Tired of Bein Compard to Damn Britney Spears
It's been a tough few weeks and I'd like to share the lyrics of a song that's helping me get by. Here, it's by Pink:
…
No, no, I'm not going to do that thing you thought I was going to do. But I was walking home from the café and some girl in a red sportscar drove by with Pink lyrics spewing out of her car and I was wondering what she'd do if I started dancing there on the sidewalk, just flailing, kicking, biting the strap of my satchel and swinging it around my head. Probably she wouldn't even notice.
But maybe, just maybe, she'd crash into the coffee shop.
Anyone think it's weird for a guy to carry around a messenger bag? I've never thought it was strange at all, but I've had a couple people jokingly ask about my purse. It was probably Rominger. Well, guess what, Rominger? When I was dating Michelle I found the results from a little-known STD test in her purse. And now your body is racked with disease!
That's not true either.
Fuck.
All these untruths.
Here is something that is true: when I dated Michelle I didn't drink, and we consumed a lot of grenadine. On our first date I ordered a Cherry Coke, expecing standard fountain fare (this was before the days of DCVDP, by the way), but instead I got this glowing black-tinted-with-crimson drink that was Coke mixed with grenadine and whoa, damn, my mouth could have exploded, imploded, taking all that sugar with it to the depths of my tummy tum. Michelle talked about ordering those at bars, because bars always had Coke and grenadine. And thus an addiction was born.
Grenadine, though, is completely unstorable. A bottle will last you all year but no matter what you do it will leak like [disgusting Amish zinger deleted], will leak bright syrup all over your refrigerator floor. I've rinsed the bottle after use, I've swaddled it in a nest of napkins, and nothing will stop this leaking. That syrup wants to be free.
When I started drinking again—it was magnificent. It had been three months, three dry months without any sort of real religious conviction that I should go dry but with the certainty that if I drank Michelle would not decapitate me but would look away, disappointed. But by the point I drank again I'd been at college a while, had Carol and Sarah hanging out in my room all the time, I was frustrated with our relationship and depressed about our prospects—I'd beg her father to let her date and he'd say no, no you silly boy, as if I were asking for a loan of the house, of $50,000 in gold bullion, and in their family there was no way around this disapproval short of my joining the military in California and her coming out to live with me and then us getting married and going camping a lot and ending up in Oskaloosa working for Subway and a video game shop and then getting pregnant. And there was this glorious moment where I was in Scrote's and Andy's room across the hall—I had books in here or something, who knows, we used each other's rooms all the time (I had GTA)—and there was their bottle of vodka.
(edit: No! You know how this really happened? There was going to be some sort of room raid, one of those fabled room raids that never, ever happens, and I was keeping their alcohol for them, and pipes, and all other manner of illicit goods. We had bottles and other contraband crammed into underwear drawers, into sweaters. The Hawkeye was on my shelf, on the far shelf in my room, behind the standard hanging drape with the consistency of a hair shirt)
"Hello, vodka," I thought, and the music played and my liver, even my liver, danced. I can't remember for sure but probably Carol had been down earlier in the evening, had flirted and tried to win me away from Michelle, and I was all screwed up. The vodka was a big jug, a 1.75 jug, and was the cheapo variety, Hawkeye, marked with pale gold and white labels. And I thought: they won't miss a shot.
But there wasn't much more than one shot left. There were maybe three shots. And I drank them all! And it was great, oily, loose, and I felt like myself again. Not because of booze, but because I could drink if I wanted to, and I wasn't telling myself that it was sinful, and I wasn't worrying about the consequences of Michelle finding out or of her parents finding out about us.
Here is something else that is true: [I was forced at gunpoint to delete this]
…
No, no, I'm not going to do that thing you thought I was going to do. But I was walking home from the café and some girl in a red sportscar drove by with Pink lyrics spewing out of her car and I was wondering what she'd do if I started dancing there on the sidewalk, just flailing, kicking, biting the strap of my satchel and swinging it around my head. Probably she wouldn't even notice.
But maybe, just maybe, she'd crash into the coffee shop.
Anyone think it's weird for a guy to carry around a messenger bag? I've never thought it was strange at all, but I've had a couple people jokingly ask about my purse. It was probably Rominger. Well, guess what, Rominger? When I was dating Michelle I found the results from a little-known STD test in her purse. And now your body is racked with disease!
That's not true either.
Fuck.
All these untruths.
Here is something that is true: when I dated Michelle I didn't drink, and we consumed a lot of grenadine. On our first date I ordered a Cherry Coke, expecing standard fountain fare (this was before the days of DCVDP, by the way), but instead I got this glowing black-tinted-with-crimson drink that was Coke mixed with grenadine and whoa, damn, my mouth could have exploded, imploded, taking all that sugar with it to the depths of my tummy tum. Michelle talked about ordering those at bars, because bars always had Coke and grenadine. And thus an addiction was born.
Grenadine, though, is completely unstorable. A bottle will last you all year but no matter what you do it will leak like [disgusting Amish zinger deleted], will leak bright syrup all over your refrigerator floor. I've rinsed the bottle after use, I've swaddled it in a nest of napkins, and nothing will stop this leaking. That syrup wants to be free.
When I started drinking again—it was magnificent. It had been three months, three dry months without any sort of real religious conviction that I should go dry but with the certainty that if I drank Michelle would not decapitate me but would look away, disappointed. But by the point I drank again I'd been at college a while, had Carol and Sarah hanging out in my room all the time, I was frustrated with our relationship and depressed about our prospects—I'd beg her father to let her date and he'd say no, no you silly boy, as if I were asking for a loan of the house, of $50,000 in gold bullion, and in their family there was no way around this disapproval short of my joining the military in California and her coming out to live with me and then us getting married and going camping a lot and ending up in Oskaloosa working for Subway and a video game shop and then getting pregnant. And there was this glorious moment where I was in Scrote's and Andy's room across the hall—I had books in here or something, who knows, we used each other's rooms all the time (I had GTA)—and there was their bottle of vodka.
(edit: No! You know how this really happened? There was going to be some sort of room raid, one of those fabled room raids that never, ever happens, and I was keeping their alcohol for them, and pipes, and all other manner of illicit goods. We had bottles and other contraband crammed into underwear drawers, into sweaters. The Hawkeye was on my shelf, on the far shelf in my room, behind the standard hanging drape with the consistency of a hair shirt)
"Hello, vodka," I thought, and the music played and my liver, even my liver, danced. I can't remember for sure but probably Carol had been down earlier in the evening, had flirted and tried to win me away from Michelle, and I was all screwed up. The vodka was a big jug, a 1.75 jug, and was the cheapo variety, Hawkeye, marked with pale gold and white labels. And I thought: they won't miss a shot.
But there wasn't much more than one shot left. There were maybe three shots. And I drank them all! And it was great, oily, loose, and I felt like myself again. Not because of booze, but because I could drink if I wanted to, and I wasn't telling myself that it was sinful, and I wasn't worrying about the consequences of Michelle finding out or of her parents finding out about us.
Here is something else that is true: [I was forced at gunpoint to delete this]
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