Monday, February 19, 2007

maturation ...

twice this weekend i have done some relatively mature things involving me and the drink. it started friday with a dire need to souce myself silly in the comfort of my own buffy nest. wine flowing like ... wine. two packs of cigarettes. the ability to touch you with my song through this thing that is the internet.

i purchased a bottle of cab sav, super sized the fucker, and settled in for some sad, sad self destruction. there are a multitude of ways in which you can become neurotic and seep yourself into a semblence of an REO speedwagon video if the stars are aligned. reader, they were. so i sipped and wrote and wrote and sipped and every twinge of sad, moody, neediness was a delight to my sensory system. i thrive on the range of emotions a person can feel, especially when one is in control of them. and so when i want to get sad drink, chase my rabid mood swing to the bottom of a bottle of sweet sweet wine, i take it, embrace it and remember that there was a time when i felt absolutely nothing. your own personal prozac popper, without the prozac popping.

once an anonymous reader of my former blog commented that i'd not find happiness in a bottle of peppermint schnapps. while definitely a quoteable missive, he missed the point: sometimes this playa just likes to get sad. it isn't something you need to OD on. its just a role to play for a day. its like fucking accupuncture.

by the second glass i was feeling despondant. i misinterpreted something innocuous as down-right, soul wrenching cruelty toward me. i'd been infiltrated by evil and everything in my head was written by stephen king.

i had half a bottle of wine left.
i went to bed instead of finishing it and becoming more inclined toward psychosis.
i woke, happily, at 9:38 a.m.
am i still drunk? i wondered.
no. i'm not, i deduced.


saturday night i heard myself agreeing to do something with bubbles, when i really just wanted to write a profound, albeit somewhat funny, suicide note and hang myself from the rafters of my rarely mentioned garage. meanwhile, my landlord had been invited to a party that i wanted to crash so badly that it made my heart swell. a clan of like-minded folk, with a quirky penchance for abusing mabeline products, that was derailed.

but the plans with bubbles loomed.

i hate when i agree to go out before it occurs to me that i don't want to go out. typically i will have a urinary tract infection, and i will use it as a reason to beg off the soiree. as i didn't have one, i upheld my end of the bargain.

we went to quinlan's.

and here is where the world shows me it is funny. six, seven, eight months ago i'd sidled into quinlan's alone. settled in at the bar and gawked at my fellow drinkers. (i like to drink alone, quinlan's is perfect for such things). i found myself temporarily enamored with someone who was clearly a regular. i watched him wander that night, hoped to at least make eye contact. nada.

cut to last nite. he not only made eye-contact, he bought me a drink and began to give me a little chitter chatter.

for the first time in my life i got to say: "hmm. i have a boyfriend." and i meant it, owned it and was happy about it.

last night i literally introduced myself to someone as "chuck mcchukster's girlfriend."

feminism took a dive.


second instance of maturity: last nite. bubbles and i were drinking. my landlord invited us to an afterbar and we stalled in front of his house before he arrived. "dude," i told bubbles. "i just need to go to bed."

the idea of playing foosball and line dancing was so unappealing.

"that's totally fine," she said.

we skipped out. bolted from the crime scene. nearly had a head-on collision -- his cab and our's -- as he pulled onto his street.

i came home and went to bed. ignored the call of the leftover wine. had a great dream. woke at 9:38 a.m. for the second consecutive day.

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