OK, it's been awhile...

[swingbozo]

I unfortunately (or fortunately) have a couple drinking stories of which I must espouse. Please realize it is 2:30am and I've been trying to get my computer to figure out that it isn't a toaster for the last 10 friggin hours so this may take a bit of effort.

Story one. My dad is finally getting married. Hooray! what a great thing! He's actually ordained a friend of his to officiate the wedding. As the evening wears on, we are testing the wine reserves of che' dad's place. I'm staying there so there's none of this driving nonsense going on. Unfortunately we are drinking so much that I, uhm, lose control of, uhm, my bladder. OK, I said it. I peed my pants because I was too wasted to go to the bathroom. Luckily I figure it is night-night time and successfully bail out of any other familial gatherings with just some slightly, uhm, damp pants. A wee bit embarassing I must add, but throw in a handful of ignoring the obvious and it was tolerable. The "significant other" of course pines in that this should be a bellweather of why I should stay off the sauce. Ya, like that's gonna happen.

Story two. We have to "schmooze" some assclown that is coming in to town on business. No problem, I think. It's saphire martini's all night long because we are on the expense account. Woo Hoo! Drinks, fine. Dinner, fine. After dinner drinks, fine. Then I say goodnight to the evil ones and go out for a nightcap or three to justify staying up too late on a weeknight. You know what I'm talking about. Thoughts go in, thoughts go out. I remember leaving my trench coat at the local dive and wandering out because I realized I'd probably been "overserved" and should at least attempt to get home.

I was making tracks up to catch the tail end of the local transit or more likely a bored cabbie. I unfortunately miscalculated a step and placed my face firmly on the ground. You know that feeling you get when you sense the lights dimming quickly? The feeling you get just as the lights go out. You think, "Boy, that was stupid."

I awake somewhat dishevled, and try to collect my wits. Two hours have gone by. I've been face down in the sidewalk for two hours and no one has called the cops. I'm am missing my glasses, my coat, and the area of my face which landed full force onto the sidewalk has grown substantially. My left eye has swollen shut. I look like a boxer that has been on the wrong side of a fixed fight. I wander around aimlessly trying to find whatever is left of my glasses. This, of course, is pointless. I give up and finally get a cabbie heading home. My eye is so swollen that when I fall out of the cab forgetting to pay, the cabbie simply drives off.

This brings on two weeks of the dreaded undrunkenness. First, can I pull it off? Second, I can't possibly go anywhere with a gigantic purple swollen eye so I might as well lay off the sauce for awhile.

Three weeks transgress and I'm finally back to pinky flesh-tones in the face area. I simply tell anyone that questions my shiner remnants that I was unable to clean the oven sufficiently and I was way-layed by my bitchy significant other. Frighteningly enough most people refuse to question this obvious spousal abuse. Or believe it, for that matter.


So now I sit, four weeks later, officially fallen off the wagon trying to resurrect one of my computers and failing miserably. Then I pine for the people that can understand, the people that are the modern drunkards. The people I don't have to explain this to. Man, I love you all and I don't even know you.

[MeanOldLady]

if i knew how to feel, i could fall in love with someone like you...

[swingbozo]

Carefull baby, sometimes it's not a pretty sight!

I was more pissed off than anything; Fumbling around for my glasses, hearing beforehand the inevitable din of complaints regarding my drinking. This would surely be followed by the protastations from "the other one" wondering why I continue to hang out in the bad parts of town at least once a week.

Dutifully, I refused to call to verify my location having been given the "don't ever call me to keep you out of the drunk tank" talk months before. Which reminds me of that story.

I had taken the local light rail to some location close to home and realized I had removed myself from the train slightly ahead of schedule. Because of experience I knew more than to wander aimlessly in some failed attempt to get home. I called a cab to come and rescue me. I then attempted to get into some gigantic Buick that pulled up at the train stop. Apparently the woman driving the Buick was less than amused that I had mistaken her abomination of vehicular transport as a taxi. I probably should have figured it wasn't a taxi when I was trying to pull open the locked door by noticing the decided lack of taxi signage attached to the car. She, however, decided to contact the local police since some apparant assclown had tried to break into her locked car. I pled ignorance as the taxi I had called for finally pulled up to the orchestration of blinking blue lights at the light rail stop.

The police were actually a bit confused as to what to do with me. I wasn't drunk enough for the tank, and had explained to them my previous visitations to said facility. After a decided pause and while I was calmly sitting on the ground amazingly sans shackles, I called "the other one" to notify I would be late in returning home. At this point the police intervened with my phone call and attempted to assure themselves while talking to "it" that I was indeed going home and not simply going to my local to avail myself on the rest of the local population. Hence the new law of never calling home to reassure the police that I have an honest to goodness house in the suburbs I can retire to in order to keep myself from assaulting the natives.

But of course I still got bitched at for staying out till 5am on a weeknight. Apparently the two hours I was face down passed out in a ditch mean nothing. I could possibly have been "getting into more trouble than I could handle" if i was less than comatose. Go figure. I was able to trott out the "spousal abuse" card when still bespectacled with a bright shiner, but unfortunately I am now relegated to stupid pathetic drunk whore status without my purple swollen badge of courage. The drunken goddess gives, and she takes away.

[General E. Fubar]

Carefull baby, sometimes it's not a pretty sight!

I was more pissed off than anything; Fumbling around for my glasses, hearing beforehand the inevitable din of complaints regarding my drinking. This would surely be followed by the protastations from "the other one" wondering why I continue to hang out in the bad parts of town at least once a week.

Dutifully, I refused to call to verify my location having been given the "don't ever call me to keep you out of the drunk tank" talk months before. Which reminds me of that story.

I had taken the local light rail to some location close to home and realized I had removed myself from the train slightly ahead of schedule. Because of experience I knew more than to wander aimlessly in some failed attempt to get home. I called a cab to come and rescue me. I then attempted to get into some gigantic Buick that pulled up at the train stop. Apparently the woman driving the Buick was less than amused that I had mistaken her abomination of vehicular transport as a taxi. I probably should have figured it wasn't a taxi when I was trying to pull open the locked door by noticing the decided lack of taxi signage attached to the car. She, however, decided to contact the local police since some apparant assclown had tried to break into her locked car. I pled ignorance as the taxi I had called for finally pulled up to the orchestration of blinking blue lights at the light rail stop.

The police were actually a bit confused as to what to do with me. I wasn't drunk enough for the tank, and had explained to them my previous visitations to said facility. After a decided pause and while I was calmly sitting on the ground amazingly sans shackles, I called "the other one" to notify I would be late in returning home. At this point the police intervened with my phone call and attempted to assure themselves while talking to "it" that I was indeed going home and not simply going to my local to avail myself on the rest of the local population. Hence the new law of never calling home to reassure the police that I have an honest to goodness house in the suburbs I can retire to in order to keep myself from assaulting the natives.

But of course I still got bitched at for staying out till 5am on a weeknight. Apparently the two hours I was face down passed out in a ditch mean nothing. I could possibly have been "getting into more trouble than I could handle" if i was less than comatose. Go figure. I was able to trott out the "spousal abuse" card when still bespectacled with a bright shiner, but unfortunately I am now relegated to stupid pathetic drunk whore status without my purple swollen badge of courage. The drunken goddess gives, and she takes away.

Cant be too bad of an area if you passed out and didn't either end up on a transport to Thailand(old military flashback), or assraped.

[swingbozo]

Cant be too bad of an area if you passed out and didn't either end up on a transport to Thailand(old military flashback), or assraped

yep, the one time I could have used a CAT scan is the one time no one cares.

/sobs quietly to oneself

[swingbozo]

Oh, but hang on. I have this new great fidget thing above my eyebrow. fidget. Fidget.

I originally thought it was part of my skull but these days I think it isn't. Well, it's growing back into my skull anyway.

[General E. Fubar]

Oh, but hang on. I have this new great fidget thing above my eyebrow. fidget. Fidget.

I originally thought it was part of my skull but these days I think it isn't. Well, it's growing back into my skull anyway.

Not sure if I should be happy or sad for you on this one..... so I'll just say *cheers*