Once again, drunk me is running up a tab sober me can’t pay.
This won’t be my typical fare for an entry…You can expect cheap obscenities & subpar writing. Or maybe that is what you HAVE come to expect. I don’t know.
Like most of my city, I spent a great majority of the weekend drunk. K & R, my best Judies, had a little get together on Saturday in the afternoon. One can’t turn down one of the only excuses I get to drink in the afternoon & have it be mostly acceptable. It was a bawdy, raunchy affair. I got there early. On the way, I stopped to buy a bottle of wine to donate to the brain cell killing cause. While there, I also bought a bottle of vodka for me & planned to hoard it in my car like I was fucking Gollum. Because, hey, if you can’t handle me at my Gollum, you don’t deserve me at my Smigel. (That’s a high dork content joke there, my friends.) I went inside and gave over the wine & chit-chatted while K & R set up. K. soon realized that, ballsack, she didn’t have as much vodka as she hoped. I told her I had some out in my car I was willing to donate.
K: Oh god. Is it in a sippy cup or a water bottle? Is it warm? How long has it been rolling around in there?
Me: Fuck you, I just purchased it. For me. For later.
K: Oh, I couldn’t take your car vodka.
Me: Can we not call it that? It sounds so….alcoholicky.
K: Well at least let me pay for it.
Me: Dude. It’s just car vodka. No payment needed.
I ran out to get it. As I was coming back in, a girl approached me and pointed at her parked car. “Does that tire look fucked to you?” “Is that your opening pick up line? If so, I like it.” “Nah, I just think my tire might be fucked up, but I can’t tell.” “I think you’re good…So’s the tire. Ba dum bum ching.” She followed me into K & R’s house. “I’m Rose, by the way.” “I’m Roxy…And THIS? Is my car vodka.”
Oh, Rooooox. You’re a little bit STRANGE, aren’t you?
K. & R. crowed when they saw Rose and introduced her to me as R’s old roomie from when they were at Wells. K. then put $3 in my hand. “For the vodka. It’s all I have.” “That’s ok. I pay your mama less than that.”
After that, liquor was flowing & the air was ripe with filth. R. gave everyone the tour of the home they bought & fixed up. It’s a cozy, quirky little cottage that they turned into a perfect little chic lesbian nest. Gawd, they’re so fucking cute & I love them & wish for all the happiness in the world for them so much that it hurts. R. proudly announced, crystal tumbler full of whiskey, “This house has come far. When we bought it, it was just a dusty little claptrap.” I thought it was appropriate to counter with, “So was my vagina.”
Lord, have mercy on my poor smutty soul.
Later, when R. goes in on the cheese they have laid out, she says, “I think I’m going to try this white, waxy, Irish cheese.” I said, “I said the same thing the first time I slept with Mike.” Everyone busted out laughing & R. said, “I feel like I need to tweet that.” By all means…
After a while, I stopped drinking to sober up. I didn’t have much, to be honest, and at this point, my body shrugs at a drink like, “bitch, please…” When I was clear, I left to go pick up the kids at my parents’ house. I was already feeling all tender because I had been thinking about that memory from my previous entry…..so I came into the situation with a slight chip on my shoulder. Then my mom completely butt in when I was trying to parent B, tried to make me look unreasonable & sided with B. I let fly at her like a rabid honey badger on angel dust. I accused her of undermining me & trying to turn B against me…and, in short, I lost my fucking mind. I dragged my kids out of there and drove home. When we get home, B realized she left her dolls at my parents’ house. Christ on a crutch.
The next day, I have to crawl back to my parents to get the dolls, trying not to trip over my tail that is tucked between my legs. My mom and I pretended that we didn’t just tangle the day before. We could have been wax works at Madame Tussaud’s, we were so stiff. It is beyond awkward. I’ve had gyno exams that are less awkward than this. (Keep in mind: This even includes the time, I was late in my pregnancy with Rowan and the nurse told me to go in the exam room, take my pants off, put a paper napkin across my lap & wait for the dr…only to have the dr come in, take one confused look at me and say flatly, “you don’t need your pants off for this appointment.” Like this heifer was trying to seduce him.)
As I drove back home, B. started crying in the back of the car. When I asked her what’s wrong, she tells me, “I just love Daddy more than you.” I cried soundlessly in the front of the car….and thought longingly of the car vodka I sold K. the day previous for $3.
When I got home, I decided to drink to numb out…and, like Roc-a-Fella records: Can’t stop, won’t stop. Later in the evening, I texted J. stuff that I wouldn’t text in the sober, daylight hours. All the ways I wanted him to hurt me in bed. He talked again of wanting to get me pregnant. I was agreeable in my drunkenness. He told me we will have to talk more about it when we’re not “vodka’d up.” And yeah, I AM vodka’d up. By that point, my stomach was like an ocean of vodka with a raft made out of corned beef floating on it…and reason was drowned in it long ago…
Yesterday J. started my day out teasing me about the sex hotline operator that lives inside me and only appears in the nighttime, drunken hours…That drunken conversation from the previous night only seems to have further encouraged him in his desire to test me. Today, he tells me to be ready this Friday…that he has a few things he wants to try in the hotel, he’s feeling “creative.” Gives me a few crude hints. I know what he wants…but I don’t know if I can deliver in my current fragile emotional state…However, I also know I won’t say anything. I will just leave my body, let the thing happen and destroy myself later…Make a few whore jokes (that are not actually jokes) in regards to myself in the process…At a certain point, thinking about sleeping with him on Friday anxiety hits. The air thins out around me, like running in high altitudes…I find myself struggling to catch my breath with the lack of ozone in this sexual atmosphere.
God, I’m a mess.
As I have detailed in previous entries, I have been desperate to get sleep. My co-worker, H., told me about how she takes a Unisom washed down with a few glasses of wine…basically the hardcorest night of sleep one can get…the sleep equivalent of taking a ride on the Veruckt at the Schlitterbohn. H. is teeny…an adorable little podling full of dark thoughts & self-destructive urges. I figure if it didn’t take her down, I’m fine. The first night as I did the same, substituting the wine with vodka—I had a sudden fear that I might Heath Ledger myself. Then I panicked that if I died from the combination people would think I killed myself intentionally. I thought, “I should write a note just letting people know that I just wanted sleep.” But I think it’s just a thought I have before I conk out. And boy, do I. It’s like the night never happened. I wake up and realize I slept the whole night. I look over to the side and see a notebook. Okaaay, so I apparently actually left a note. The next night I do it again…only, this time, I don’t have to jot a note. I just leave the one from the previous night. For some reason this strikes me as funny…it’s like plagiarizing a suicide note or something. It’s hysterical to me….and then I realize it’s hysterical—because everything is currently hysterical….And it is then I know. After getting a couple nights of good sleep, it has jettisoned me back into hypomania.
Hypomania presents issues for me. It makes me talkative and inappropriate and self-destructive. And it doesn’t subside just because it’s between the hours of 8:30 am to 4:00 pm, times when I need to be professional in an office.
In this hypomanic episode, I decided it was a good idea to spend a day at the office making imaginary cold opens—parodying the Real Housewives. H. & I practice disturbing lines, as we twirl around in imaginary ball gowns. “My apartment isn’t the ONLY complex thing about me,” she says, twirls & poses. “People ask how I got this far—compromising photos and strategically distributed bj’s.” We entertain ourselves all day with our imaginary twirls & hair flips & take jabs at what we would be like as our trashy selves disguised in rich white women’s bodies… Finally, I walk into her cubicle near the end of the day and deliver my best tagline, “The only thing domestic about me…is my terrorism.” We decide we can’t top that…and leave it at that.
And even after all that….I still didn’t return to doing work.
I am lucky that I am very well loved in my office…I assume they all know that I am bipolar, but it is never talked about…and the most they do when I’m really wild is laugh, say “I can’t” and walk out of my cubicle. It’s why I can never go to another job. I don’t know anywhere else I would be accepted like this.
Maybe in a dusty little claptrap somewhere far, far away…