The discussion was over. Rod wasn't playing Dr. Phil anymore and I didn't feel like trying to make amends with Rach at that moment. So I packed up my cigarette making shit and headed upstairs where a miraculous thing happened: I got angrier. Throwing on a sweater and grabbing an extra $20, I figured I'd go outside for a cigarette and then hit the nightlife to drink away my frustration because I knew I didn't want to pack it in and head back to Macon, and I didn't want to move into another place and I didn't want to be angry. That's one of the reasons I like drinking -- without ever having to pick up a bottle, I can believe that my troubles will just go away.
Outside, the temperature is like 45, which was only ten degrees below the high today. I'd been in the cold all day so what would it hurt to be all freezing my ass off now? None and man, wouldn't that beer be sweet? And hey, maybe ol' girl will be up there too. And what's this say about Kmart?
Rachel came out and asked if we could talk for a moment. Sure, I said and surrendered my attention and braced myself to be, at least outwardly, as calm as possible. Rational and adult.
"This is how it feels to me, this is how I'm perceiving things," she began.
She related her impression of my actions, emotional baggage that is brought to the lobby in an argument and generally, her feelings on what it's been like since I moved up here. Most of the time I nodded my head and took mental notes. I was ready to respond and I would be respectful.
But I could feel the beginning of my blog entry changing to reflect the most current events. For two days I'd been scheming on an exquisite opening that described how I was so plastered on Saturday that I had to walk back to the house, and I was going to use some clever line about walking funny because I was trying to avoid stepping on cracks in an effort to spare the breaking of my mother's back.
I was going to launch, shortly afterward, in to how I made my walk back to the car on Sunday morning, dressed up in the finest church clothes I have with me, and carrying a Bible, a thermos of coffee and a cigarette. It was a weird way to pay homage to the best hangover song ever, Kris Kristofferson's Sunday Morning Coming Down (made famous by Johnny Cash). But I was going to do it and I was going to explain why I went to church and what I learned.
I was going to move back in time to cover the events that took place Saturday before I did all the drinking and even touch on the things that happened while I drank like how I called everyone who's number I could read and rambled on the best I could about whatever was in that pretty little brain of mine. Or how I came in possession of a phone number belonging to one of the hottest women I've ever seen despite the fact I didn't even ask for it. Hell, I don't even know that I want it.
Oh jeez, and I wouldn't be able to forget the scene into which I stumbled when I returned from the bar. If you don't think there's a difference between the Shi'ite and Sunni Muslims, just ask one about the other -- whoa nelly. And all that by the fireplace, all cozy like.
And then back to the church scene and afterward and a little beyond. Somewhere in that long ass Sunday, I went bowling with Rodball and like the Puritan I am, shot a turkey for the first time in my life. For those without the proper bowling education, that means I rolled three strikes consecutively. Of course, we had a few trick or treaters too.
The very last one was this sweet little boy who was confined to a wheelchair. He was wearing a skeleton outfit and just bursting with energy still. His mother, you could see, was exhausted. I dumped heaping helpings into his bag and thanked them, wishing them well. The little boy cautioned that the cauldron with its fake fire might tip over and burn the house down. I ran my hand through the "flames" to show that it was fake but before I could express the notion in words, he flipped out and declared that I must be magic. How could I refuse such a compliment even if it means living a lie? The answer is that I could find no way and therefore, not only accepted his remark but also stood up to do a dance of magic and wonder as they disappeared around the bend.
Thing is, none of this was on my mind because I had real family drama here. The lady of the house and I were at odds. It wasn't the first time since we've known each other even though it was certainly the first time since I arrived. We just tend to get really pissy with each other.
But this now, this talking it out, this was healthy. We related, we cracked jokes. I confessed that I only had a beard because I randomly decided that I didn't want to shave for the rest of the year, not because I was using it as a way to keep myself from objectivifying women (long theory, don't ask). It was good, it was productive and it solved the problem.
Oh, incidentally, the argument arose out of a debate on whether Hugh Grant was acting like the majority of males would when he paid Divine Brown to go down on him, or if he was suffering from a mental or emotional ailment.
And that is all I feel like writing now.
Love,
Chris "everyone's Southern Comfort" Horne
ps -- Clithead, a "prop" is an object used in a stageplay or film that replicates an object used in real life. When myspace asks you to assign the number of props this entry deserves, think first of theatre and tell me how many props you believe this story needed, or perhaps, tell me how many props you broke trying to stumble into your bedroom Sunday night. Maybe, how many props you'd throw at a passerby should you become angry and enraged. In other words -- the words of Humpty Hump -- do what ya like.
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