Bad things happen in April

April, its no surprise…
Abandonment, no surprise
Tears for you, while Im alone
Not the person you said to be
Not the person I thought

Wake now, and see reality
Today, your free, you’re free
Make up, and dress up
Before your tears betray you
Before you see hell unleash

Sing, for all of us
A song on your birthday to smile
Sadness is around in the cold
You can tell yourself
“I can live through this”
I hope your wisdom helps you believe

Who is that talking
Who is that crying…
Keep your back turned
It’s not worth your wild…It’s not worth your fire
Take your pieces, laugh and run
You havnt seen it all, little girls first

I say come back, keep your life on track
I’m not scared to melt and burn this way
Been here before, going there again,
This is really gonna happen, it’s happening now
Take your love and run
Your tears are falling for wasted time
Take your life and run…

Mad Laughs and Clown Hats
The room is cold but I’m not aware
I’m falling down a mole hole and having tea on the way
I don’t bother to look around
Everywhere clowns in top hats laughing
All the way down it’s so bright it might as well be dark
At the end salted seas of rabid teeth wait
The room is cold, but I’m not here
I’ve been talked to but I can’t find to understand
If I’m sick I don’t know it
If I’m in love I don’t feel it
If I crossed the line and I’m here
Which is there, I bid you farewell
It makes no difference to me
Come out and play
Regain your faith
Come a little farther to see some pain
Don’t be scared of top hats and mad laughs
Feeling what you imagine tastes like grapes
Through the looking glass and maybe back
With help or not
The room is cold but I don’t care
I’m lost in darkness so bright I’ve lost my eyes
I’ve burned to stone and melted into fire
No one finds a use for me
I close my eyes as the clowns sing lullabies of the grave
When I wake they will laugh again
I will still be falling
I will still not be here
And I will have some tea

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 4

(Long Long Long…By George Harrison)

In the haze of the vodka, and the perfectly still apartment Aramis sat alone on his couch. His apartment looking pathetic, a perfect reflection on his life. This is all that ever became of the money he spent on the booze. A drunken haze, not knowing what is real and what is not.
The White Album by the Beatles, it was a way to travel to a time he didn’t live in but believed he knew what it was all about. Stale music to sooth his soul. It was hell to be in this place, just when alcohol gets you numb you understand that you don’t want to be numb. The room seems far away and through his mind he can make out the words sung by George Harrison. It’s such a soft song but yet it hurts so much. A lost love found again, but the fact that it was lost for so long makes the mood become overwhelm by sadness. He looks at his at his apartment as a reflection of his life.

A rummy? Every kid dreams of living like this.

In his mind he can see pictures of the old country, family that he has, looking at him with sincerity. Looking at him with compassion. He opens his eyes and it seems that from the curtins he can see someone staring at him with somewhat disgust. His head wobbles and it dosent look like he is going to make it off this couch not right now anyway and certainly not on his own. It seems like it has been 12:44 in the am for a long time. Things are going so slow. Aramis doesnt remember this song being so long, despite the name it has. It was alright though he liked it.
His eyes close once again. The life in the old country comes to him in flashes of a childhood. Two parents that had all the right intentions of making a family in the traditional sense. Something went wrong with the plan, and now he was cursed. He tries to open his eyes and sees a little boy in front of him there in the apartment, looking at him with icy eyes of wonder. He looks so familiar. His breathing has slowed down considerably. He opens his eyes and there is no boy. He must be dozing off. The boy was never there, he thinks, as he looks on, the face is back at the curtains.
Someone is fighting outside. The yelling is getting awful loud but he is unmoved. Aramis can’t move his body, its way too heavy. To anyone else this would be alarming, but he had been here before. Many times he had been here. He wanted so bad not to be drunk, but to be a child again and be in the arms of his mother, warm and safe. He missed the loving touch of a mothers hand. He missed all the things he was denied. A family, the ability to love, a life. The boy is back and between the curtiains he sees a face turning into blood but he can’t be afraid. It’s too tiring. The face is melting into blood slush and he can hear the pounding on the window. Some one is really fighting outside.

He wasn't joking when he said that he wasnt going to get up by himself from this couch. Things have gone too far. He wasnt expecting this when he signed on, but it was in the contract.

Now Aramis had his eyes closed and they werent opening yet he could see himself laying on the couch. He was in front of himself looking, and next to him the little boy who now was crying. He didnt wimper but the tears would not stop flowing. A splash of blood on the window between the curtians and the pounding was now on the door. Then there he was looking from the couch again at the little boy looking at him. His eyes shifted and he saw his older brother sitting indian style next to the coffee table looking down at some CDs. On the coffee table the gun sat. Aramis wanted to move, but couldnt. The boy staring at him. His eyes filled with sadness. The boy looked down at the Aramis’ side. The vomit was yellow and all over the couch. There was a bottle of pills open and bunch of blue pills spilled on the couch with the vomit, some on the floor. His brother now was still, sitting there Indian style looking at the floor with his head bowed. Then the blood started to flow out of his mouth. It wouldn’t stop. He could hear the sirens now, and the pounding at the door finally broke. He slumped over with the dead weight and closed his eyes laying on the vomit. In his right hand the phone with no dial tone.
The guitars crescendo and the sirens end the song.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 3

(Babylon…Don Mclean version)

(The banjo starts to play in his head, the song is Babylon the Don Mclean version off the American Pie album.)

Aramis stood there in his drunken haze. The night was not helping his mood. He took out his Zippo and as he swayed in his drunken state he lit his cigarette. He put away the Zippo into his shirt pocket. He let out a big sigh which could not be distinguished between being drunk or a memory that haunted him, giving him no rest. He bent down and picked up the bottle of bourbon that he had picked out only an hour ago. He stood there in the dark and he looked down towards the grave marker. On the marker the name of his older brother the memory that never lets him get on with his life. The eternal sorrow, the everlasting reason to cry. He swigged back a drink of the bourbon. His face fixed on the stone with the expression of ‘what are we going to do now?’
-Why do we always come here? Do you know this person or what? The shadow behind Aramis asked and lit a cigarette. His voice was frustrated. It was obviously not his idea of a night out and having a few drinks. Who does that at a graveyard?
-You wanted to drink didn’t you? Well here have a drink and shut the fuck up. He passed his bottle to the figure behind him. We come here cause I’m fucking tired of them trendy New York wannabe bars. I’m tired of all them ass holes that go there. You know me I can’t stand fucking yuppies. The figure has taken a swig and passes back the bottle. Aramis takes the bottle and swigs it. He takes a long drag of his smoke. All of them fuckers going to the fucking bar to talk up their lives to bimbos. All of them wearing the same fucking Texas A and M cap. I’m tired of that shit. He pauses. Yeah, I know this person. He points at the marker and takes another swig.


-What this fucker doesn’t know is that this is where my brother is buried. I’m really not liking the current bar scene. The girls are good to look at and maybe take back to the apartment but its hell talking to those no brain bitches. I hate this place as well. I don’t know why I come here. I just end up here. I’m always called back here by something. I just can’t seem to forget that whole ordeal. I was young. I miss him terribly. I miss my mom as well but I can’t go to her in this state. Just like him before he ended up here. None of this was suppose to happen, but it did, and I can’t find the way out.

Life was a tedious torture for Aramis. When your fourteen you’re not wanting to go to church and be under the watch of your mother, no matter how nice of a lady she is. That’s what makes things harder, and you think your mom is nice to you so you will feel like a total ass when you do some bad shit. It’s all part of her plan to fill you with remorse for the evil stuff you do.
His brother was another story. He was 21 and he knew it. Aramis wanted desperately to live that life. Girls, nightlife, a few drinks all that stuff. Jr. High was another pain in the ass. Everyone telling you what you can’t do. Aramis really was getting scared that life was going to turn out to be a bunch of rules of things you couldn’t do.
It was one night that Aramis got to go out with one of his friends when it all went to hell. Being fourteen was hell, but it was about to get worse. When he got home he got into the shower. When he came out his mother and his then step father where putting on their shirts and making their way out the door. The words were:
-Your brother has been hurt in an accident take care of your sister.
He didn’t think much of this. A broken leg maybe. Within the next 24 hours he found himself looking at his mother in front of his brother’s casket with her face in her hands. It hurt him to see his mother like that. It hurt and scared him to look at his dead brother in the casket. He slowly began to break within. Everything that meant being fourteen didn’t matter now. This was going to be for the rest of his life and he knew that.
The older brother had been drinking for two days straight. He had made his way to his aunt’s house to where he had a key. Aramis mother would get angry when her older son would come home drunk. Her sister Oti had given Aramis’ older brother a key to the house. The house was alone when he arrived that afternoon. They say that he was way over the legal drunk limit. He placed a neatly written letter on the kitchen table and sat down on the couch which was near the stereo. He put on his favorite songs. He drank his last drinks. Some hours later he stood in the middle of the room and blew his brains out. It was almost 3 hours later when Oti came home and heard from outside the sounds of her nephew’s music. A smile came to her face that was quickly erased.
She came to the front door and saw the blood seeping out from the bottom. The bags she had in her hands fell to the ground. She opened the door and screamed when she saw her nephew on the floor with blood pouring out of his mouth. He looked as if he had tried to look for a comfortable position to sleep but didn’t quite find it. The CDs on the floor covered in blood. The booze on the coffee table neatly capped off. The gun just out of his reach on the floor also drenched in blood, his shirt covered as well.
Oti fell to the floor and stared ghastly at the scene. She crawled towards him to see if he was still with life. As soon as she touched him she saw he was cold. She picked up his head and more blood spurted out. The screams finally got the attention of the neighbors. Then the sirens came. When the paramedics pulled her away from her nephew which she loved like her own son, Aramis’ mother was on her way. Oti was drenched in blood and in shock.

-My mom had left the Catholic Church when she left the old country. She became a southern protestant Christian. I remember when they brought that box into the church that my brother had never set foot in when he was alive. All I could remember was the song that they sang. “By the waters of Babylon we lay down and wept for the, Zion.” I don’t know if they meant Zion as a land, a nation, an ideal, or what.
For me the waters have become tears mixed with booze. Tears of me, mom, Oti, my brother. All that blood and there was no life. All that and there was no answer to why he did it. There were blames between my uncles. They all blamed my mom. I didn’t. I blamed myself. I was caught up in my shitty little world, only thinking of myself and not thinking of anything else. I was complaining over bullshit, my hair, my social life, not having the clothes that I wanted. I don’t know what his problem was, but it must have been bad. Zion, or what I wept for was the idea of my older brother and having a family.
This is where I come to lay down and weep for my Zion. I have my booze, and here I weep when no one can see me. At this grave at night I weep for my Zion.

Aramis looks out towards the night and darkness, nothing there, nothing in him but a lot of booze, a void inside a void. The song ends and he throws the cigarette and makes his way towards his car. The friend in the shadows follows puffing on his smoke. Time to erase this; for the millionth time.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 2

(REM What's the Frequency Kenneth?)

If the walk to the car was bad, then the car itself was the last level of hell. All he could see in his mind was a glass of water and some nice pieces of ice. He could see his hand going to one of them fancy refrigerators with the stainless steel doors and that hole where ice and cold water are dispensed. His Honda accord would take a while before it would produce the nice cold air conditioning that his chest, back and head longed for. In fact it would punish him first with a blast of stale hot air accumulated all morning. It wasn't till this point that he noticed that he had walked out of the house in his sandals. As he looked down the sweat was beading up on his forehead. A whole bottle of vodka and all that beer before hand, now how had that happened? Just then the air conditioner started to give hints of crisp cold air. The radio starts up with the electric guitar and the voice of Michael Stipes asking Kenneth about the frequency.
The drive was that of a typical shitty day. Every red light between the apartment and the beer store was caught by our hurting subject. The only solace was that the AC was good, he could wait. Once at the store he remembered it was Saturday so obviously every fucker turning 21 on this day or having a get together at his house was buying his imports. Corona, Heineken, Dos Equis, Guinness. This just made the super-lifers existence, like Aramis, a real plump painful pimple on the ass. He was there to get what he needed, not what he needed to impress some guest. Of course he wasn't at the liquor store yet he was at his first red light out of 6, but already he was getting agitated. He wasn't really like this; all he needed was a nice cold vodka on the rocks to cool him down. Just thinking of the nice drink calmed down the agitation in his mind and butterflies started in his stomach. It was almost like falling in love for the first time. The fix would save him from the collections agency from last night that pretty soon would be knocking on his forehead in the form of a vengeful hangover.
His worst fears are true when he pulls into the parking lot. There seems to be a lot of cars, more than during the week. He hated going into the beer store like this. He knew how he looked. He looked like a boozer who needed a drink. He only imagined how he smelled to the people present. When liquor is consumed in vast quantities it sort of starts to become a part of your scent. Your pours start to recycle liquor.
-Fucking yuppies.
Aramis couldn't stand them. All of them look exactly the same or they try to look exactly the same. They try to look as if they are a typical beer commercial. All of them walking around with their fake bakes, with their Gucci sun glasses and gap shirts made for the weekend wear. It made him sick to his stomach and in the current condition he could not afford additional pain to his body that longed for the true, sweet, loving and sincere lies of alcohol. It would cure it all away and these yuppies would not be pissing him off so much, in fact they would not matter.
His moves and turns were automatic. Fourth isle on the right side second shelf was where they kept the vodka. Nice, clear and inviting. Then it was a short trip a couple of isles down to where the ice was. He usually didn't buy ice but he imagined that last night he used it all up. Of course with his luck he found himself waiting for a pair of yuppie chicks to make up their mind on how many bags of ice they would take. Geeze, they are fine as hell but this pisses him off. Aramis turns around and goes to where the tall boys are kept and picks up a six pack. He comes back and as if by art of magic the beautiful and stupid girls are gone. He grabs his ice and makes a dash for the counter.
Outside it's the same summer day with the sun beating down but now it's not so bad. Things are looking up. It was back to the apartment to think about what to do with this beautiful Saturday afternoon, alone or who to invite. Maybe he would invite some friends to entertain, just like the yuppies. Aramis was the son of a well off woman. So he couldn't hate the yuppies as much as he made out. His mom was a successful immigrant that wanted a better life for her son. She was as Christian as you can get; not the burn in hell godless heathen type, but the actual type, the ones that forgave to be forgiven. Aramis loved his mom, but loved his lifestyle more…
-Again! Why do you have to bring up old shit?
He knows what he was doing to his mom, and he couldn't stand to see her heart break, but he wanted to live on his own terms. His mom kept on giving him money after he had left home. After he quit calling she kept depositing money in his bank account. He drank more liquor to drown out that feeling of being an ungrateful bastard. At the last red light and he was already feeling sorry for himself and was thinking twice about drinking up a storm this afternoon and into the night. Thoughts of his mother always hurt him. There is a lot of love mixed in with resentments and hate. It's a subject that he has put off for so long that he is not about to sit down right now with pen and paper and try to sort it out. There was no question about it, of course some day he would have to face these problems, but for now he was going to have some drinks and forget everything. It would be a night alone. The thoughts of his mother have shot down his social ability for the night. He needed a shower and a nice tall boy to ease him in for the remainder of the afternoon. Last night would not be paid for in puke and head aches today, maybe the next morning. Maybe. That depended on if he would go and do the same ordeal as today.
-Mr. sandman …bring me a dream…make her the cutest I have ever seen …I don't know about that lots of wavy hair like Liberace line. Kinda gay, won't sing that part.
The song had returned in a different tone to his mind. Indeed the sandman had returned and there was a dream to pass out tonight. There would be a dream, alcohol induced.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs

(Mr. Sandman The Cordettes)

-The guy who is all serious and with his eyes closed, that's me. I always remembered that song from the fifties. The Cordettes. I must have heard it while flipping through the radio. I was into the Beatles, but only the Beatles. The song was catchy but it was not anything I would admit to listening to while my friends were around. Regardless of what I thought it was not a simple pine box that they would put me in. It was more than I expected. I finally got that dream that I asked the sandman for. This dream won't ever end. Just how I wanted it. No one crying, no one making a big drama of it. I look more pale than usual but that's ok. My cheeks are rosy and the nose looks like I could be the head reindeer on Santa's sled. Of course my nose is red. I was the conductor on the RED NOSE EXPRESS. You got to be a drunk to laugh at that one. One final dream with a catchy tune and few folks to say good bye. Im so at piece, I'm serene. This is all I really wanted. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.
The Paul bearers carry the casket to the display area. In the casket is the drunk who bought the farm. They gently stop and open the casket and people start to walk by and take a look. People are not so much there to pay respect; they are there to make sure this pest is really dead; to look at a dead body, to be a tourist. It is not so much a funeral as much as a meeting place. They meet to discuss the pain, not of the departed but of the ass hole that made their lives a little more miserable than it should have been. Somehow there is pain that there won't be anymore pain. In the back room of this funeral home the secretary of the business has her clock radio playing softly the jumpy and bubbly tune of the Cordettes. No one seems to hear it. No one alive, that is. People look at the cadaver sit and chit chat about the everyday business. The dead has already been talked about during his life. During his ever present dieing life. Never living, just little by little dying.
-Don't bring that shit up…
The Cordettes finish the song and the attention is placed by all in the room towards a clock radio that does not play anything else. The music has stopped and now it is time to wake up. The sandman dream is over, and the hang over starts here.
Aramis looks up. There are a lot of shadows in his room. It's probably around mid day. Yep it is one in the PM. Good thing his AC hasn't died on him. The summer can be horrible at this time of the day. Especially if the night before assorted amounts of rot gut were part of the intake. The other thing that summer was brutal with was the light that shined through his bedroom window. In the summer the sunlight came right through the window and hit him dead in the face. During the winter there wasn't so much light since it was mostly overcast. To counter the dreaded sunlight some heavy winter blankets that are not used during summer are carefully placed over the window. No light just a bunch of shadows.
-Dreaming. Stupid song.
Aramis doesn't try to remember the night before. Its better not to. People get their feelings hurt when they find out they acted like total dumb ass. Pride can be a difficult father. A difficult dictator. Its better not to ask, not your self not anyone else. If he had made a complete ass of himself he would get the memo soon enough. Friends are nice to have until they start making fun of you or trying to control your life. They are friends, so you gotta deal with them.
There was no moral hangover up to this point maybe it was a night at home. This was getting frequent now. More and more just staying home, cheaper boos, no getting your ass kicked by fuckers you didn't know. Aramis was comfortable with this. The less he spent on other people the cheaper drinking got with him. It was a bitch ending up the night half buzzed and not having enough to close in the proper way. Proper closing consisted of having cab fare, having at least half a bottle but preferably a full one of vodka. A pack of smokes is essential and a well maintained Zippo lighter.
Cab fare is needed so you won't have to drive. The worst thing you want to do is drive when you're drunk. Not cause some dip shit might get hurt but because you don't want to get pulled over and wake up the next day in the drunk tank with some ass holes puke all over you. Worst of all with out a bottle of vodka to calm the shakes down. That is pain.
A full bottle of vodka is necessary preferably with that pouring spout. Usually when you want to close properly you want to have enough of the stuff and that's because when you get hammered your coordination gets thrown off. It's a professional hazard you know. So you are prone to spill a lot. You have some to spill and you have the spout that will prevent too much spillage. It is obvious that you're not going to chug the whole bottle so you don't want to spill the rest once you pass out. The rest will come in handy the next morning. Cigarettes are a must. Even if you don't smoke when you're sober. Keeps you moving and helps you hang in a little longer. The Zippo is not a fancy detail. You loose coordination so you want to have something that will light on the first strike IE the "well maintained Zippo" line.
-If only all the aspects of drinking were this easy to plan. There are other things such as the next morning. The next morning and having to face your pathetic life that you thought you had shed after a few shots at the same fucking bar you always go to. You would think that you would know that your setting yourself up for another illusion. But that's not my problem now. My problem right now is that I don't feel a moral hangover and I don't feel the physical one either. Which means more than likely that I am still more drunk than hung over. Hangovers don't just stop coming. They always come. They always collect. I don't feel the lousy heavy stomach, I don't feel the hot burning sensation in my bones, I haven't started to shake, but make no mistake…last night wont be forgiven. My problem right now is to find that bottle and hope to God that I didn't leave it on the floor pouring itself out. If I did then that means I gotta get out in that sun and go buy my fix. That is an ordeal in itself. My problem at the moment is getting a drink in my belly and taking a shower.
-The worst is when you get delirious and start to hear things and get all fucking jumpy and paranoid. People confuse you with a crack head, but my crack is legal, it's commonly called rot gut. All I can hear is that bullshit song MR. Sandman. It's in my head. Stupid fucking dream. Stupid song. What the fuck?
Someday I'm going to quit. Not today though. Not today. I'll be fine. All I need is a drink and a shower.
Aramis must be becoming a pro because the bottle is neatly on the table with the cap on top. Closed tight. There is a spur of hope for the situation at hand in the mind of Aramis. Then his eyes move slightly down. Yes the bottle is standing neatly on the table, the cap on it tightly closed but the bottle is empty. Maybe a full bottle is not enough, you might need two to close the night properly.
-Damn. Just my fucking luck. Now I gotta get down to the store and buy another bottle to cure myself. I hate the fucking store. FUCK.
Aramis puts on a light shirt and his jeans. He checks for his wallet and the sweat is already building up at his neck soon it will spread. He checks his pockets for some loose cash. It must have been a night in; he had quite a few dollars. More than enough for his fix. He finds his sunglasses and his keys and out he goes. The sun beats down like only in the south. It's not helping his state.

Hang Over and a Jog

"It was saturday morning I can remember that. I remember it was saturday morning because I felt like shit. So that meant the night before was friday and I got my freak on, whatever that means. The thing was that I got lit the night before so it had to been friday because when I woke up I felt like shit which meant it was saturday morning.
"I wouldnt say that the hangover or the binge was one for the books but it really put a dent in me and as I tried to get my muscles mobil again and trying to keep my stomach from puking up whatever it was that I ate or drank, I actually made a promise there while my body was in total pain. I promised that I would not drink for the rest of...the month. Who am I kidding the liquor thing has me licked.
"I eventually get up and into the shower and things start to look up a little seeing as there is cold water running down my body. Just what this hang over needed some cold water outside the body and inside as well. After Getting out of the shower things seemed to get better and I thought to myself...'It's not such a bad hangover' I mean even my stomach was calming down by this time.
"I head downstairs of my very overly priced cheap imitation of a luxury town house and go into the kitchen. Since things after the cold shower were picking up I thought to myself...'I'll skip the alkaseltzer' so I went ahead and got some eggs out and some sausage to make breakfast. I turned on the stove and put in some butter and cooked the eggs. I had not realized how hot the kitchen got when you turned on the stove. I cooked the sausage next and the sweat started to beed at my forehead and on my back. After the sausage was done I put some bread in the toaster and for all my effort went to the fridge and poured myself a nice glass of orange juice.
"For a moment I wondered if I had any vodka to make the orange juice into a screw driver but as soon as the thought crossed my head my stomach turned a little. The message was very clear 'Dont you dare throw more of that shit down here', so I put the thought out of my head and avoided looking like a pregnant woman, throwing up in the morning and all. I took my sip and waited for my toast as my eggs and sausage lay neatly in a plate.
"The toast comes up. I butter it and pick up my plate and drink and head for the table. I sit down and start to eat. I sudenly notice how much I'm sweating. Its awful hot, after all it is summer. I wonder if the air conditioning is not on. Then I feel a tug in my stomach and something racing up my throat. I get up and run to the rest room. I should have taken the alkaseltzer.
"After a few dry heaves I felt pretty sure that the demon was out of me. I got up feeling a little dizzy. For about half a second I thought about finishing my breakfast, but apparently the stomach was closed for business. I could still taste the little bit of orange juice that I had just drank, and then I thought I was going to throw up all over again. I got it under control though. I got some cold water and got the alkaseltzer. Who was I kidding, I wasnt a 17 year old waking up from his first night out drinking.
"I went to the living room and sat in a spot that I knew that the air conditioning would hit my face. I drank the seltzer there. I felt like getting in the shower again but that was just a temporary fix. I didnt want to have a little hair of the dog that bit me and putting anything in my stomach was out of the question. So I sat thinking which is not an easy thing when all of your insides want to burst out of your body because of what you put into it the night before.
"Suddenly I had a thought. On a previous ocasion in which I was begging for death in exchange for the hangover, I got so desprate that I went to the modern god that has all the answers...the internet. Surely the net would have a cure for a hangover. I went to this page that gave several solutions many of them so repulsive that I would take the hangover. There was one that said that Native Americans in previous centuries when confronted with a hangover situation would run a distance and sweat it all out and then lick the sweat off their arms. At that moment it seemed to be the right thing...the running not licking the sweat off my arms.
"Next thing I know I'm in my shorts and at the comunity college campus where they have a running path all around the campus. I was there with my soccer shoes a white shirt and torquios shorts and my sunglasses. It was a hot day and in the distance you could hear the locust sounding off. There were some people getting into their cars with their dogs. This was a popular place to walk your dog and to run. I adjusted my sunglasses and started off.
"Right off the bat I started sweating and I could smell the liquor gushing out of my pores. I tried to remember who much I had drank the night before. Im trying to keep a good pace not too fast and not like I'm dieing on my feet. My white shirt was really getting soaked with the hangover sweat...I just hoped that the run would not provoke me to hurl.
"I was turning a corner and saw a long straight stretch. On my right side there were some bushes that had grown to eye level. Then through my sunglasses driping with sweat from my forehead in the distance I saw a fine specimen comming towards me. She was really good looking even at the distance that I saw her. She had on black tight running pants and a orange color tank top. I kept my sight up because with every step her breasts bounced. They were not too big but they were noticeable. She had great hair as well that bounced with her speed.
"I kept my sight up as we ran at each other and noticed that she was wearing sunglasses. I was surprised I hadn't tripped over a rock or something at this point. I inflated my chest out to look like a bad ass and made more confident strides. As she got closer you could tell she wasnt out here curing a hangover, she was a healthy person. She wasnt a faker like me. Well Im not a total faker there was a time when I was in shape. I started to wonder if I should just smile at her or say hello or something else.
"She got closer and I started to panic that I would not take an accurate shot at her. I was trying to think of a line. Things were so much easier in High school. Damn she is almost right in front of me and she looks so good and I can't even find the sylables in my mouth to say 'Hello'.
"At that moment I felt a twitching near my right eye. It all happened much faster than how Im talking. The twitch suddenly turned into a little tickle near my eye. Then I realized that a bee or a yellow jacket was trapped inside my sunglasses. I started to loose the coordination in my strides. I started to sway back and forth while I ran. Then I felt a great pain in my upper right cheek near my eye. HOLY GEEZE, that really hurt. I screamed in pain and fell into the bushes and grabed at my face in hysterics trying to get the bee or whatever off my face. I was rolling in pain as the beautiful girl jogged by just looking at me like some weirdo.
"I noticed that there was a hornets nest in the bushes and got up and went to the other side of track. My right eye area was swelling up. This sucked. I waited for the girl to get a real ways off and put my sunglasses on again and headed to my car. I looked around with my left eye in the hopes that no one else but the most beautiful girl on earth saw me.
"I finally get in my car and look at the hidious deformation on my face. The swell of my face actually made my sunglasses all lopsided. I started my car and checked the money in my wallet. I had enough. I peeled out and headed in a familiar direction.
"A bad hangover that had not passed with the run, the puking session and the most beautiful girl on earth just running by you when your on the floor screaming bloody murder and leaving you to suffer...I think I deserved a drink. This is what I really should have done in the first place instead of fucking with the routine that I know works.
"I got a twelve pack of beer really icey cold. I walked to the check out and people are looking at my face by this time with my lopsided glasses a sweaty ass shirt, soccer shoes smelling like ass mixed with vodka. The clerk looks at me all wierd; like he wants to say something and some yuppy looking chicks behind me are giggling and I think they are having a laugh on me. I pay the clerk who I can feel staring at me as I walk out of the store.
"Im finally home and I get in the shower. It feels good all over my body except my face. I get out and dry off. The afternoon is setting in and I notice that there are a few messages on my machine. All the messages are from friends inviting me out. Not this weekend...the Thing has to rest, reflect and drink. Rest becuase a hangover like a night of drinking, it takes a lot out of you. Reflect, to try to see where things went wrong not only today but in life in general. Drink, to forget about it all and start to feel good again. I sit down in my chair, kick back and open a cold beer, one of many.
"I wonder what tomorrow morning is going to be like?"