owl and bear

I haven’t really tied one on for a few weeks, so apparently I was due last night. I went out (ostensibly) to eat some pizza with my friends, but they neglected to tell me that not only was it dollar slices, but it was dollar drafts as well. So I started pounding beers. Let me rephrase that: after my first beer was so refreshing and went down so easy, I started killing beers like they were trying to jump my land claim in a Clint Eastwood western. It really didn’t seem like I was drinking them, I just kept looking at my hand and there was always an empty glass in it.

Volume control and profanity became a problem, or an amusement, depending on who you ask. I flipped off all my friends repeatedly. I flipped of inanimate objects, including the new Dave Eggers book, which was gifted to me for no good reason by Katie, who also got flipped off. Everyone became motherfucker, or bitches (plural), and I was indiscriminate; males could be either, and females were wooed the same.

I told a guy the girl sitting next to him was pretty (names remembered, but deleted to protect the innocent), but I said it so fucking loud that she heard me and appreciated the compliment. That was fairly embarrassing and edifying; I must try to control my volume. I put my arm around everyone, and I told McCaskill that I loved him, no seriously, dude, I love you. I mean it. I fucking love you. You’re my homie. This! This is my fucking Homie!

I began to order “fucking beers” instead of just “beers,” as in “Give me another fucking Shiner Bock!” I paid one tab because it was time to go home, but then I started another (which I may or may not have paid) because I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I ignored or did not hear phone calls from my parents (probably a good thing). I did not call anyone, but I wish I had. I wish I had called all of you, just to tell you how drunk I was.

People kept asking me if I was driving, and I kept saying, “Hell yes I’m driving!” People kept shaking their heads and sharing concerned looks. I probably, no, make that definitely, should not have been driving, but when it was time to go, people just kept saying, “Are you driving?” and no one offered me a ride. Asking someone if they are driving when they are fucking shitfaced apparently makes that long, lonely drive to the house a lot safer.

I remember snatches of the ride home, they replay in my head like a David Lynch movie, only more cohesive. When I got home, it was time to lie down. In the driveway. Which, apparently, concerned my folks, whom I thought surely would be in bed. But, no, the whole fucking family had to come out and check on me. I was perfectly fine, I just needed to lie in the driveway, which no one would be using for several hours. I don’t care if the neighbors can see me, I need to lie in the driveway. Shouldn’t they be in bed? I’m fine, I just want to lie here. No, I’m comfortable.

This morning, my mom left a note begging me to call my counselor. Maybe I will, after a beer…