let me give you the scenario:
i just got home from the bookstore with the guy who taught me to play guitar when i was in junior high. we had gone out to dinner with my new roommate, her boyfriend, and two of their lady-friends. it was pleasantly awkward, but my buddy and i made the best of it; by that i mean i had two tall glasses of stella and he had two lemonades (he's kinda straight-edge and stuff). the highlight of the dining experience was when our waitress brought over the first round of drinks. as she handed me my beer she informed me that my drink had been paid for by the man in the white hat across the room. i was pretty disturbed at first at the thought of a strange man buying me a drink, and was rather relieved when i looked over and saw that it was my fellow-apprentice coworker who's my best bud in the plumber's union. (shit, i keep forgetting to make the profession sound more prestigious by saying "pipefitter" instead of "plumber.") he smiled and laughed as his wife and three children waved from their table. it felt good for some reason, being recognized in public randomly and having a good friend buy me a tall one at the end of a long week. i went over and spoke to them for awhile, his wife said she saw my wonderful myspace photos from the night my "friends" dressed me up like a designer douchebag. i tried to explain myself, but gave up and changed the subject. the meal was decent, but i could barely finish my burger. one of the girls that came out to eat with us lives in a nearby town. she's pretty attractive and made good conversation, so i was a little disappointed to find out that she was not coming back with the rest of us to drink after dinner since she had a date with some guy at the riverfront. my friend was equally let down by the news, and we both decided to drown our woes at the bookstore across the parking lot after dinner instead of coming back to my place to "party" with my roommate and her boyfriend. i guess it wasn't meant to be. regardless, my friend and i cut our losses and had a few good laughs at the bookstore. i got a couple novels to put on deck since i've been reading mostly poetry and journals lately. we stalked a few pretentious literary women through the aisles until it was even less cool than originally and i decided to check out some books instead of some babes. the ride home seemed promising; it was still early and i'd be able to read and write as i had hoped to do before the whole dinner/"party" fiasco was proposed (and botched). that feeling of relief didn't last long. i got home, checked my away message, and saw that my Ex had im'd me for the first time in two years. when i say Ex, i mean The Ex. as in the one i went out with when i was eighteen and nineteen, the first girl i really loved, my ideal woman, the one that got away, the one that indirectly led to me dropping out of college (a lot of shit happened that year, but her breaking up with my sorry ass was the first domino in the chain of everynight whiskey sours), the one i still have nightmares about. she asked a two-part question about my tattoo artist, not the kind of thing worthy of such a random message. she must've been drunk, or getting there. her away message corroborated my theory with its reference to sam adams. didnt she read the bukowski poem in my stupid profile about how i cringe when ex's try to look me up or i see lookalikes in public? did she read my away message about how frustrating it is to have a good job and want to settle down but not be able to because most people my age are still living at home, partying most nights, and more focused on fun than responsibility? or maybe she did and wanted to talk anyway, even better, though not likely. i replied appropriately and asked a few friendly questions of my own. then i went downstairs and made myself a strong canadian club and cherry coke, saying "i wasn't even going to drink tonight..." to myself as i poured. i was a little amazed with myself for the consistently perfect estimation of alcohol and ice as the coke can emptied right at the top of the pint-and-a-half glass. i knew the night was headed downhill, and the day had already been pretty low. i called my straightedge friend again and told him the deal, Ex and whiskey emphasized. he said he'd be right over. when he got here he sat down on the floor, found two yearbooks from elementary school that recently floated to the surface and wound up near my bookshelf, and proceeded to read embarrassingly relevant signatures wishing me luck in obtaining a girlfriend by the next schoolyear. christ, was i even that obviously pathetic in sixth grade? apparently, because according to the damn yearbook i had planned on being an fbi agent or a marine (talk about polar opposites), and now i'm even worse off: a union plumber... errr, "pipefitter." fuck, i hope she doesn't respond. i might be honest. i'll pass out now and save the topics i had meant to touch on for another more sober, less traumatic evening. fuck, The Ex used to use "traumatizing" all the time instead of "traumatic" and it annoyed the shit out of me because one's a present-tense verb and one's an adjective and ahhhh fuck listen to me, maybe it really was doomed to begin with and i should shut up and go to bed now.
Currently reading:
"Play The Piano Drunk Like A Percussion Instrument Until The Fingers Begin To Bleed A Bit" by Charles Bukowski
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