So I'm rollin' in my unit, thumpin' Peaches "Fuck the Pain Away", singing along, and lookin' tough. I pull up to a light, see this ugly bitch, and I'm like "yo! That ugly bitch is homeless!", dig? The bitch is kickin' it on the side of the road pedalin' newspapers like they do. So I roll down my window all smooth like, I had my sunglasses on even though it wasn't bright out, and I know I looked fuckin' cool. So I says to this bitch, "Yo bitch! Do yourself a solid and stop sellin' papers 'cause you gotta have somethin' to sleep in tonight, hollah at cha boy!" She just looked at me, 'cause what could she say to somethin' like that? God damn I got that bitch good.
2.14.2004
2.11.2004
Anyone who's ever been drunk knows that you're not the same person in your inebriated state as you are in your sober state. As you succumb more and more to the alcohol in your veins the sober, logical areas of your brain fall asleep and the more primal areas awaken. In a full blown blackout only the beast is awake and the doings of the beast are unbeknownst to the sober, rational person asleep in your brain. When I wake up following a blackout an overwhelming sense of dread envelops me because there is absolutely no telling what irreparable emotional, psychological, physical, or monetary harm I may have done to myself or others. The drunken beast in you is responsible for the overwhelming desire to satisfy perceived needs. Those needs, at least for me, have ranged from the sexual to the vengeful to the comical. You hope against hope as you're lying in bed (or on a couch, or on the floor, or in your car, or at the hospital, or in jail) that you didn't do something so awful or so stupid that you've destroyed a relationship or pissed away your savings. In many cases you can get with the people you were with the night before and compare disjointed memories to form a rough sketch of the evening. If you're lucky you won't catch anyone looking at you funny and you won't arrive at your car with the tires slashed. Sometimes though, even your friends can offer you no help since they too are struggling with foggy, incoherent memories that may just as well be dreams. In times like those you must turn to the items you find in your possessions. Analyzing the things you find in your pants after a night of being overserved is like going to your friend's parent's house while they're out of town and stealing your friend's mom's panties and jerking off on their bed. Wait a sec… wrong analogy. I meant to say, analyzing the things you find in your pants after a night of being overserved is like sifting through the possessions of a dead person to get an idea of how they lived. It's both terrifying and morbidly interesting. Fortunately, since I keep both a pen and a camera on me most of the time I generally return home with some scraps of evidence as to my previous whereabouts.
I bring all this up because I've compiled quite a few amazing little treasures over the past year. Among them, many bar napkins with email addresses of people I don't know scrawled on them. Why I would write down their email address and not their name is mildly intriguing. I have a gift certificate entitling me to a free lunch at Rick's Cabaret one of the Big Funky's more upscale gentlemen's clubs. I also have a bar napkin scrawled by my own drunken hand that promises me a free meal at Little Willy's Rib Joint. Often I find scraps of paper with vague descriptions of people and their relationship to others. For instance: "Chris is Gina's boyfriend" coupled with "Gina is Chris' girlfriend". Impressive, no? Another of my business cards reads: "Opus. Erica t1. Liz. Audi. Tall." Why, regardless of how intoxicated I was, would I leave myself such nondescript clues that are virtually indecipherable gibberish to the untrained eye? The most entertaining clues I find are the ones where I actually chained words together into very basic sentences. I found a bar napkin from my last Vegas trip which I was using to keep track of all the terrible things happening around me. One of the items on the napkin I had actually forgotten about and didn't make it into my Vegas post. It concerned another incident at the Spearmint Rhino where Georgia, my stripper, chastised me for my foul language around women. Oh Georgia, it's so cute your stripper ass can still consider yourself a human worthy of speech less cluttered with 'fucks' and 'shits'. I found a wonderful napkin with a full sentence scribbled on it: "I throw up every morning too, but I don't kiss it!" Marvelous. You see, this more descriptive sentence allowed me to easily summon that particular memory from the nightmare memory of the beast inside me. I was at a bar and some jimmy was mugging down with a hideous, horse-faced girl with hairy arms. Another humorous card I have states the following: "why don't they just ask their god to spot them the money?" My cell phone often has unintentionally recorded memos on it, most are unintelligible but on some I can clearly be heard screaming made-up lyrics to music playing in the background. Who the fuck could I be singing to, and why? I find lots of small candies of dubious origin and sometimes cigarettes despite the fact that I don't smoke. Curiously, it's extremely rare for me to find a receipt among my possessions. It seems I have every intention of hiding the night's costs from the sober me who actually needs that information.
With so little to work with trying to remember your evening is like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle where you kinda know what the result will look like yet you're missing most of the pieces to get you there. Fuck it though, so long as no one confronts me about my actions no harm no foul, right? There is a nagging fear in the back of my brain none the less which finds me waking up with a bloody shiv in my possessions instead of harmless scraps of paper and candy.
I bring all this up because I've compiled quite a few amazing little treasures over the past year. Among them, many bar napkins with email addresses of people I don't know scrawled on them. Why I would write down their email address and not their name is mildly intriguing. I have a gift certificate entitling me to a free lunch at Rick's Cabaret one of the Big Funky's more upscale gentlemen's clubs. I also have a bar napkin scrawled by my own drunken hand that promises me a free meal at Little Willy's Rib Joint. Often I find scraps of paper with vague descriptions of people and their relationship to others. For instance: "Chris is Gina's boyfriend" coupled with "Gina is Chris' girlfriend". Impressive, no? Another of my business cards reads: "Opus. Erica t1. Liz. Audi. Tall." Why, regardless of how intoxicated I was, would I leave myself such nondescript clues that are virtually indecipherable gibberish to the untrained eye? The most entertaining clues I find are the ones where I actually chained words together into very basic sentences. I found a bar napkin from my last Vegas trip which I was using to keep track of all the terrible things happening around me. One of the items on the napkin I had actually forgotten about and didn't make it into my Vegas post. It concerned another incident at the Spearmint Rhino where Georgia, my stripper, chastised me for my foul language around women. Oh Georgia, it's so cute your stripper ass can still consider yourself a human worthy of speech less cluttered with 'fucks' and 'shits'. I found a wonderful napkin with a full sentence scribbled on it: "I throw up every morning too, but I don't kiss it!" Marvelous. You see, this more descriptive sentence allowed me to easily summon that particular memory from the nightmare memory of the beast inside me. I was at a bar and some jimmy was mugging down with a hideous, horse-faced girl with hairy arms. Another humorous card I have states the following: "why don't they just ask their god to spot them the money?" My cell phone often has unintentionally recorded memos on it, most are unintelligible but on some I can clearly be heard screaming made-up lyrics to music playing in the background. Who the fuck could I be singing to, and why? I find lots of small candies of dubious origin and sometimes cigarettes despite the fact that I don't smoke. Curiously, it's extremely rare for me to find a receipt among my possessions. It seems I have every intention of hiding the night's costs from the sober me who actually needs that information.
With so little to work with trying to remember your evening is like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle where you kinda know what the result will look like yet you're missing most of the pieces to get you there. Fuck it though, so long as no one confronts me about my actions no harm no foul, right? There is a nagging fear in the back of my brain none the less which finds me waking up with a bloody shiv in my possessions instead of harmless scraps of paper and candy.
