Thread: a bit of my memoirs

this is a novel/auto-bio type thing i'm working on... i picked a couple sections to share with yall. what with being on a posting binge due to unemployment and absolute boredom... enjoy


People Who Are Allergic to Cats Probably Shouldn't Sit Next to Me
and other pick-up lines

Chapter 47 and 2/3rds

Love Stoned & Whiskey Drunk

"it smells like sex, jack daniels, and shattered dreams in here"

Recently I started dating one of my better friends from Carbondale. And by better friends, I mean the kind that shows up with a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and an open agenda. He said to me "this is either going to be really awesome, or really, really bad," also calling me, "my girlfriend- or whatever you are..."

I'm head over heels for him- or, heels over head, on a good day- although sometimes I wonder if at 25 years old, recently laid off, and bills piling up like beer cans in the sink, this is a healthy way of living. I told my mother that anyone wanting to pass judgement can "go fuck themselves, I'm a FUNCTIONING drunk, I'll die as young as I please- just don't buy any stock in my liver."

After popping Plan B the other day, it crossed my mind that I probably have nothing to worry about regardless, since there's no way in Germany that his lil guys would ever even find their way up my fallopian Autobon, let alone greet the whiskey seasoned egg at the end of the journey. These are the things I think about without a job to keep me preoccupied. My brain is darker than California during Enron's reign over the power grids.

I received a text a week ago from a contact labeled "Trouble," saying "ur a btich for not being real" and I think the appropriate response should've been "you're a tool for failing to give me an orgasm." Instead I said "Ok."

My number increased significantly this summer, while during a stint of gin addled unemployment, my libido took control of what little gray matter remains in my skull. The contact additions in my phone include "Trouble," "Psycho pants," and "Brownie." Brownie was a gem in particular, since I knew him only as this, and I am tickled pink that I have had sex and yelled "OH, Brownie!" I later discovered that the kid's name is Chris Brown, and immediately thought "no wonder I had bruises all over my thighs."

***

"if they gave jobs based on how good I look in a suit... I'd be the fucking boss."

I called my father last week to bounce the idea of grad school off him. After lecturing me on how he wants to retire someday and isn't paying for grad school, and I just don't work hard enough to find my dream job- he informed me that he thought my only viable options are to "join the Army or marry a rich man- but even that's going to take work, you'll have to learn to entertain people."

I still can't wrap my head around it. I entertain people just fine, or so I'm told the next day. I'd be the perfect politician's wife, don't you think?

I received my "unemployment check" today, which actually comes in the form of a Visa card. This, in addition to the "food stamps" that come on another plastic card, makes me feel like a classy, North Shore degenerate. I can't wait to take the Visa to the liquor store to buy a fifth of Evan Williams.

When I'm not mixing a jack and coke, I'm weighing the option of mixing a jack and coke versus hitting the treadmill in the basement. I usually chain smoke and ponder this decision until 4 o'clock rolls around, and by then the decision is made for me.

I start working for the County in a week, and had a drug test yesterday to confirm I'm not smokin the dope. The night before, we ate asparagus for dinner. Sam: 1, Pee-technician: 0.

Chapter 28

How to Lose Friends and Influence People

"I really just want to be your first divorce"

I had a date with a girlfriend to discuss my potential in working with a friend of hers for a phone sex line. Apparently it's a sweet gig that pays $30/hr and I can play online poker while moaning into a go-phone. During this business meeting, I managed to throw back a fifth of jack, three bottles of wine, two bottles of champagne, and a case of Coors. I am unable to comprehend how at 5'4'' and 130lbs of thunder thigh, this was even physically possible.

I remember nothing, but I have discerned through several different sources that I told a good friend who just got engaged that her fiancee is a douche bag and is cheating on her; I tried to strangle my cousin/roommate; and then I ran into a wall, fell on my ass and proceeded to bawl like a toddler on the floor. After he cleaned me up, my boyfriend put me to bed... where I bit him repeatedly and seduced him into agreeing to fuck me- at which point I passed out and snored worse than our overweight pug. I guess he was proud and impressed with my sauce management abilities- up until this point.
This was a Wednesday night, and I spoke to him on Thursday afternoon in a haze, stating, "I am not drinking again until the weekend..."

I am considering a triumphant return to AA.

***

"If I named my tits Bebop and Rocksteady, do I need to start calling my vagina Shredder?"

I wonder if everyone listens to music the way I do: I am always the subject of the song; animal, mineral or vegetable; and this makes dancing a lot of fun.

The last time I was in chicago, I drank a little too much vodka/beer/wine, and hosted a one woman dance party for myself- and a peep show for a dozen of my closest friends.

“You took your top off, grabbed your tits, and were like... dancing and moving them to the beat. I wish you could've seen it. You've got some moves, girl.”

it is unfortunate that I know exactly what she's talking about, that I have seen it, and that I would never be caught (sober) doing that outside my own bathroom. Let alone at a pool party. In the span of 4 hours or so i'm told, I managed to smash a wineglass on the pool deck of a posh michigan ave apartment high-rise, concuss my skull while racing underwater, rock out to christina aguilara in the nude, and make out with my ex.

I'd initially been dressed to kill because of this ex in particular- the same one who's smiling pictures I probably should've burned six years ago, but still cherish. I settled for killing my own braincells and blacked out, a result of the vodka/head injury cocktail. And somehow, there is one smiling image burned into my memory- And it's not six years past. This absolutely kills me.

What won't kill me, is the brain tumor that I don't have. Thanks, CAT scan!

The hospital visit was a real treat. I didn't break down and go until 2 days after hitting my head, thinking I could tough it out, but not quite thinking right. Almost vomitting into a dog bowl at work can be a real eye opener. In the ER, they gave me a warm blanket, rubbed my belly, and sent me through the whirring chamber of fear to be sure my brain wasn't bleeding along with my pride. When the doctor gave me anti-nausea medication and 3 days off work, I asked him if he would cover my shift. He graciously declined, and I returned to the kennel the next day full of the anti-nausea pills whos side effects included 'headaches.' Marvelous.

I've become acutely aware of the fact that I need to give up smoking. It's very difficult because I love cigarettes. I would make love to cigarettes and birth their tiny cigarillos if that were plausable. Meanwhile, my teeth are turning brown, I have zero lung capacity, and I smell like I rolled in a giant ashtray while wearing a damp wool sweater. How I manage to attract the opposite sex is a mystery to me. I wish these southern tobacco lords could enhance the appeal of us addicts, at least make this toxic smoke smell like lavender or laundry detergent. Or what creating about a vitamin-infused blend? Vitarettes.

Cigarettes and coffee are probably two of my favorite pleasures on the planet, besides an orgasm. I cannot remember the last time I didn't start my day without coffee. If only it were possible to percolate an orgasm every morning, my teeth might be a little whiter.

When I was too lazy to brew it myself, I would go to burger king where they knew me as "Turbo." It should probably be a sad day when the fast food servers call you what you order, but I found it rather endearing. Thank god I don't have a fetish for Whoppers or Thick Burgers. They would see me come walking up the sidewalk and set up my cup -6 creamers, 2 sugars- before I even walked in the door. The day that I discovered better and cheaper coffee at BP was a real sad day, and I felt guilty, as though I betrayed my steady. The burger king cashier called me a traitor. Maybe I should send them a card or some flowers.

(i think i may have posted the last few paragraphs maybe a year ago, but i couldn't find evidence of this. sooo whatev.)
also, i realize that i drink a lot. these things, they happen. don't judge me, monkey.