28.Sep.2003
sixteen brutal misconceptions later
--
having beer for breakfast
I'm drinking too much. I have bills to pay.
I am obviously turning into 1/4th of a Dido song. Quick, somebody sell my beats to Dr. Dre.
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Wal*Mart is one of the only places in Oklahoma City, now, that carries Jack Daniel's Hard Cola. I love Jack Daniel's Hard Cola. Perhaps I do not love Jack Daniel's Hard Cola more than I love Jack Daniel's, but I'm nocturnal, and I miss the liquor stores during their normal, operating hours, therefore I am forced to go into Wal*Mart because I am (as are my drinking buddies) unnecessarily persnickety about 3.2% malt beverages. I think it could be worse. It could mirror the days I purchased 40s as an ode of perversion to a man whose very skin is constructed from unadulterated ridiculousness alone.
Wal*Mart makes me nervous. I'm generally an anxious sort with all matters in my existence, but it incontrovertibly triples the second I am sucked through those electronically sliding Gates of Hell.
Close upon my heels is Anna, my insecure proximity mate. Everything is an adventure to Anna. Everything is positive. Dew on the petals of early-morning chrysanthemums is a reason to shed a tear of delight for the unfurling universe of Light and Beauty(tm) to Anna.
I am a jaded, misanthropic cynic driven and derided by all of humanity. If you know me, you've caught glimpses of this demeanor. It's especially lurid when I've been drinking Jack Daniel's Hard Cola since midnight and, at five in the morning, I'm still sober.
Anna, God bless her, has been yammering incessantly since I stepped foot into fluorescent pandemonium and follows me as I scope out the Candle Section(tm). I hear her voice from behind my left shoulder, "You know, I love this belt. I should buy this belt. I can't buy this belt because I'm too fat. Michelle, are you listening? Can you hear me? Can I stay over at your house tonight? Will that bother you? Michelle? You haven't been paying attention to a word I've been saying, have you? Michelle? Do you hate me?"
I answer casually, "Yes," with a smile plastered to my questionably attractive mug.
Of course, I'm also insecure. I have a few complexes here and there. I'm neurotic as all hell. You all already know this.
I've been irrefutably depressed lately, and I've been thinking about cookies. Yes. Cookies. Cookies will love me in the morning when my makeup is smeared all over my face because I've just crashed the night before due to consuming vast quantities of cheap alcohol. I mention this to Anna.
"Cookies," I say.
"Ooooh!" she squeals. "No, brownies! Michelle, let's go get brownies! Let's go get brownies! Brownie mix! I'll buy them! Let's make them!"
I'm lost in thought by this point; I'm usually lost in thought. I once met a girl named Amber in 1998 who proclaimed she wasn't as deep as I am. I said, "I'm not deep, I'm just masochistic."
I notice this guy who looks like a cross between a serial rapist and a deer hunter, donned in torn, JNCO jeans and a beige vest. This is par for the course at Hell. Somehow, some way, he is familiar to me. This also doesn't surprise me. My eyes scan across his imposingly pasty build. I'm at the checkout counter where Terri and my brother have copious amounts of beer in a left-slanting shopping cart. I whip out my sandy-beached credit card so horribly reminiscent of California and sign my electronic credentials verifying I am, in fact, who I am, and that I have obviously purchased items for consumption. Anna has found the brownie mix. Everything is where it should be.
As I'm sauntering out of the store, blue-plastic Hell sack in hand, Anna's voice lifts over my right shoulder.
"So, can I stay over at your place tonight? That's ok, right? Are you ok? You haven't really said anything all night. I really can't imagine what you're going through right now. Brownies are delicious. Hello? Are you listening to me?"
Serial Deerist is ahead of me, dodging out of the store on the emergency side-exit, blocked by shopping carts. He and his crony are glancing over their shoulders at me as they nonchalantly shift the carts out of their ways. I grip my sack tighter and wonder if I had perhaps been a Nazi in a past life, and all of this is fair justification to meaningful acts of punishment.
Anna's voice continues to lift.
"Michelle? Michelle? I'm going to stay over at your place tonight. Have you seen the movie How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? It's hysterical. You'll love it. Michelle? Michelle? Am I annoying you, yet?"
Above our unassuming heads, the soft crackle of courtesy music leaks impenetrably from low-caliber speakers. The doors open up to midnight September cool air. I see the Acura in the parking lot. Behind me, voices chirp, "It's a small world after all ..."
--
It's six in the morning, Sunday. Anna and all of her endearing neuroses are asleep in a hunter green love-seat in my den. Terri is somnolently meandering about the foyer. My brother just came in from the den, hauling all of our beer bottles around in a plastic sack. I am finally inebriated. He said, "Thanks for letting us come over and trash your house."
Anytime, Davey.
Anytime.
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time & machine