12/10/2005 - 8:20 p.m. | a grand day out

Well, I guess Missy didn�t have too much to worry about last night after all. Same old miserable circumstances as always, which I tried to counteract by heavy drinking, and although I was very near to hangover this morning (when I downed three freezing cups of water while watching the 2005 Men of Country on CMT), it was still clearly not good enough to hide the fact how boring the whole night was. Tonight is not looking any better, with Shelly actually planning to study (that is a blatant lie, and we all know it, but it still precludes anything the least bit interesting) and Kyle sitting on his computer with headphones, rendering him pretty much incommunicado for the whole of the evening. The latter makes me especially sad, I guess, since he�ll be gone in less than a month now, and he spends his last hours with us doing that. Normally, you could call this passive-aggression on my part, but I do not think he would hear it even if I did try to tell it to him directly. That was a joke. And I�m not saying we even have to get trashed� I just � this is it for us, as far as I can figure, and we could at least finish it off with the stupid shit we started with.

This is my head�s fault anyway. For the first time in� a great while, I felt the onset of that deep sadness that the meds have been hiding me from. It was not a welcome return. In fact, it was all I could do to run downstairs and down a handful of pills to try and get me back in the right again. But when �the right� includes me not caring about anyone out of arm�s reach, I guess it�s not too right either. So I�m just going to take it for a while, until I do get my shit sorted with a shrink or doctor or I dunno what. For the time being, I�ve fallen back on old strategies. I sing because singing blocks bad thoughts from getting through, and even had a momentary urge to clean something again. It�s like I hardly missed a step these past two years. Just like riding a bicycle.

Anyway, it�s best not to lurk in this mopey shit for long, so I will describe last night, as at least boring and terrible is more interesting than that. The night is sure to start grand when it begins with a nap, which is how my own went. Smacko eventually came over to rouse me, so we could go get some cheap champagne to celebrate, what, the end of classes, I guess? Somehow this took a trip to three different places. It was like a stupid logic puzzle � one had cheap champagne but no cases of beer, another had the beer but no champagne, the third had champagne and� a large black man who wanted me to buy him booze. Smacko and I were walking into County Market, and this car kind of followed us as we went, honking. I don�t know anyone who would honk at me, so I kept right on walking. Once inside, this giant of a man comes over to us, taller than Smacko, wider than� Smacko, and asks him if he could buy him some shit. Smacko quickly defers to me, and though I would like nothing less, who am I to argue? I don�t know if this will create good karma or bad, but someone�s got to combat the blatant racism in our household (earlier Kyle was downloading horrible songs with word �nigger� in them � the best part was the one that liberally stole from jazz for its tune). So he directs me over to the Seagrams vodka (an odd choice, as Smacko later pointed out� that�s like getting Captain Morgan�s tequila or something) and slowly peels out ten bucks, explaining what I believe was his cover story for being in the store at all. �Be like, I come up and say, �Did Frankie call you?� or something like that.� Forgive me, sir (Smacko has already dubbed him Marquis), but I don�t think I would be the type of guy Frankie would ever call. So, I go up to buy his shit and ours, dealing with the usual rabble that populates that hell hole (This insane old woman behind me would not fucking shut up, talking to herself or me or somebody. �Do you need a County Market card?� �No, ma�am, they usually just let me use the number off an old receipt.� �Do you need a County Market card?� �No, really, I�m fine.� �Here, use my County Market card.� �All right, ma�am.� Here�s a hint, by the way, I only use terms of respect like �sir� and �ma�am� when I do not respect you at all. Keep that in mind, future ex-employers!), and the stupid giant is hanging around, keeps coming up to talk with the cashier and some shit. I don�t know how this was covert operation he intended. Anyway, I get out and go meet Smacko, who sort of assumed I had been busted (There is always a cop posted in this particular store, but tonight the usual had been replaced by some white guy � in other words, tightass!), but Marquis is taking fucking forever. Smacko starts to suggest we just drive off with his fifth of extra smooth vodka. I was trying to keep my good deed in tact, but in hindsight, that would have been hilarious, chugging poor Marquis� vodka of ill means. Anyway, he finally comes out, and I start to walk over with the bottle. Marquis is paranoid as hell, though, and indicates roughly that I should be cool. The cop is watching with the eyes of a hawk by now (apparently), so M suggests we drive and meet somewhere else. Now, this sounded like the start of an adventure to me! I would have even gone so far as to suggest the strip club, but Smacko had about had it. Luckily, Marquis finally worked up the nerve (pretending to fiddle with his trunk or something) to come over to my car where he could be passed the bottle. �Was it ten even?� he asks. Mothefucker wants change? If anything, he probably owed me a couple more nickels. This is not how you treat someone who has just committed you a rather illegal solid. But I just say no, and we roll on our way home.

Drinking starts slowly, but I become more of a lightweight every day. The other night, when all four of us did a shot at like 1 (our new tradition, I�m told, but perhaps it was an effort to cheer me up after losing my paper� nothing like cheap rum to calm one�s nerves), I was pretty buzzed from that. So like the two or three beers I had at home had me right silly. And starving, for some reason. Like, once a month, my appetite suddenly gets huge, so I just sat there in the kitchen downing horror after horror � including, I must note, some Shelly�s ramen with peas and Bac-Os (courtesy of Smacko on the latter). Smacko turned on his two favorite songs as far as I can tell. Both homemade. A faux-British rap by Mikey about Stick-It, and another song by the two of them about some football retard at IMSA. On repeat. O.

Kyle and Spritz came back rather late from their meeting, but I thought we could get them interested. Shelly even wrote a bunch of probably not worthwhile parties on her hand. But they stayed behind (again), and somehow it was me, Smacko, and Spritz heading to Dustin�s for beer drinking games (again). I don�t know what the deal is � Why this same terrible event time and again? Has Spritz finally found some balance in his love life where he doesn�t need to get some extra-curricular tail? Maybe the squirter was what did it.

So, it was on through the tundra to that misery. I dunno, maybe I hate it so much because I don�t think any of the people really like me there. Junior tolerates me OK, and I guess so does Dustin, but who else? That fucking tall guy (renamed mentally to Z � I decided he was so tall that his balls probably hang low� Draggin� balls, get it? Sigh, I hope so) who touches everyone way too much, Jason Kahn (always a winner), Brytne (depressed and hammered), Dan (who I am certainly holds an irrational hatred for me) and a further cavalcade of horrors with not even one girl in sight. I got shoved around, I got slapped in the face� I just � bleh. At first I thought it was that they were just so darn much more masculine than me, but there was like a ten minute conversation on cooking, so it can�t be that� They love Smacko, they enjoy Spritz, and I usually just want to be fucking gone. Well, I did my best. Had Smacko pop open a bottle of bubbly for me (Cook�s � almost palatable stuff), which I downed in the corner instead of playing drinking games. They called me a pussy, but I knew I would be well set. I was right.

I think I remember the first crack in my mental stability was in the can at Dustin�s. I looked at myself in the mirror, and the fragile self-confidence I had been fostering for so long finally split in two. �You will never get a girl like this. Never.� And with that cheery thought, back out to the festivities!

Population almost immediately halved itself after our arrival, but we stayed for� too long. I eventually got Smacko aside and convinced him to get the fuck out with me. Try and get someone to drive us to Steak and Shake, yes? I was gone, but he dutifully very much further gone. At least I could still remember song lyrics. He pissed all over the Super Pantry bathroom�s soap dispenser (for the second time, I might add), and we stormed into the house to bother Kyle and Shelly, who were watching Brother Bear of all things after what I�m sure was an evening of getting intimate. Sigh again. I piled on, and somehow they were talked into walking with us to Perkins. That lasted about half a block until Shelly remembered some of the parties on her hand, and we went to track down the closest (Soccer girls? The current debate was whether that meant fit ladies and squat lesbians). Unfortunately, the facebook address had been wrong or something, because there was definitely no party (or no building) around. In the process, we met these two Asian guys who had made the same mistake and who quickly joined up with us to scout out something new. Smacko vanished, and I ran about saying racial slurs a little too loudly. My bad. But come on, who names their child Sonny? Anyway, there was supposed to be some bullshit right across the street from us, but a) it wasn�t a real party (in the college sense, that is) and b) it was long over by the time we pounded on the door. Or at least the gay boy told us. That was going to be it for our evening. Sonny and his friend would carry on their search, and I was actually fairly tempted to join them� until they made lewd comments about me jacking off while Kyle and Shelly fucked. Then I wanted to kill them. Instead, there was snow frolicking, and a propane tank mysteriously appeared on our porch from nowhere.

Back at home there was like a 45 minute hunt for a place that still delivered food. I was put on the line with One World Pizza (a brilliant notion that), and some shit was sent in our direction. Another madcap idea was volunteering to ride my bike to the gas station to get Kyle some nasty cola to drink. The last three days, I've nearly fallen half a dozen times on my bike each time I've gone out. Better go it filled with gallons of cheap liquor! On the way back, I remember vaguely I was harassed by some hobos. Hobos, people standing around a flaming barrel, whatever. I was fast, though. The pizza was greasy and awful, but it went along with Harold & Kumar pretty well. I passed out on the couch and slept roughly 11 hours.

Although my bellybutton ring is aching in the manner of when I have intercourse (with the rubbing of bodies tearing holes in my navel and such), but I am sure it is just a coen-sigh-dance.