Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. I am so drunk. How did I get here? I remember writing three previous entries and rereading them, but I don't remember what was in the last one. I keep trying to throw my life away. What happens now?

Drunk Rantings....

I'm not sure what else to call you, so I'll call you His. (My drunk mind tried to insist on Veda, but since I'm drunk and can't put a reason to that, I'll stick with the more logical for now.)

I've felt the pendulum for years now, and I believe in it. I know that tomorrow will be better. But I have this terrible fear that I can't talk myself out of, which insists that every time the pendulum swings, it swings a little farther, like a child being pushed on a swing by a parent. Yes, tomorrow may be a happier day than I've ever felt...but if that's true, then the next time I feel this way, I may kill myself. Or maybe it will be the time after that. Either way, the increasing swing is dangerous now and will be fatal at some point if I continue to believe in it.

I'm so drunk now that I'm going to stop referring to myself as "she," as I was in the last two posts. Third person does not convince smart people that I was just creating fiction, as I wanted them to think...I know you know it's me. I know you know it's me just as well as I do.

I talked to Aiden this afternoon. I can't tell you how long we chatted online, since alcohol makes it too hard to keep track of time, but I have the feeling it was a while...longer than I thought it was, certainly. I began by threatening to kick his ass if he came to my house to find me. He assured me that he wouldn't, and I believe that he won't, even thought most people would. It's not at all that he doesn't care about me. It's trust - he trusts me to at least keep myself alive until the next time we talk.

They say that if text changes in front of you, you are dreaming and not awake. What if you forget the text, but it has not changed? I know I'm not dreaming. I'm drunk. Yes, it's different from sober, and I may not be quite who I normally am...and I may not remember this tomorrow, or tonight, or even in thirty seconds. But from whatever it was I said, he trusts me to stay alive.

Interestlingly, so do I.

I've never been drunk by myself before. I know I said that, but I said it in the third person, and I feel the need to take responsibility. I really wonder what's going to happen when Kevin comes home. It's now 4:52 and he leaves work at 5:30, getting home around 5:45. Maybe he'll take me to the hospital. Maybe he'll get angry. Maybe he'll just cuddle me all night and tell me stories.

God, I can't even remember what I typed three sentences ago. I can spell, but that's about it. I will not remember this tomorrow. Or maybe I will and I'll deny it because I don't take responsibility for myself when I'm drunk.

A very small part of me is afraid Aiden's going to stop by here on his way home to check on me...but he said he wouldn't, and the larger part of me believes him. That means that I'm alone until Kevin is out of work. That's what I wanted, and it's also not what I wanted. I know I'm fucked up right now. I'm going to read this tomorrow and say, "What the fuck?" But when you can't feel your legs or your tongue, you know you're fucked up. I actually managed to find a bottle opener (which I didn't know we had when I was sober) and open a bottle of wine. Sure, I stabbed myself with the foil, but it's better than I thought I'd do. The only reason I'm bleeding is my razors, and not the foil.

Kevin has been IM'ing me on and off. He reminds me that I haven't eaten, and I remind myself that he will find me tonight...drunk...bleeding...completely fucked up. I wonder if I'll leave this blog open. Obviously he doesn't know about it, but if I'm drunk enough, he might find out. I've been faking it very well, because I know I can still type perfectly even when I've had so much alcohol. What's affected is not my abilities but my decision, and the most dangerous decision I might make (and then forget about until it's too late) is to let him find this blog. He knows about two of my blogs: the one that everyone including my mother follows, and the "private" one that I starting writing for him. He doesn't know about this one - or if he has, he's faked not knowing better than he ever has faked anything else.

Fuck. I'm not gonna remember a think when I'm sober. Apparently quality typing doesn't mean shit with me. I've known how to spell most of the English language since I was six, so I guess it makes sense that good spelling and grammar wouldn't be a reason to declare my own soberness.

I have to apologize to any of you who are actually reading this. Normally I don't do that; I figure that if you are forcing yourself through my rantings, it's of your own accord. But being drunk and knowing that I will be lucky to remember opening my computer tomorrow, I feel the need to apologize for putting you through what has probably been the most pointless blog post I have ever made. This is probably only for me, for me to read in the morning and say, "Oh shit, I did WHAT?"

Isn't that how lessons are learned? Like my experience at that wedding last week. I just reached for the bottle and missed. I know that means I should stop for today...but I want to pass out by the time Kevin gets home, and since I'm still sober, that means I need more alocohol.

Fuck.

How the BLOODY HELL did I get here?

I thank sincerely everyone who has been reading my escpapades. Thought this feels like a suicicde note somehow, I don't see how it would be, since I've lived through every freaky fucking episode of insanity I've had before this.

Then again, that's what happens, isn't it...You think you're fine. You think it can't happen to you. And then it does.

It's taking me longer and longer to fix what I'm typing to the point of leigibility. I don't know what's gonna happen when Kevin comes home and finds me drunk and bleeding, whether he's going to take me to the hospital, leave me, or try to talk me into sanity one more time. If you never hear from me again, it was option four: I died.

Otherwise, it was one of the others.

I can barely type anymore. I can tell you the band I'm listening to, but not the song. I can tell you what I'm wearing, but not what I'll think of this tomorrow. I'm so fucked up. So fucked up. So fucking fucked up. I'll survive this.

But then what?

I Can't Stay Fucking Sober Anymore

I'll go ahead and pour myself a drink
I really couldn't care less what you think
Well I don't have to listen now
Live this day down
If I can't feel a thing
You might as well save your goodbyes
We can give this train wreck one last ride
I'm gonna have to listen now
Live this day down
If I don't make things right
I'll tell you one last time

I don't wanna know it's over
So save your goodbye kiss
I don't wanna know it's over
Cause ignorance is bliss
I can hardly see
What's in front of me
Cause the vodka's running on empty
I can't stay sober
If it's over
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
So save your goodbye kiss
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)

I woke up with my heartbeat in my head
I reached for the bottle by the bed
I saw your side was not slept in
Cold sheets again
Remind me of what you said
We need to take a break for a while
It's been so long since I smiled
I don't wanna listen now
Live this day down
With you so drunk and high
So I'll say goodbye

I don't wanna know it's over
So save your goodbye kiss
I don't want to know it's over
Cause ignorance is bliss
I can hardly see
What's in front of me
Cause the vodka's running on empty
I can't stay sober
If it's over

I don't wanna know it's over
So save your goodbye kiss
I don't wanna know it's over
Cause ignorance is bliss
Now I know I can't stay sober
Cause you left me here like this
I don't wanna know
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
So save your goodbye kiss
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
Cause ignorance is bliss
I can hardly see
What's in front of me
Cause the vodka's running on empty
I can't stay sober

Hinder, Bliss

I Know When It Ends

Coffee and booze is a strange combination. They say it makes for a "wide-awake drunk," whatever that means. All she knows is that she's energized with a mostly-empty bottle of wine in one hand.

Drinking by yourself means you're an alcoholic. She's known that for years, and it's why she's never drunk alone before. She doesn't want to be like her dad, who was drunk no matter when you showed up at his house. It's what killed him in the end. She vowed she would never be like him, but she never pictured this. It's impossible to know what or where life will bring you, and this image just never crossed her mental multiplex. Okay, so she wrote it in a fiction once...and she knows fiction is based on reality...but it wasn't her reality. It was someone else's when she wrote it. Now she's brought it home.

Is that what happens? Is that fiction? Something imagined, or perhaps heard about at a distance, that is to be brought home at some point after it's been implanted in your brain.

She wonders if she'll remember this later. She often remembers more than she hopes she will when she's drunk. She makes conscious decisions, ones that she knows she'll regret later, knowing she can claim not to remember them the next day, and thus shed some level of responsibility.

Gin, a mudslide, and a bottle of white wine are not a good combination. She knows that very well, having mixed alcohol before and sworn never to do it again. But she's too far gone to care, not from the alcohol, but just from life.

Yesterday was so good. Today is so bad. Last time, it was the other way around...yesterday was so bad, today was so good. Why is it always that way? Does it have to be? Does a high require a low, and vice versa? She hopes not, but is so afraid it's true. What if the happier she becomes, the more depressive she needs to be to balance it out?

If that's a trick of the universe, it's fucking unfair.

She

She's not sober anymore. It's not a mistake. She wishes she could be passed out by now, but knows it's too early.

The alcohol is flowing through her blood now, the blood dripping off her arm onto the kitchen counter. Even the ants that summer always brings are scared away.

He hid the razors...she's not sure why. Maybe he suspected this was coming again. Maybe it was a mistake. But she found one - and one is all she needs.

Her arm seems to be dripping, but blood dried in a dripping appearance is not the same as blood about to fall. It's like art. The paint is dry, but it appears to be in the process of creating something all the same.

The sleeve of pain is a new feeling, and a good one. It's different from just a few lines, what she used to do. She's going to do more.

She figures this is what a sleeve of tattoos feels like. It occurs to her that she may need a sleeve of ink to cover the marks that today will leave.

Is this romantic? Is it insane? Is it right or wrong, or neither, or both? She doesn't know, she doesn't care. All she knows is that she'll find a reason to regret it in a few days...but right now, that doesn't matter.

She needs help. She knows it. She's even brought it up, but all the nurse did was to put her on drugs. Drugs aren't the answer. Drugs are never the answer.

Alcohol, however...now there's another story. The answer to problems, no. But the answer to wanting to kill yourself? Sure. Why not, if it keeps you alive. If you're too drunk to kill yourself, why not call it beneficial.

Later, she'll be passed out on the kitchen floor, just as planned.

Blood darkens very slowly as it dries. Even when it's past the point when she can wipe it off easily, it's still red, just like it was when it first appeared. It takes a remarkably long time to change color.

The music is too loud, but the silence is too quiet. The music is a better option for a foggy brain. She can't talk herself into anything worse while overtaken by the music.

Besides, singing brings tears, and tears are healthy. So they say. She's always hated crying, for any reason, but they say you have to. So she uses drunkenness as an excuse to shed the tears.

The space between songs seems interminable, stopping before the last song is over and lasting far too long for sanity.

She's only telling you this because she knows you can't help. You're safe. She may not be.

She rereads for typos. If she can find them, she figures, and fix them, she's not drunk.

Royal Flush

Sunday morning my sister hosted breakfast at her house, and most of the family showed up, except for the uncle and aunt from the midwest who had already started their drive back. My youngest sister Liza has a new puppy, and having heard that my mom actually liked him, I asked to witness this unusual phenomenon. My mom is a die-hard cat person, who puts up with dogs out of politeness but thinks they're obnoxious and disgusting. So I was amazed to see her pick up Smudge and cuddle him on her lap, then melt into a puddle of "awww" when he curled up and put his head on her knee.

As we were leaving, Liza said, "Hey B, don't take my puppy! I never thought I'd say those words!"

Kevin and I returned to my mom's long enough to unload the car and repack it, then said our goodbyes and headed off. With no particular need to be anywhere for the rest of the day, we headed for the new poker room that had opened up over the winter in the next town. It didn't open for another hour, so we wandered to a tattoo parlor two towns south, and then west into the city. We poked around in our favorite store, which is a strange combination of sex toy shop, stripper supply store, head shop, motorcycle accessory supplier, clothing store, weapons dealer, and even more things that I can't be bothered to list. He bought me a shiny red stripper outfit with the idea that I would wear it for him on his birthday...which I did, but of course it's also being added to my collection of stripper clothes, which I'm still considering using for their original purpose again.

Back in the car, I put in the new navel ring that he also bought me (I'm not a "buy me stuff" girl, I swear, he suggests it all), and then we went to get pizza. After lunch, we went back to the poker room, which had become startlingly busy, to the point where I had trouble finding parking. It turned out they had just started a freeroll, so we took table cards and sat down.

This was a new experience for me. I play a lot online, and I've played against Kevin and a couple of other friends with real chips, but I've never really played live, certainly not against people I don't know, with actual money in the picture. I did ok for my first time, although after a spectacular double-up (I had pocket sixes, she had pocket nines, and I flopped a set), I found myself card-dead and eventually got blinded out.

Kevin had been knocked out a while before, and when I went to find him, he was involved in a ten-dollar buy-in. So I went and bought myself in and grabbed a seat. I folded the first hand and raised with the second, the A-J of clubs. With three of us in the hand, the flop came Qc-Kc-blank. Check, bet, call, call. The turn was another blank. Check, bet, call, fold; heads-up with my monster draw. The river was the 10c. He bet enough to put me all in and I called instantly. When I flipped over the royal flush, the table erupted, and I broke my poker face in favor of a big grin.

"You're lucky she didn't have more chips!" said the guy on the left. "She woulda wiped you out!" I wished I had had more chips.

"What does she get for that?" asked someone else, and the dealer asked me, "You want a t-shirt?" When I gave her a strange look, she said, "I'm serious, royal flushes get t-shirts. You want one?"

"Sure!" I said, and the tournament director appeared two minutes later with a card room t-shirt.

"I've never made one of those," said the guy across the table, and several other people agreed.

"It was my first," I said, leaving out that that included all of my online play. I don't like to advertise that I'm an internet player, since people make assumptions about your image.

A few hands later our table broke, and I sat down at a short-handed table in the back. By the break, I was doing pretty well and had a good read on my table. One hand back from break, Kevin got knocked out again, and he came and hung out by my table to watch me play.

My table image was working well for me; I'd been folding a lot of hands, and when I did play, I was getting respect. I raised on the button with K-K and got a call from the big blind and another from the cutoff. The flop came Q-10-3, the big blind checked, and the cutoff made a small raise. Feeling my moment, I shoved.

The old guy in the big blind looked at me for a while, then said, "Set of Queens?" I didn't respond. "I'm going to make you rich, young lady," he said, and called. After some deliberation, the cutoff folded, and the big blind flipped over A-K. Happy to see that I was ahead, I waited for the rest of the cards. The turn was a blank, and I tried not to get excited about doubling up. The river was an Ace.

The entire table groaned in sympathy, and I shook the guy's hand, then stood up and headed for the rail.

At the first table we had played, it came up in conversation that there was another card room at a hotel in Wren's town, so we decided to go home that way and check it out. We arrived there at 5:30, saw there was a freeroll at 6:00, and sat down in the bar for some food. The food took twenty minutes, and after stuffing down a fish sandwich at record speed, I followed Kevin back to the poker room. We grabbed seat cards, but the table I was assigned was still full from another tournament. I asked the director if that table was part of the freeroll, and he said yes, then returned several minutes later and switched my card to another table. It turned out the freeroll didn't start until 6:30, so I sat at an empty table for a while and waited.

I chatted with the dealer when he showed up, and eventually the rest of the table filled up as well.

"Hey can I sit with you?" A college-aged guy seemed to pop out of thin air, and this question was directed at me from an uncomfortably close distance.

"What table are you at?" I asked, and was relieved to see that it was not mine. He introduced himself as Matty and I reluctantly gave him my name, then said I would see him at the final table and gave him knuckles. Just as I was retrieving my attention from the encounter, he showed up again with a new seat card.

"I traded," he said proudly, and sat down on my right. I was too polite to actually smack myself in the forehead, but I really wanted to.

"Hey," he said suddenly in my ear, and I jumped, then realized it was a different guy who was leaning in between our seats. "If my brother bothers you, just tell me and I'll get your boyfriend to kick his ass," the new guy said. "By the way, I'm Ira."

"I don't need him," I assured them. "I can beat the shit outta him all by myself."

"Awesome!" said Ira, who was clearly Matty's twin, and went back to his final table and his monster chip stack.

When the tournament eventually began, Matty spent the entire time stirring up the table and raising with shit. I doubled up once, but couldn't seem to get any real traction, and was struggling to keep my concentration with all the chaos. The dealer was annoyed too, especially after he actually had to tell the table to settle down and play poker. That's for high-school classrooms, not poker events. I was disgusted, but I couldn't say anything because everyone seemed to know this guy. When he had first walked away, the lady in seat one commented that he wouldn't be sitting here, and I said, "Thank goodness!" That earned me a glare, and after that I shut up, not wanting my ass handed to me by an in-bred group of yokels.

I bitched vociferously to Kevin on the break, and he told me to rebuy so I could get ahead. I said no, I would rather bust out just to be away from Matty. When we returned, my table broke and I got seated next to Kevin. Now I wanted to play, but when I got out money to rebuy, the dealer said I had missed it by fifty seconds. I doubled up once, then shoved again with Q-6 on a vain hope and got felted by pocket deuces.

Since Kevin was clearly going to be a while, I told him I was going to go find something to do elsewhere, because hanging out in a hot, stuffy, cramped room to watch him play was not how I wanted to spend the evening. He said his cell phone was dead and he would have no way to reach me, so I coudn't go anywhere. I went outside and called Wren and whined about my predicament, but she couldn't pick me up, because she was on her way to her mom's house and then to the house where she's staying for a month to pet-sit.

On a whim, I went to the car to check Kevin's phone. I found both of them, one with half charge and the other with full charge. Annoyed now, I marched back into the room and presented them to him, then marched back out again. I texted Wren to tell her I could leave after all, and ended up meeting her at her mom's house. I was talking with her mom in the kitchen when we heard a panicked voice from her room: "Oh my god I think he's dead!"

She had gone in there to collect her hamster to take with her, and when I went in to see if she was right, I found a very cold, stiff hamster. We took a few minutes to bury him out in the woods and say goodbye, then put her cat Bee in her carrier and headed out. We stopped at Wal-Mart to get mac 'n' cheese, then I followed her to her professor's apartment. It was hot as hell inside, and I ran around opening all the windows while she let out Bee and unpacked the few groceries she'd bought.

We found two copper pots and put them on the stove to boil water, then went into the next room and started unpacking the new window fan. Wren went back into the kitchen for something and I heard her say, "Uh, I think we're setting something on fire." I figured the burners were smoking off and she was overreacting, since she's somewhat fire-phobic, but I got up anyway to make her feel better.

I walked into the kitchen to see eight-inch flames shooting out of the stove.

"Oh my, I guess we are," I said, startled. Wren stood there frozen while I kicked into emergency mode. Looking around for a fire extinguisher, I didn't see one. I reached over the fire to turn on the hood fan so we wouldn't set off the smoke alarm, then peered under the pot to see what was going on.

"Ugh, no wonder," I said, seeing that the drip-pan was full of black goo.

"Is that gonna burn out?" asked Wren.

"Yeah, it should," I said, as the flames got higher. Deciding that the less we smoked the apartment the better, I grabbed the pot of hot water and poured it into the stove. The flames immediately went out, and I stood for a second in a mild state of shock. Then I felt something warm touch my feet, and when I looked down, hot brown water was pouring across the floor from the stove. "Ew." I backed up and wiped my toes on my jeans while Wren got a towel.

We came to the uneasy conclusion that there was only one smoke detector in the apartment, and it would never detect a kitchen fire until it was way too late for any occupants. Wren had the brilliant idea for us to drop off my car back at the hotel so I wouldn't have to pick up Kevin, so we shut everything off and left. I left the car and went inside to give him the keys. He had been texting me periodic updates, so I knew he was at the final table with a monster chip lead, but he felt the need to tell me again, since he hadn't bothered to check his phone for a reply.

Wren and I returned to the apartment and I showed her how to take apart the burners and clean out the drip trays. Then we made mac 'n' cheese with no mishaps, and while I was eating, I got to meet the resident kitten.

A while later, Kevin texted me "2nd place 450" and I gave him directions to find us. He showed up a few minutes later, waving $450 in cash. I congratulated him, then spent the next half hour sitting on the floor while he talked, wishing he would shut the hell up.

Those I Haven't Seen in Years

I have been remiss in blogging this weekend, but it was out of forced close contact with people and not forgetfulness. I have so much to get down, I'll be breaking it up into at least a couple of posts.

Saturday was the big memorial service for Dad. That morning Kevin and I went to the mall to get shoes for him, since he forgot his dress shoes when we left. While there, he decided to get a haircut. That was all well and fine until forty-five minutes passed and he still wasn't done. Having promised my mom I would be back no later than 11:15, it was now 10:45, we were half an hour from her house, and Kevin still didn't have shoes. I marched out of the waiting room and informed him something to the effect that if he wasn't done right now, he wouldn't have a ride home.

I gave him two minutes in Payless, and he found a pair of shoes and bought them without even trying them on. Then I power-walked out of the mall, taking the stairs on the escalator two at a time while he huffed along behind me and begged me to slow down. When he started to make sarcastic comments about me being mad at him for the rest of the day, I told him, "This is not a good day to give me shit, so don't." And he stopped.

Fortunately mom wasn't annoyed when we reached the house, just in a hurry, and I began a whirlwind of multi-tasking, loading up her car and mine, getting dressed, doing my makeup, and chasing her around the house, the whole time toting around a bowl of mini-wheats and stuffing them down between tasks.

We arrived at the church about an hour before the service, and mom parked herself in the kitchen at the Little Brown House to set up the reception while Kevin and I provided tech support at the church itself, setting up everything that was needed for the slideshow. My accompanist who was doubling as the service organist was there practicing, and he helped us to move the pulpit and the chairs into the back room so everything was set up the way mom wanted it. I let Kevin set up the rest of our equipment while I got out my violin for a quick practice.

Wren had come in about forty minutes early, and I pointed her to the LBR when she asked for a bathroom. When she failed to reappear, I realized my mom had roped her into kitchen duty. Eben showed up just as I finished tightening my bow, and I was so excited to see him that I ran the length of the church before I realized I hadn't put the instrument down. Not wanting to put it on the floor, I bear-hugged him anyway and tried not to whack him in the head with it.

Theoretically I knew the guest list for the service, but in all the frenzy I hadn't bothered to remember just how many people from my past were showing up. Fortunately they were all good surprises when I spotted them, and all received hugs and "Oh my god I haven't seen you in so long!" My mom's neighbor, my second violin teacher, my grade-school teacher, and one of my oldest friend's mom and dad, who had separated several years ago but are fortunately still civil to each other. I haven't heard a thing from that friend in years, and I still miss her. When her mom informed me that she was no longer three thousand miles away and was in fact only one state over, I just about jumped up and down in excitement. I have to find her before she disappears again.

Anyway, the service itself was absolutely perfect. While some might say that my mom took on too much of the work herself, that's just the way she operates (kinda like me...hm...), and she did a beautiful job. She even managed to say everything she wanted to say without breaking down, something I wouldn't even have attempted. Two of my uncles and one of my dad's friends shared stories about him, the Freemasons did their traditional service, and I played Pachelbel's Canon and Gigue in D with accompaniment.

Struggling with the sheet music, I managed to miss a few notes, but I'm good at catching up again without making any accompanying musicians wait for me - a talent all orchestral players are forced to learn, and fast. I wasn't too worried about the mistakes, but I was still surprised at the number of people who came up to me afterwards with comments such as, "That was so beautiful! You play so well!" The first one was Wren; she was sitting behind me, and when I sat back down she whispered, "Wow, I didn't know you could do that." Most of my college friends, with the exception of Eben, have never heard me play anything at all.

By the time the reception started, I had the full-body shakes from lack of food, and I headed straight for the table and started stuffing my face. It was a whirlwind of talking and food, greeting people who were completely unfamiliar but who apparently remembered me. "We met you when you were this tall!" they said, holding a hand three feet off the floor and smiling inanely.

Great, and who the hell are you again?

Wren eventually took off to meet up with her boyfriend, after helping us to take down our stuff and put the church back together. Eben followed me and Kevin to my sister's house where the family was gathering, then took off when the party moved to my mom's place. There was more food and more family craziness, and by the time everyone took off I was tired. Kevin and I decided to go out for coffee, and as soon as I got in the car, tired became exhausted, and I nearly fell asleep while I was driving. When we got back to the house, Kevin got out his computer and played poker, and I fell asleep watching the screen with my head underneath his elbow.