newme

For the last week and a half I have been drunk, social, outgoing. I have danced on patios, in living rooms, on the street, and in the back rooms of bars. I have dressed as a “hot cop” and a lecherous mid-life college professor. I have flirted, yelled, broken glasses, grabbed my crotch. In the wake of these bacchanalian barbecues, bluegrass throwdowns, spring time hangovers, tequila brunches, and beer garden escapades, I feel content, to an extent. I have ignored unmindful Miranda, and this is ok. I have been offered a job in a distant desert, and this is great. I have renewed my faith in my ability to impress, to touch a woman’s hand and make her shiver, to grind with the grace of the inebriated, and to play the arrogant asshole, bullying cynic, wide-eyed buffoon, booty shaking glad handing smile man.
I have been drunk for days, and am tired all of the time. I haven’t done work for a week and a half. My eyes are always dry and sleep, though I get it, leaves me tired, cotton-mouthed, bleary. I am really just passing the time, and the nights move faster when the events are blurred by my sleepy, drunken eyes.

My history with Sybil, to date

I meet Sybil in a dive bar, delectably. After hours of conversation, we’ve drunk our blue ribbon beer and eventually begin kicking over tables and chairs. We end up in a vocal fight with some of the regulars. Righteously, they demand we have respect for their bar. We argue that blowing off steam by kicking off some shitty yet sturdy chairs isn’t hurting anyone. Fingers are pointed, voices are raised. Progressively, people get involved until there are several knots of patrons shouting in each others’ faces. It’s like a whirlpool has broken up into several smaller, angry eddies, like when a baseball brawl transitions from one large scrum to several dueling pairs. I am kicked out of the bar and I can’t see Sybil. I walk home.

She and I are at the same party, and drunk again. Everyone’s trading clothing with each other; it’s a melee of garment swapping, and I emerge in orange. I’m wearing a too-tight orange t-shirt that says “I Love Carbs!” on it, orange tube socks, orange underpants, an orange bandana, and two slippers that were made to look like basketballs. Sybil is in red. I dance in my underwear, shaking my luminous ass. It’s raining, but everyone’s outside in socks, flip-flops, slippers, bare feet. Sybil is preparing to attack a piñata. I stand behind her and tie a yellow cummerbund around her head, putting a pair of green swim goggles over it to hold it fast. I’m wondering where all of these accessories came from while Sybil’s assaulting a Paper Mache Spongebob Squarepants with a broomstick. The small crowd cheers when she breaks the broomstick over the piñata, spilling Mexican hard candies and wooden splinters all over the wet sidewalk and lawn. The inevitable scramble ensues, made messier by sodden grass, alcohol, and lustiness. There is more dancing. Before she leaves, I ask for her phone number. She says, ‘oh good, we’re friends now.” I say yes.

I never call.

Sybil is at the coffeehouse, working. I am stretching a sore shoulder, left arm over right clavicle, head pivoted. I see her in the corner, watching me. We talk for a moment and I cut the conversation short with an abrupt goodbye. I return to my table. I wonder if I’ve hurt her feelings.

So I return to her table, using my exit from the shop as an excuse to stop by. This time, I grab the back of a chair, she takes her feet off of it, and I sit down. I am overcaffeinated and am talking in a rapid, attention deficient patter, but she’s laughing, so I’m sticking with it. She smiles appealingly. After a few minutes, I am leaving again. She invites me to her birthday party. I tell her I’ll be there . . .hopefully. Am I being coy? I don’t know.

And then I have these dreams. For an entire night it’s the same dream, or at least variations on the same dream. Sybil is there and she’s holding a four-year-old boy. The boy is my son and I’ve just become cognizant of his existence. I waver between confusion as to how I could have conceived this child, excitement at the prospect of raising my son with Sybil, and apprehension on how we’ll manage this boy, this burden. I wake up exhausted.

Last night, between midnight and five

My success in sleeping was short lived.

Last night between midnight and 5 AM, I
Finished a game of poker with friends, somewhat drunk.
Went home and played online poker.
Watched a rerun of Battlestar Galactica. Took Tylenol PM
Ate a peanut butter sandwich.
Listened to This American Life.
Masturbated. This took a long time.
Ate ramen.
Lay there for a while.
Listened to Meet the Press.
Finally, slept.

sleeping, pills

In the wake of emotional turmoil, physical pain, and my poor living habits, I've had more than enough insomnia recently. I’ve decided to resort to sleep aids in an attempt to resolve the my sleeplessness. Unwilling to deal with doctors and prescriptions, my winning self-prescribed combination has become alcohol and Tylenol PM. Yesterday, I had a visit from an ex-girlfriend, Carrie, who I once believed I would marry. She hurt me grievously last fall.

The visit was short and painful, involving an exchange of possessions and a few quick words. Her cousin waited outside in in the car, and she handed me a letter, calling it a “peace offering.” Reading the tritisms and platitudes that were all she could muster, reading the “I hope things work out for you,” and the “Someday I would like to salvage our friendship,” brought back all of the inconsiderate injuries she’d inflicted on me.

I went out to dinner with friends. I spent most of it staring at the lighting fixtures. Felix told me he was worried about me. I blushed.

I bought a bottle of champagne, went home, and drank it from a mug while watching an awful British movie. I gulped the drink, tried to interpret the cockney accents, and fumed. I took two Tylenol PM and turned on "Meet the Press" to disctract me. It worked. I woke up thirteen hours later feeling dry-mouthed and lightheaded. I was dizzy with grogginess when I woke up. I know enough about my body’s reaction to alcohol to know that the Tylenol was responsible for most of my lethargy. That stuff should be prescription-only, but I’ not complaining.

. . .

I have spent the last three days, lying on my right side, on the old green sheets of my broken-down bed, watching endless episodes of Battlestar Galactica, drinking expensive vodka, and ordering the occasional bacon, pineapple, jalapeno pizza from Papa Johns. I have become morally, physically, emotionally corrupt.
At times, I wish I were one of the few human survivors in the aftermath of a robot-induced holocaust. I think that might force me to feel invested in something.