, determined to make it through checkout. That year, I had just officially quit the freelance journalist bullshit, sick to death of objective reporting. It was freezing in PA, so I decided to move one-hundred miles south to Baltimore, arriving at my boy Aaron's place with a cardboard box full of gin and whiskey and tequila. We drank and drank and laughed and I took a piss outside while he took a shower and I got locked out of the apartment for an hour. Good times until he brought in a pair of kittens and I spent a few nights sneezing my eyes out. I left him with the rest of the liquor (except for the whiskey) and drove to Memphis, spending the rest of March drunk in the backseat of my car by the Mississippi river. Fast forward to tonight...

Almost midnight on the front room couch. Twelve cans of beer are sloshing around in my stomach. I feel incredibly bloated. I do the math: it takes about nine cans of beer to do what a glass of gin can do. What a price to pay. Jenny notices my grinning, my cockeyed walk to the fridge to get a glass of orange juice. And I haven't even pissed yet. She giggles at me and pushes a tiny bottle of nail polish under my nose and tells me to inhale deep. I do as I'm told and lay back as my brain sizzles. She smiles and pats my stomach before walking to the kitchen and taking the beer cans out to the recycle bin. Everything's good. I like the idea that I can live off beer until my stomach mans up enough to take on liquor again. Jenny walks back in.

"Listen." I say.
"You're drunk, baby."
"Mmmm."
"What is it?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"What?"
"Tomorrow."
"What the hell."
"I'm sorry."
"So what, that's it?"
"Make me stay." I say, and I say it with sincerity.

But that's all there is. She knows she can't keep a drunk around. She's got college classes to worry about. It's our last night together, so she doesn't get mad. But she doesn't sit close. There's the look in her eyes ... you know you've done something wrong, you might even know what it is, but you know there's no right answer, there's no cure. So you take the hits, you take the consequences. You sabotage everything, you ruin it all: your jobs, your girls, your friends, your life. It's all crashing down around you. But it's time to get the fuck out of Dodge. And you're too drunk to give a fuck. So you kiss her goodnight and get your coat and you piss out in front of her building, behind the shrubs. Everything you own fits into your car's trunk. You spend the night sleeping in the driver's seat. In the morning, you're gone.

"Hey, you mind if I use your computer before I go? I got something to write."
"Whatever."
"Thank you."
"Go fuck yourself."
"Kiss me and I'll tell you I love you."
"Remember to log out before you leave."
"Fuck your technology."