Day 63
Alright, alright I didn't post yesterday (did anyone notice). It's super hard to post when you are so drunk you throw your keys in the toilet. A lot of things happened yesterday here's a few of them before we move on to the boring ass shit that went down today:
1. I ate Mr. Noodles and spent most of my day thinking about how wonderful Mr. Noodles is and how cheap Mr. Noodles is and how I was going to save money AND lose weight by eating only Mr. Noodles. Then, I got on the bus and shared my plans (I should never talk to anyone). The kids in my program all laughed at me and one even said, "My friends used to eat Mr. Noodles like all the time and she got cancer."
2. I then shared my quit smoking tactic of having cigarettes around to make it too easy to go back to smoking and the Mr. Noodles wrecking bastards scolded me and disagreed with me. I should've told them that I had a friend who quit smoking by getting rid of all things cigarette and they got cancer anyhow, but, I am not a liar (and I hate myself for it).
3. I went to postcard story night. Basically, all of the writing kids get together and are given one phrase chosen at random from a book and have 5 minutes to write a story about it, pretty much an excuse to drink beer. That's when my non-soberness began. A pitcher in I wrote the following stories:
"All the school girls have passed me by I mean I'll buy the cookies I'll give them a tip. I support the Girl Scouts of America. One minor sexual transgression doesn't mean I'll reoffend, right? And, since when is wearing mirrors on your shoes a crime? If they did that on the runways of Europe I wouldn't have gotten 3-5. I'd be praised as a fashion pioneer. "Hey girl scout, come on over here. I'll buy some of your delicious cookies."
And,
"Beauty does not rest but ugly does. In fact if you rest enough you just may become the ugliest person alive. This is the first time I've been awake in 47 days, 3 hours, and 21 minutes. I haven't gotten all that much uglier, but I am trying. One day I will be the ugliest I"ll show that Barry Manilow that it'll be me one day. I'll get a crown and a sash and be able to throw candy at the brats watching the parade. Gotta rest."
4. After the postcards and a few pitchers we headed to one of the writer's houses. She lives in a well, a hippie art commune sort of place. I am positive it is freaky enough during the daylight hours sober but under darkness and the influence it was downright surreal. The walls were crumbling, people were hula-hooping and I ended up next to a guy playing Neutral Milk Hotel songs on a guitar and singing along. Not to mention the weird lighted garden, the Robert Benigni-ish guy running around and beat boxing, the huge orange cat that looked like it would burst into a Shakespearean soliloquy at any moment, and the white-haired vaguely foreign child molester ringleader pushing petitions to keep the dump from being taken by the city. I wouldn't have believed any of this but some jackass put up a video of it on youtube (isn't that always the case).
5. When I finally made it home my keys flew into my toilet and I fell asleep awaking this morning to find stuff strewn all over my apartment and me (somewhat miraculously) clad in pajamas. Damn, I thought, I didn't bring anyone home.
Which brings me to today. I went to breakfast (again, miraculously). Everyone asked me if I was sick, shifting over in their chairs at my presence. I told them that I was just hungover to ease their fears of catching diseases or killer flu viruses. Telling them the truth was a huge mistake as I had to hear 10 different people say the exact same, "Whoa, you got drunk on a Tuesday?" What they meant to say was, "Whoa you got drunk on a Tuesday, you must have a huge drinking problem and hate yourself." What their unconscious meant to say was, "Whoa you got drunk on a Tuesday, I spent my Tuesday night alone in my room grading papers that will be forgotten about wishing I had a friend that isn't just an avatar."
I choked down my eggs and three glasses of water chased by three glasses of milk. I don't know what it is about milk lately...and went back to bed and back to sleep after an hour of imagining myself initiate a kiss on my crush of the moment. My life would be so much more exciting if I was a pervert.
The day passed by and I fed two of my friends for dinner at the risk of them realizing how much of a loser I am by interacting with my rezmates. They realized it. But, I have a feeling they already know I'm a loser and are befriending me out of a twisted charity like on Clueless.
After supper my bodyguard and I (whom I just found out only hugged me the other night because he was being filmed, goddamn it) headed off to see some improv. The show was pretty good, except the clapping. Before each scene the audience and cast clapped out a rhythm (I hate clapping). Halfway through the first part of the show a guy walked in and I saw him go down the aisle. He was absolutely gorgeous in an adorable way. My friend called out to him, "Warren," in a loud whisper. He didn't hear. I whispered to her that I was in love with her friend. She told me he liked women and doesn't have a girlfriend and that he is ultra Christian, sort of. Jesus, I thought, but I said, "Does that mean no sex?"
After the show my friend left her umbrella and ran down to talk to Warren who looked stunning in his Kermit-green sweater. I nabbed the umbrella and the opportunity to meet him. (ultra Christians are pretty progressive these days, right?) At times like this I always pretend my life is a movie. I mean, I was in love with him at first sight. And, if you believe in something hard enough it will become true, except the toothfairy. So, I introduced myself to him in a really loud voice and immediately followed with, "I love you." He smiled the smile you smile when you want the tick-infested dog to back away. I followed with, "I mean, I love your sweater."
Later, Warren came up to me and my friends and I invited him to come to our postcard nights, because he said, "Well, maybe I'll see you guys around sometime like maybe for a drink." Promptly thereafter we started talking about Creative Writing and classes and he said the word, "Poetry" and like a retard-reflex (I know that's not proper but it sure does roll of the old naughty tongue nicely) I said, "I hate poetry." I think I've ruined my chances with my one true love forever. How can I be such a fool? But, if I keep believing that it'll work out then...I hope he's another toothfairy case.
-Canadian Castaway
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