The voice intended for those without sight makes me anxious as it demands that I wait to cross the street. The red flashing hand annoys me, urging me to quicken my pace or else face the consequences. The consequence in this instance being broken bones at the smash of an oncoming vehicle.
Today I am in an exceptionally terrible mood.
I can tell that I’m still drunk because my steps are a little off balance and the cold doesn’t numb me as much as it ought to. Sick to my stomach and my clouded head predicts a migraine. I find salvation in a chilled bottle of water and a warmed gas station muffin. Almost instantly I accidentally drop the bottle of water into some dirt. At first I was upset because I knew the mouth piece would be filthy; I was wrong. I have never before been anything but inconvenienced by the little plastic barrier they stick over the mouth piece until now. A solid innovation. My mood improves a bit.
Walking by a yard with a barely used trampoline my vodkawhiskey brain almost convinces me to jump the fence and test it’s springiness. I resist, but make a promise to myself to get my own should I ever have the room. I never did grow out of that act; bouncing bouncing bouncing is a very pure form of fun.
I start to eat my poppy seed muffin by biting right in the top. I find it strange, but every time I eat a muffin this way I feel guilty, like I’m not supposed to bite from anywhere other than the side. I wonder if other humans experience the same guilty rebellious sensation. I hope so.
The fact that it’s garbage day on this street makes my walk home a little more exciting. Avoiding the obstacles of overflowing trash cans and recycling bins scattered about the sidewalk becomes a game. These homeowners have a poor sense of the pedestrian life, it seems, and I’m just thankful that I didn’t bring my skate like I had planned. Not that my lack of sobriety would have boded well for skateboarding, even if the sidewalks were clear.
Last night was rough. Drunk early, passed out early. I missed a lot while I was asleep on the couch. The only evidence of the threesome that had happened in the other room is blood and condoms. An empty bottle of vodka, an empty bottle of whiskey and a sticky floor; that’s how we do Monday nights. The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes, and maybe a little urine. I feel bad, the party wasn’t at my apartment this time. I wake up to my buddy cleaning frozen vomit from the cement in front of his neighbor’s door. I try to piece the evening together by browsing the photos on my digital camera. The first message I sent was “dude are those YOUR balls in my camera?!” ; I suppose I shouldn’t have left it unsupervised.
Today I am addicted to torrents. I try apologizing to my bandwidth when my computer starts to freeze but it does no good.
I can feel my attitude shifting over to fuck it! mode as I write this though and I’ll probably catch the last bus over there.
Still no job.
I will be trying harder tomorrow.
Earlier I experienced the delightful task of trying to decide which bills not to pay. I haven’t been to that point in a while, but now I’m back and I hate it here. I ought to spend the evening cleaning and sewing. It would greatly benefit my life. I should also stay sober tonight. I should write my grandma a letter. I should meditate and catch up on yoga.
But what kind of a self destructor would I be if I did what I should?
My bad mood has returned and I’m out of eyeliner.