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� 09/27/2004 - 9:47 a.m. | return of the drunken detective! Casefile # 0023: The Mystery of the Missing Glasses I woke up this morning, mouth tasting like piss. I had that brief moment of happy stupor where I didn't know what the fuck was going on, and then I remembered: Something bad happened last night. I lay and think about it for a while. Well, I didn't get in a fight. The test that was supposed to be tomorrow is now on Wednesday (Oh thank God for delaying the inevitable). I drunk dialed Missy, but she seemed genuinely pleased with the whole situation. What's the happy-haps then? Gradually comes into consciousness - I lost my glasses somewhere along the line last night. Fuck. OK, OK - well, just like always, the clues are all in my head, and I just need to dredge them out. I lurched out of bed in what would most likely end up a futile attempt to retrace my steps and see if I could spot the glasses somewhere along the path we had taken home. Futile how? Well, in lots of ways. Let's see, besides the fact that I obviously did not have my glasses on, so I wouldn't be seeing anything too well, there was also the fact that there was still quite a bit of inebriation left in me, leaving all of my senses more than a little dulled. Also, even if I had somehow dropped my glasses along the way, there is a very huge chance that someone else would spot them and fuck with them. I mean, these are drunk people we're talking about. They exist only to have sex and destroy the things we love (Same thing, right?) If I found some glasses on the ground, I would totally take off with them. "My, how large these spectacles make my eyes! I look like quite the insect, no? Huss huss huss huss!" So, odds very against me, I set out and started going over the evening... or the scant traces of memories I had of the evening. Background information: Well, despite anyone else's claims, I was in a loud mood to begin with. I know, you're used to normal pissy Nate, but hey, can't be manic-depressive without the manic, am I right? So, I was loud, and then I started to drink, which only compounded the loud. Let me give you an example. Alcohol is, illogically, the ultimate dehydrator - it sucks all the water out of everything until it is at its purest form. Pretend that I am a cup of ramen. Lots of broth, all tasty and salty. But! Take out the water and fuck, I'm ramen super concentrate! Not many people can handle that shit. That's what I'm saying. So I sat around drinking and trying not to make very stupid purchases in the meantime (One cannot afford food or all of one's books; One does not need the Avril Lavigne t-shirt, no matter how frickin' awesome it is!) until the usual bingo summons came from below. For once, I was punchy enough to want to go and never, ever win. Besides, Heroin Chick would be there, and I couldn't let her forget me. Psh - as if she even knows I exist. :( Anyway, it was fun as hell (I think?). Again, should not be spending money on stupid shit, but $2 any draft, man! That's half off Blue Moons! Sean D. loves the Blue Moon! It always seems like me and the rest of the gang are polarized. They left the most insane drunk message ever last week, and now they were all sober. Well, relatively sober. It would seem that they have lately taken to smuggling in a water bottle filled with Gem Clear and, uh, touching up their drinks a bit. Everyone thought Spritz's death cranberry was horrible. I thought it tasted like ice water. Oh, there's a good sign. When you've gone past the point of not tasting the alcohol all the way to not tasting at all, you know some sort of barrier has been floored. And I would soon be floored along with it. Heroin Chick was not there, unfortunately, but there was some temporary Bingo Babe who was just amazing beyond all belief. I waxed pathetically about how I would never have a chance with her and then tried offering everyone Marshmallow Pies because I wanted them to like me. Oh, that's right - I finally fucking won! At the penis game even. And when you win at the penis game, you're supposed to yell out "penis" instead of "bingo." Or one of its many derivatives. Because I was so on top of my shit, when I won, I yelled something like, "BINGOPENISCOCKFUCK," thus earning me the nickname "Tourettes Guy" for the rest of the evening. That seems appropriate. I can't think of too many other memorable things that happened. Yell and sing, sing and yell. OH YEAH - Shelly got this suuuuuper fresh bread from Jimmy John's, and it was still warm and soft, and I swear to God it was the best thing ever. They should serve that in church and not some crappy Necco wafers or whatever. Smacko was there and amazing, but that's pretty standard. Spritz kept giving me drags off his $10 cigarettes. They still taste like butt, I says. And yes, just another wagon I've leapt off of, I know. This new carpe diem bullshit my brain has concocted is really going to screw me over. I got to demonstrate the three positions for Full Body Shambo, which was fairly excellent, and I told made friends with the winner, #77, whom I like to think was into me, but that is an arrogant drunken delusion, so forget I said anything. I wanted to ask her about her belt, but I was tooooo shy. OK, now the particularly relevant details: I took off my glasses towards the last half of the evening because I could about just as well either way (poorly). As it neared time to leave, I hang the glasses on the collar of my shirt. Not amazingly secure, I guess, but I figured it would hold even I had to run for some reason (I remember specifically thinking that. Like I'd be escaping a crowd of goons any time soon). As long as I didn't do anything too stupid like cartwheels in the street or flying leaps off precipices, no problem at all. My drunken M.O. doesn't really call for footling about. I mean, yes, I might hang upside down from a bike rack while I'm waiting for someone else to finish their antics (which happens a lot because most people don't share my goal-focused drunkeness), but if we're going somewhere I just go. Shelly and Kyle drove Becky home while Smacko, Spritz, and I walked. Spritz stopped at Jimmy John's, and he let me eat some of his sandwich while he was doing something in the bushes in front of the Union (I think probably peeing, but who really can say?), and it was also fucking amazing, despite a sudden suspicion that it probably had mayo on it. The walk home was fairly uneventful, I believe. No stealing or other acts of vandalism. We got home, got another beer out of the fridge, and then all sat on the porch to talk about some shit. The thing is, I sort of remember noticing that my glasses were missing a good deal before we got home. Where, I couldn't say precisely, and I didn't point it out to anyone at the time because I didn't think they would care. But that's all I've managed to reveal to myself, and it could be some time before hidden details emerge (like maybe I got raped in the bushes or something - Damn you, repression!) Anyway, I made the walk to Legends and back and didn't see much at all, except this Asian kid with noisy sandals, a girl with (No, for real this time! I actually stopped and rotated just because it was such a rare opportunity) the most perfect les in history, and this huge bulldozer on the sidewalk coming towards me. I immediately nicknamed it "The Glasses Smasher" and giggled a little to myself. I got back still mostly in a stupor but with the occasional reminder from my brain that a hangover was coming. KLONG, it said! Like the sound of being hit over the head with a garden spade. Fuck this, I said, and passed out for a few more hours. I talked to my mom, and she seemed not to upset with the situation (I still have my childhood fears that everyone will hilariously overreact to any confession I finally work up the nerve to make). I'll make due with my damaged goods contacts for a while and try and get home for an eye doctor's appointment soon. So, yes, case unsolved! But it's kind of weird, too. I was talking to my mom last week about my theory that God gives everyone one wish in their lifetime, but He doesn't them when they are getting it. So, you'll be sitting in your room, and you'll think, "Man, I wish I had a turkey sandwich," and someone will suddenly offer to make you one, and fuck, that's your wish. You just blew it. Coulda had money or fame or power, and you got turkey with some God damn mayo on it. Think about it: How else does Britney Spears get insanely rich and famous? "I wish I could remain a no talent hack, and yet everyone would idolize me!" Bam, there you go. Well, yesterday, while I was in the candy store, I remember thinking, "I wish I could get some new glasses. These are kind of falling about, with the dye smear on the one lens and the broken eyepieces (Do they have a name?) from people sitting on them, and I never really liked tortoise shell to begin with, etc, etc." God works in mysterious ways. The bitch.
m1ss v1ncent: I'm okay.
I won't be soothed, |