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My sombrero is bitchin'. It consoled me when I woke up in the morning with fresh bruises, stayed on my head while I tottered down several flights of stairs and kept me awake on long car rides that I shouldn't remember. Now it is gone, lost when I sloshed myself into forgetting any and all sentient consciousness or self-awareness.
I figure the world has it in for me, but ha! I have it in for the world too. It barely ever knows what ball I'm going to chuck next. All it knows is that I'm aiming for home plate.
I've forgotten what it is like to be absolutely clean. I tossed a couple of kegs into the street last night, and this was before me and my roommate beat the living crap out of a helpless pumpkin with them, and after we polished them off in mere hours with the help of a death-defying drinking party. That roommate left a trail of vomit from his bed to the bathroom that was only fifteen feet away. He never made an effort to even cover his mouth with his hands.
I figured his instinct was dead on. The shit was going to get on the floor anyway.
This shindig was strangely reminiscent of a hideous train-wreck, complete with dismembered bodies squirming and moaning in utter pain. We designated a cameraman, and even he was obliterated, judging by the declining quality of pictures through the night -- pictures of cups, fingers, butts, naked men and skimpily clad bosoms, which is acceptable, frankly. People on the couches, people in the bathroom, people eating the birthday kid's cake, people outside, people sitting on my car, people playing my guitar in my room, people I still don't know, and people I wish I remembered seeing, they all make an appearance in the stories my roommates tell me. I guess it really is a bad idea to bong Jungle Juice. It's a lot more dangerous than it tastes. When you're drinking, it doesn't matter how cool you are. If you can drink with the best of us, you're just as good. There is no better way of feeding from the innards of someone's soul, to lick and taste of their true essences, than to stumble your way through a black-out while at the mercy of a couple of handles of hard liquor. A drunk man is an honest man. The music went out half-way through, and it still didn't matter. It still feels like there is a hive of angry bees right next to both of my ears. The place got quiet sometime this morning, and it still seemed like the party was bouncing. Where the hell did the weekend go, and what the hell happened?
I'm giddy with adrenaline and exuding whiskey from my very bones. We're all free falling here, windmilling down a steep hill, and I'm going in nose first (helped and accompanied by people I know and love).
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