One Punch Thrown; I'm the Loser. (625 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesRating: 1.66 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Ryan Smith <rjt_84.at.yahoo.com> (View user info) at 2003-10-27 21:14:43 EST
I stumbled out of the door. "Screw them. Letdose mutherfuckas do what they like" I mumbled to myself, losing my balance slightly as I waved them off with my right hand.
I was pretty angry, this shitty event was just the punctuation mark on a shitty weekend. Bad, worse, worst...superworst? If that was a word, it's what this event represented.
At this point, I haven't been sober in 3 days. I'd gotten used to waking up still drunk and no longer did I mind slamming my head on low showerhead, drunkenly banging my face into the sloping roof.
The last couple of days had bled together. Anyone who has gone a few days without sleep is familiar with the confusion this phenomenon causes. Familiar with. I skipped meals thinking I'd already eaten them, showered only because my clothes were covered in spilt beer and on one morning in someone else's vomit. The only routine I remembered doing was the newest one; I drank, smoked, or swallowed something new or something old every few hours all weekend. You might discern that I don't handle bad news well. Especially not when it comes on a Thursday night.
"This is damn near straight walking" I thought to myself leaving the party, "Hell, If a cop stopped me right now, I would have totally no problem walking that line." Lucky me, no cops. In hindsight, I probably would have been better off if I had come across one.
Any insomniacs among my readers? Real insomniacs I mean, the ones on drugs. Those would be the ones familiar with ambien. If done right, you can get really stoned on that shit. That's how it started, only drug I had available. Take just enough to fuck you up, but not knock you out, then take more, in half-capsule doses, to maintain and increase that high. It's like being drunk, only with slightly hallucinogenic properties. That's how it started. The phone call, the Ambien, the walk.
The son-of-a-bitch's apartment was ground floor. Cut down (but didn't eliminate the possibilty of, in my condition) the chance of me tripping and breaking my neck upon existing. However, the son-of-a-bitch's apartment was at the very back of the complex; a long, arduous walk to the main road, and still a longer walk from there back to my dorm. Poor bastards, both of them.
So I'm on my ambien-high walk over to Steve's dorm; Steve has the alcohol. After drinking with Steve, and drinking more without Steve (he passed out), I moved on. I don't even remember the names of most of them, the people I scored drugs from. First I went hopping from one quasifriend to another. Some helped me out, turned me away; others smoked/drank/swallowed with me. I don't remember who did what.
He was tall. Tall and thin. Had this look on his face like he was really confused, even while performing the simple task of walking his dog. I remember a leash, a red leash, but not what kind of dog he had. He saw me stumbling toward him on the same sidewalk; he looked concerned. "You alright, buddy?" he asked, reaching out and putting his huge right hand on my left arm, looking me dead in my dull blue, bloodshot eyes. I'm right handed. If he'd expected it, or had been looking at my body and not my face, he might have handled it better and not gone down like a young tree in a heavy wind. His head made a thump when it hit the pavement, a crisp, low thump that made me sick. He didn't deserve it, I can't explain why I did it.
From quasifriends I moved on to friends of quasifriends. If I was ever told their names, I forgot them in pretty short order. Excess. Beautiful excess. Two nights I spent sleeping on stranger's floors. Two mornings I spent wishing the sun would implode in on itself. Not just because it was in my eyes on the stumble back to my place, but because it would kill alot of people. All of them in fact. That didn't seem so bad at the time.
I got back to my place. Three goddam flights of stairs. All and all, it took somewhere in the region of 45 minutes to walk a mere three quarters of a mile. Partly because I got lost. Walking home, I got lost. Excess, beautiful. I drank a bottle of listerine, I recalled something about it having alcohol in it. A whole goddam one and a half liters. I can handle my booze, but apparently not my listerine. The three hours I spent in the bathroom, alternating between sleeping and vomiting, often mixing them (the night's final cocktail, so to speak) was sobering, but not enlightening. I learned nothing.
FICTION FICTION FICTION
User Reviews
Submitted by mystiamoon (user info) at 2004-04-24 00:11:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
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Submitted by jordanna (user info) at 2003-10-28 04:24:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked this.
Think I may have been in the same state of mind more than once.
Although I never drank Listerine.
Submitted by littledan (user info) at 2003-10-27 21:53:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment