you had no way of knowing how incredibly drunk i was or was capable of being and still standing on my own two feet. you hadn't seen me in two years or talked to me in three. i was free for the evening a total runaway and you could see me and speak aloud instead of just a wink across the produce section at walmart. i fucking hate walmart but bargain shopping is all i can ever afford.
sounds crazy sure but by the time we picked you up to scout for a bag i had downed at least eight beers and that was just the past hour and a half. back then my consumption started at lunch, even at work, a miniature collection of rumplemintz in my bottom back filing cabinet. it was normally sometime between six and seven that everything would go blank. a normal weekday i would make dinner feed the kid put him to bed and wake up surrounded by ripped loose leaf scribblings and broken cassette tapes in the all too sick morning having no memory of anything other than getting behind the wheel to pick him up from daycare around five. i wonder still how no one ever smelled the drunk, called me out, called the cops. guess i have inane powers of concealing total dependence.
i vaguely recall sitting on your lap in the back of a mutual friend's corsica trying to chew back the vomit from breathing in stale cigarette from fifteen year old upholstery. you were running your nicotine stained fingers up and down my thigh saying you're so cold get warm and me thinking for fucks sake i'm about to die of heat exposure spare me your worn game. but drunk turns your mind round quick and your pitiful play made me want you to run your fingers higher and hang around that's my downfall rooting underdog at my own expense.
we scored a seedy dime bag and you hid me home not mine but yours and i was happy to balance the drunk swirl with a smooth high plain i wanted desperately to be more on top of my obvious misplaced lust chance. did you lead me to the bathroom or was i already there? or you knocked on the door like can i join you me like let me wipe first? how did you kiss me there leaning up against your rusted sink complete with crusted toothpaste spat or did i totally switch on the whore and invite you in as i took a long drunk leak non aware. and just before i realized the mix of weed and st. ides had fucked me for you i felt you yank at my belt loops. tugging down. i always hated that nasty shit. st. ides/drunk fucking your call. i hate both but i take what i'm offered.
nomatter you were there and he was somewhere else and lord knows i had waited so long to be free and here i was straight getting fucked over a toilet. no idea where exactly except that i was ghetto somewhere i was never supposed to be and hoping helpless that i would be graced with total lack of memory of this fake fuck moment.
i woke up drooling on the bathroom floor some five hours later smelling the yellowed piss film that circled your commode. you offered me toast or coffee which was hospitable considering it was the twentieth and food stamps are hard to make last. you said you'd call me a cab you couldn't pay for but the only thought in my head was that sparks tastes kind of like orange juice and that would do for breakfast how long would it take me to stumble to seven eleven i had to get home by lunch time make pigs in a blanket for the kid.