We all make mistakes sometimes. I tend to make more than most people, actually, so it's nothing newsworthy, much less riotworthy, when the leaky tug boat that is my judgement capsizes and leaves me in the arctic waters regret and self-loathing. Last night I raised the bar, though. I knew it would be a stupid idea. I knew I would feel genuine remorse for the step I was about to take. I knew that nothing, absolutely NOTHING positive could come from testing the threshold of my common sense in such a radical way, but I did it nonetheless. That's right, I watched Rocky Balboa. You know, the new one. It wasn't one of those logical curiosities like "oh, this is the milks expiration date, I should smell it and decide for myself whether or not it is up to my standards for consumption." It was more like, "oh, the milk is clearly curdling on the surface and holds no resemblence to the virgin white milk I recall buying last fall, but I am inclined to smell it out of morbid curiousity for how bad something could possibly smell."
That's the smell similie for that movie. Maybe it's clich'e, but fuck off, it's accurate.
I was having a good night until I found that movie online and decided it would be good to fall asleep to as I likely wouldn't miss much, but I was burdened with insomnia and endured the whole thing. My good night spoiled, I seriously went to bed only to toss and turn before I finally fell asleep and was greeted by nightmares. I dreamed that both of my parents died in unrelated incidents on the same day and then my teeth started falling out. Seriously, I'm not even kidding. The movie cut my subconscious so deeply that it decided those images would be better suited to entertain the submissive test audience that my brain has become during the distraction fueled purgatory that is unemployment and singularity.
So I was bar hopping with a bunch of people. Included in that bunch were my ex-girlfriend and two guys that really want to bend her over. The one is a pretty respectable guy, but the other has a wardrobe and social dimness that scream "librarian" coupled with a clammy, manufactured sense of confidence that whispers "date rapist." It all made sense when conversation revealed that he was a jazz musician.
There are certain shades of brown that I feel like are reserved for people who have never had sex with a sober partner, and I don't recall having seen him wear otherwise. That's all today.
It was yet another friends birthday in the land of nothing, this time held at a pretentious bar downtown. I use the term "downtown" loosely. The service at this bar is as bad as any business in Sandpoint for various reasons. Like most small towns, poor economy and insufficient population copulate and give birth to bad work ethic. Further, since this bar is officially considered trendy by the minority of literates that inhabit the surrounding community, the bartender is given license to omit his duties as a server and maker of money and exchange them for making mindless banter with his favorite portion of the narrow clientel. His disinterest in making money inspired JW and me to not only tip, but not even pay for our beers. Because fuck him.
So, JW and I got in the car and drove to Sandpoint, Idaho, a town renowned for its "snow and assholes." If you're a regular reader, you're probably aware that I had the distinct anti-privilege of calling such a wasteland "home" for 16 years of my otherwise valuable life. Visiting Sandpoint makes me want to shit a river of hot lava plentiful enough to engulf the 16 blocks of mediocre dining and comatose entertainment that comprise the village. The lava would melt all the snow and generate a large cloud of steam. By the time the steam had subsided, all you would see would be a huge, cooling lava rock covered with puddles of bubbling grease from all the molten assholes.
Anyway, that hasn't happened yet. What did happen is we went there for an esteemed friends birthday. He is a good bloke and it was good to feed him beer accordingly. At his party the popular thing to do was to take oxycontins until you broke out in frenzies of scratching yourself and puking. I'm more into puking off of beer, so I just kept working on that, even though I never quite got there. Heh, one girl totally puked so hard that she ruptured blood vessels in her eyeballs. She's totally more open-minded than me.
I wasn't sure what to expect as far as places to sleep went, but around six in the morning I had pretty much had my fill and retired to my car to rest as the other guests drove drunkenly into the ice-filled night. JW joined me in the car and took the passenger seat as I lay across the back seat. It was about 20 degrees, so we occasionally ran the heater when we'd wake up literally freezing. Come a few hours later, we were sober enough to venture the town and score some burritos. Burritos are good. As we sat at the burrito shop, we read an article in the local newspaper about two local men who decided, I believe the quote was: "We ought to dodge us some trains." Of course one of them got smeared.
In the town where I live currently, voluntary self-destruction as a result of unimaginable boredom is at more of a minimum. I like that about it here.
really old months: