After “Hitchin’ A Ride”

This is exactly what it looks like.  Yes, this is a beer, and that was a bottle of Jack.  It is now an empty bottle, hence the beer.  I had a bad day.

About an hour ago.  Yes, this is a recent development.  Why?  I told you, I had a bad day.  And you say I’m a bad listener.  No, there’s not more to it than that.  Look, grab a glass and join me, or leave me alone.  I’m fine.  I’ll go to a meeting and turn in my six-month chip when I’m hungover tomorrow.  Or I won’t.  I don’t really care at the moment.

Yes, I’m getting another beer.  Are you going to follow me to the kitchen?  Wonderful.  Cold one?  Okay, more for me.

For Pete’s sake, not with the crying.  That doesn’t get us anywhere.  You keep asking why.  Why, why, why.  Why the hell not?  I’m almost thirty, feel like I’m fifty—yes, I know I’m actually 27.  I’m buzzed, not retarded.  My point is, what exactly is everyone afraid I’m throwing away?  A dead-end job that barely covers my bills?  Dashing good looks that have never gotten me laid?  Look, I didn’t ask you to come over here, and I never asked for anyone’s help.  If I make you so goddamn sad, go cry about it with Mom.  You’re being less of a sister and more of a buzz kill right now.

Coming back to the living room?  Hello, anyone home?  Silent treatment, huh?  Always the mature one.  Well, join me if you decide you’re ready to stop sniffling and want to watch Army of Darkness or whatever else is on.

WHAT THE FUCK?!  Stop breaking the goddamn bottles!!  Jesus, and you’re the sober one?  You couldn’t just dump them down the drain?  Get out.  Yes, you got beer and glass all over my kitchen and I’m asking you to get the fuck out of my apartment before you break anything else.  Fine, tell Mom I kicked you out.  Just leave.  No, don’t bring her here.  What are you thinking?  She’s not going to change my mind.  What?  That doesn’t even make sense.  What are you going to do, break Dad’s urn over my head?  Yeah, that’s going to solve a lot.  Tell her whatever you want.  I’ll call her tomorrow.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  No, don’t tell her to call me.  Please, just leave.  Stop crying and leave, or leave and stop crying, whatever order you want to do it in.  Please just leave me alone.  One night, I just want to be alone and not worry about cleaning up after anyone.  When have I ever cleaned up after anyone?  Well, there’s the mess in the kitchen that’s waiting.  There’s all the times I bailed you out behind Mom’s back.  There was Dad’s funeral.  Look, I don’t want to talk about this now.  Jesus fuck, Laura, stop breaking shit!  You’re going to hurt yourself.  God, and you say I’m the one with a problem.

One response to “After “Hitchin’ A Ride”

  1. You make drinking sound fun.

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