oh my, i'm BIRTHDAY drunk.
this is uncomfortable, as it is only about 11 p.m. and unsettling because -- like i said -- i've had just one drink, and an untruth because i actually did not get this drunk even on my birthday.
i've not been drinking much lately. drinking seems to contort my urinary tract into a throbbing twist of arthritic wiring. drinking demands two days of bedrest and two days of bed sores. drinking makes me rue the human body's comparative lack of orifaces from which to expel the evil. this is especially frustrating because while i lay in bed moaning and begging for someone, anyone to shove chicken nuggets into my most dominant vein, chuck is able to yawn off a night, chuckling. he has consumed a pot of coffee, read the internet -- and contributed to the internet -- showered and done a handful of small chores. i'm still trying to understand what the hell my elbows are for.
chuck says that apparently my body does not process alcohol well.
i like this. it gives a scientific validity to my need for pizza man pizza.
in the interim, my tolerance has gone the way of the rotary phone. just the idea of going out affected my reality with the potentcy of a luke warm 40 ouncer of miller high life.
whatever. so we went to quinlan's on thursday night.
this was my first social experiment with the smoking ban.
i liked it. everytime i went outside to nip on a camel lite, i made a new friend.
there was this guy:
"tell chuck i have a painting for him."
and this girl:
"my name is madeline. maddy. mad-dog. whatever."
by the end of the night i'd had three beers. and these beers are like the looney. while it used to take about six to get the job started, three finished me off easily.
i woke at 11 a.m. convinced that i was still drunk.
"you aren't drunk," chuck told me. "you went to bed 9 hours ago! you haven't had a beer in 10 hours!"
"whatever," i said.
i woke again at 3 p.m. groaning with horror.
"you can't be hung over," chuck deduced. "seriously. you slept like 13 hours. you only had THREE beers!"
[later he would concede that he could still smell the alcohol steaming in my pores.]
this happened thursday night:
seadawg gave us a ride home.
he, like anyone who drives us home, had the foresight to stop at the ghetto spur.
we walked inside and two men were eating what i believed to be a hotdog.
i came at them with my gaping mouth unhinged.
"can i have a bite?" i asked them.
chuck grabbed my arm and yanked me away.
"you don't know where that's been," he said.
the men cackled.
we bought old dutch party mix, vitamin water, burritos.
i fell down in the parking lot.