I woke up on a stripped college dorm mattress sometime after ten. Something smelled like vomit. I quickly realized it was me. Naked and bleeding slightly, I squinted hard in the sunlight pouring over me like cheap Canadian whiskey.
Is that what I drank?
I was a gas tank last night, match-ready and full of potential. I was far from sober and somewhere around enlightened, or at the very least contented. Somewhere between drinks, or quite possibly, that girl’s legs, I found something wonderful. Although, I’m pretty sure I lost it along with my sunglasses.
Why I was wearing them in the dark is beyond me.
A black guy with a name I can’t pronounce asked me what I wanted to mix my drink with. I responded by doing my best impression of John Belushi. Southern Comfort is a poor substitute for Jack Daniel’s. It’s a little too sweet, but it burns a lot less and goes down fairly smooth, so I think I’m okay with my choice.
I spent some time talking politics with a girl who had been with four men that day, although I’m fairly sure I was one of them. She held her own quite well. Take that as you will. I try not to pass judgement though, since if it wasn’t for girls like her, guys like me would have nothing interesting to write about.
I noticed a while back that I tend to romanticize self-destruction. A recovering alcoholic that I know told me that one day, after he retires, he wants to buy a big house out in the desert somewhere in New Mexico and drink himself to death. It’s strange, but somehow I find that heartbreakingly beautiful.
When I was younger I would write poems about the way light filtered through the glass of empty beer bottles and how different colored glass made me miss the different girls that I had loved. Now it just makes me miss the beer that was in them.
They tell me that peeling the labels off bottles is a sign of sexual frustration. When I’m peeling the clothes off women I often wish they were bottles.
I liked the color of her glass and her label said, “Taste Me”, so I was happy to give her a try. A little hoppy and not enough head, but well rounded and full bodied. Not an all-together unpleasant experience. At the very least, I’d certainly drink one again if it was offered.
I think my perfect woman is a good glass of scotch. Aged eighteen years. Smokey, without all the burn. Smooth going down. Always on the rocks.
That may have been more direct than I intended.
It’s hard being wordy when you’re this hungover. Almost as hard as being pithy when you’re twelve deep into a thirty rack and gaining momentum by the minute.
I should probably shower and wash last night off, but for now I’ll let it stick with me. At least I think that’s what that is.