Girlfriend's out of the country and that means I have no one to call when I get drunk. Which is unfortunate, because the weather is moving into the consistent 70s F and I have a constitutional inability to remain sober in these conditions. So what do I do? I sit in a lawn chair trying to get hammered as dusk approaches listening to No Pocky for Kitty on repeat, restlessly fingering my cellphone. I am resolved not to make stupid drunken phonecalls to you, my friends, but I want to talk so bad. There's just so much to say. For instance, I just noticed gray eyebrow hairs. And the U.S. Attorney scandal - what about that? The air is mild, the light is perfect, I'm on my sixth Beck's. So cold, so perfect. The clover in my yard is a little long and soft and cool under my newly bared feet. I scroll through my Contacts list: still at work, can't call them, won't answer, defintely can't call them!- so much water, so little to drink.
So what I do is this. I wait for the nosy bastard who lives across the street to come by and rearrange my recyclables. He does this every week. Apparantly, I don't organize my recyclables correctly. Every week I watch him casually stroll over at dusk and nonchalantly make them right. He's retired and, I guess, incredibly bored. So, a little tight and a little mean, I lay in wait for the old man, sort of hiding under the pear tree. And when he starts messing with my recyclables, I yell at him like he was a child. When he tries to explain himself, I tell him he can talk to me when he catches me going through his stuff. He walks away in indignation.
I am out of beer and have to be up early for work tomorrow. The sun is down now. The streetlights are on. I am not proud.
