Friday night, I was drunk, gloriously drunk. I did it with the help of my buddy, Clint Bob Fadon, who was in town for his sister's wedding. In my language, this meant he wanted to do shots of Sambuka and Jager. In my world, it meant finishing off High Life after High Life, and dancing to the Legendary JCs at the Hummingbird. This made sense to me.
It still made sense when, the next morning, I was getting into the shower with a little of the night's buzz and a Little Debbie Donut Stick. (It was my housemate's last one so I couldn't waste it, even if I'm trying to buy time by putting the empty box back in the snack drawer until I can go get more, at which time I'll also eat as many Donut Sticks as necessary so that the number he left before my theft is what remains in the box.) As usual, I stretched and sang. Hot shower time in a bathroom all my own. It is life, glorious life.
Here's what I realized: My life used to be really simple and I didn't even know it.
That doesn't mean my life was necessarily easy but it was simple, as in not complex. Before I went out Friday night, I poured out a bottle of life-giving water (into a bigger bottle for later use) and then replaced it with a few shots of gin mixed with tonic and lime. It looked like water. It was perfect for my stroll downtown.
I passed my old decrepit home. The lights were off. To be sure, roaches and rats were having the rule of the roost. So it takes longer to get down to the bar and longer to get home; so what? I don't have to deal with bugs and shit. And the bathroom is all mine. There's even a half-bath I use from time to time because I can.
What was simple about my old place was how cheap it was. It was so cheap I could afford to skip a month then get caught up later without hurting myself, without paying even half of what other folks pay for a roof. It was so cheap that even if I was paying on time, I could spend tons of cash on cigarettes, booze and eating out. If I wanted to buy a few DVDs or books or whatever, I could. It was so cheap and my life was so simple. Nothing could or would stop me. Go home, go out, get back, get up, go to work, do it again with varying degrees of intoxication and self-loathing misery. So simple to do.
My life was so simple I didn't even have to worry about enjoying it. I could go seven days a week living it without once thinking about whether or not it was a good life. It was a life and that's all I needed. Friends, some family, a family or two, live music, passing out. I didn't have to worry about what was looking back at me in the mirror. Simple.
Thanks to all those arrogant fuckers who decided not to like me when I wasn't being genuinely friendly. Somewhere in that, I got all confused, stop getting by. And now, I can run two miles in the morning, getting up two hours before I have to be at work, finishing up without reaching for a smoke.
But it isn't complete. Friday night taught me something of that. Since I don't go out as much anymore, since I'm not trying to forget myself so much anymore, I don't see what's so much fun about going out, which is ironic since I've prided myself on being Mr. Go-Out-Have-Fun guy. Again, Friday showed me something: It's okay to take care of oneself and if you are, going out and being bad to one's body feels better. It's more fun. More of a release and less of an escape.
So thanks for telling me I was an asshole. I took it to heart. I understood what it meant. I disappeared, I returned, I went away. Blah, blah, blah. And now, I'm in better shape. Yee-haw. And Merry Christgiving Day!
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