Fuck me with a rusty fire poker I feel like shit. Ok, let's recap (read: try to remember) the happenings of the last couple of days. It's still a bit fuzzy, as am I, but I'll do my best.
Wednesday (Night):
I've got a juice bottle filled with a nasty booze concoction that I told y'all about yesterday (technically I wrote it the day before but never posted it until last night). It went down fast and smooth and to be quite frank I really enjoyed it, disgusting as it was. Now I'm just looking to get cocked. I had a shitty day with personal stuff and then another one at work. Aren't I the best little multi-tasker? Two bad days crammed into ten hours, yay me! So, next on the chopping block to be sentenced to death via my gullet, the rest of my Harvey's at about three quarters of a bottle. I'm being vulgar, a little obnoxious, and more than a little temperamental. Next thing you know I'm lurching about the apartment, sucking down sherry straight from the bottle, and cursing like a sailor. Great, now I'm a pirate. Arrrggggh!
In walks my flatmate from work to witness the start of what will inevitably be a lovely train wreck of an evening. We briefly discuss the court incident before he heads off to shower and change to go to the pub. Politely declining several requests that I accompany him on his journey doesn't ever seem to stop him from insisting anyway. I inform him that I had no money, due to my chronic ignorance of how much money I ever actually have in my bank account and overspending, and that I would not be able to buy anything. Undeterred and ever persistent, eventually I am coerced into going just for a beer or two.
Man, I love the pub. I walk, and by walk I mean stumble, into the bar area and I am instantly greeted by a rowdy group of men bellied up and knocking back brews. It seems as though all of my drinking buddies are out in full force and they all have the single goal of getting me trashed in celebration of the divorce. Before I even get the attention of the bartender, a beer and a shot are thrust into my hands. That's about the last thing I remember from that night. I'm still waiting to get a few more accounts of what actually happened, but so far I've been told that I drank rather admirably prior to passing out on the couch in the pub lobby. At one point I was also carried back into the bar, marginally coherent, and was bought another round of shots. My friends are friggen awesome.
Sometime around 1:30 A.M. I wake up in the back of my roommate's car and fall out the door. The alarm starts blaring because for some reason my roommate thought it would be a good idea to lock me inside. Naturally, there is a cop hanging around in the parking lot and a drunken man near a car with its alarm going off is rarely a good sign. I do believe that I managed to convince him that I wasn't actually stealing this vehicle but that I was only trying to get out. It may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that my roommate came outside and spoke with the officer. Trooper Asshat offered his condolances and left to go chase shiny things.
I make it back into the bar just in time for last call. As the bartender is kicking people out I receive an invite to head to a friend's house for the after party. Not that I was in much of a position to protest anyway, but I happily accept the offer. About a half dozen of us arrive and start drinking beers. A friend decides that now is as good a time as any to spark up and everyone present that partakes was perfectly amiable to the notion. It seems that stoned people like to play cards as evidenced by the several different variations of Pitch that we all started playing. The card games quickly degenerate into Black-Jack for quarters - my roommate still owes me 75 cents.
Having had my fill of alcohol and illicit substances, I excuse myself to go take a nap in a chair somewhere. Thankfully I didn't end up in a closet or outside, but opted to sit in the living room. Just before I shut my eyes I make a mental note of the fact that it is getting rather light outside. A couple of hours later I wake up to the sound of someone rapping at the door. I open the door and inform the two children waiting across the threshold that whomever they are seeking is not awake and they should promptly bugger off. Glance at the cell and it's now 7:00 A.M.
My roommate, who also had the wherewithal to find a chair in the living room, is woken up and soon we are driving back to the pub to retrieve his transport. A brief ride home, a long shower, and some Visene liberally applied to the eyes leaves me just enough time to only barely be late for work. And in case you were curious, no the cologne I'm wearing was definitely not enough to mask the stink of booze on my breath.
Wednesday (Night):
I've got a juice bottle filled with a nasty booze concoction that I told y'all about yesterday (technically I wrote it the day before but never posted it until last night). It went down fast and smooth and to be quite frank I really enjoyed it, disgusting as it was. Now I'm just looking to get cocked. I had a shitty day with personal stuff and then another one at work. Aren't I the best little multi-tasker? Two bad days crammed into ten hours, yay me! So, next on the chopping block to be sentenced to death via my gullet, the rest of my Harvey's at about three quarters of a bottle. I'm being vulgar, a little obnoxious, and more than a little temperamental. Next thing you know I'm lurching about the apartment, sucking down sherry straight from the bottle, and cursing like a sailor. Great, now I'm a pirate. Arrrggggh!
In walks my flatmate from work to witness the start of what will inevitably be a lovely train wreck of an evening. We briefly discuss the court incident before he heads off to shower and change to go to the pub. Politely declining several requests that I accompany him on his journey doesn't ever seem to stop him from insisting anyway. I inform him that I had no money, due to my chronic ignorance of how much money I ever actually have in my bank account and overspending, and that I would not be able to buy anything. Undeterred and ever persistent, eventually I am coerced into going just for a beer or two.
Man, I love the pub. I walk, and by walk I mean stumble, into the bar area and I am instantly greeted by a rowdy group of men bellied up and knocking back brews. It seems as though all of my drinking buddies are out in full force and they all have the single goal of getting me trashed in celebration of the divorce. Before I even get the attention of the bartender, a beer and a shot are thrust into my hands. That's about the last thing I remember from that night. I'm still waiting to get a few more accounts of what actually happened, but so far I've been told that I drank rather admirably prior to passing out on the couch in the pub lobby. At one point I was also carried back into the bar, marginally coherent, and was bought another round of shots. My friends are friggen awesome.
Sometime around 1:30 A.M. I wake up in the back of my roommate's car and fall out the door. The alarm starts blaring because for some reason my roommate thought it would be a good idea to lock me inside. Naturally, there is a cop hanging around in the parking lot and a drunken man near a car with its alarm going off is rarely a good sign. I do believe that I managed to convince him that I wasn't actually stealing this vehicle but that I was only trying to get out. It may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that my roommate came outside and spoke with the officer. Trooper Asshat offered his condolances and left to go chase shiny things.
I make it back into the bar just in time for last call. As the bartender is kicking people out I receive an invite to head to a friend's house for the after party. Not that I was in much of a position to protest anyway, but I happily accept the offer. About a half dozen of us arrive and start drinking beers. A friend decides that now is as good a time as any to spark up and everyone present that partakes was perfectly amiable to the notion. It seems that stoned people like to play cards as evidenced by the several different variations of Pitch that we all started playing. The card games quickly degenerate into Black-Jack for quarters - my roommate still owes me 75 cents.
Having had my fill of alcohol and illicit substances, I excuse myself to go take a nap in a chair somewhere. Thankfully I didn't end up in a closet or outside, but opted to sit in the living room. Just before I shut my eyes I make a mental note of the fact that it is getting rather light outside. A couple of hours later I wake up to the sound of someone rapping at the door. I open the door and inform the two children waiting across the threshold that whomever they are seeking is not awake and they should promptly bugger off. Glance at the cell and it's now 7:00 A.M.
My roommate, who also had the wherewithal to find a chair in the living room, is woken up and soon we are driving back to the pub to retrieve his transport. A brief ride home, a long shower, and some Visene liberally applied to the eyes leaves me just enough time to only barely be late for work. And in case you were curious, no the cologne I'm wearing was definitely not enough to mask the stink of booze on my breath.
Now that's friends for you... skint as feck yet they feel compelled to ply you with booze. Respect.
The new Firefox 2.0 browser has an auto-spell function. This function needs severe work I feel.