05.Apr.2003
over-run by one, over-run by the other
--
reasons
18 tap beers.
Billy Idol and a blur of songs I don't care to remember.
Eyes of a pathological slaughterer enflame over beats that radiate my sternum.
Promiscuous bar-tenders and their extremely short, black skirts, over-ruled by their ability to call me "baby" for every single refill.
Polite and inebriated decline of getting my tits out for the guys at the club, who demanded the ladies, in fact, get their tits out.
I am evidently becoming tame in my old age.
Before I left, promiscuous bar-tender with the promiscuous, bar-tending, brown locks proclaimed, between bouts of sitting in Dustin's lap, "Sweetie, you look so sad! Why are you sad?"
"I'm drunk!" I hollered over the music, "As well as extremely tired!"
"Are you ready to leave?" Dustin asked, at 1:30 in the morning.
"Sure!"
Too drunk to go home.
"If it's no problem for you, you can crash out at my place," he said, and in the back of my mind, I hear Folk Implosion's "Natural One" seething from darker bits in my cerebrum.
"You may as well crash with me."
We are accidents waiting to happen.
Cigarette run to 7-11.
Purchasing of the requisite "I really need to sober up and immediately" foot-long, ham and cheese submarine sandwich, a past-time of my previous, drunken days living with Jay.
Requisite "Do you want a bite of this, Dustin?" inquiry.
Requisite purchasing of vanilla Prime Time.
Slew of Industrial/Goth songs rising from his speakers.
Requisite epiphany the 6-foot-two, self-proclaimed, 22-year-old Industrialite is singing to me.
Oddly-placed and possibly sexual question of, "What do you want more than anything in the world right now?"
My response? "A pony."
"Sure, I'll give you a back-rub," I said.
Strange joy as a product of Jubal and Dustin finally speaking to one another on the phone.
I'm sorry I have no more day-time minutes, Precious.
"Do you mind if I borrow one of your tee-shirts?" I asked.
"No, not at all," he responded.
I made him turn around when I slipped it on.
Falling asleep beside him, scarce light from the computer monitor in his bedroom and a lot of music that reminds me of my 4-in-the-morning adventures to Denny's in the truck of a heroin-tripping smack addict in 1998, he said, "Weird." And followed it up with, "Odd."
"Your bedroom is too hot," I murmured, then asked, "What's weird?"
"My back-pain is completely gone."
"Is this not a regular occurrence?"
"I have chronic back-pain; I think it's just odd it's gone."
--
When I awoke, I dressed and attempted to wake him up for work, but he is an eye-rolling son of a bitch when he's exhausted. Hung over, once he moved from the blankets, I collapsed onto his bed and listened to music. He asked me repeatedly what was wrong.
Despite the fact I ask everyone I care about if they're doing alright, it irks me ad infinitum to hear someone assume there is something wrong with me while I am being quiet.
People, I believe it's time you all understood I'm a relatively moody individual who prefers silence over idle blather, especially when there is music involved.
I explained that to him.
He left for work, and I spent the day with his mother, whom I love unquestionably and endlessly. She, still experiencing familial discontent, took a nap while I straightened up around the apartment and bought her cigarettes.
--
I forgot to mention the beers were free; far be it from me to decline free alcohol.
I did not, however, repaint my nails; I save that for important occasions, but thank you for the reminders, my pets. Remind me to fiercely shove my tongue down someone's throat the next time I'm inebriated. May it be female.
I'm signing off, sans poetry, with a sore back.
--
time & machine