I’m a little bit drunk and wallowing in my problems, trying to force a bit of true melancholy with the wine and the Joni Mitchell. I want to go out and get drunk with company, and find a blurry face to lurch at and salivate with. But I keep fucking it up. I live in a shitty city full of hippies and effeminate men, and it’s a small city. There is a limit to the first impressions I can make here, and I’m running out. When I was happily married, I was too lazy to make my own friends and just relaxed into the group that formed around us. They’re his friends though, really. I never made much of an effort with them. I get the apartment, he gets the friends. So I’m doing the humiliating rounds now, trying to pull together whatever I remember about making friends with people from when I was in school. It’s not going well.
Oh, this is a picture of a seagull that was on the skylight. I’ve been meaning to add photos to posts, but have nothing relevant.
Attempt 1: The very pretty and nice girl
I met a girl who was on the edge of this group of shared friends. She is very very pretty, which is good because it attracts a better quality of men, but not so good because it’s competition. So we met up after work and went to a bar. I decided to dress down because I thought it was after work drinks, but it ended up being a bizarre Eastern European disco club where everybody smoked inside a room the size of most people’s kitchen. The first cigarette was a novelty, a wonderfully liberating experience. Fuck you, laws. We’re still here, the smokers, gone underground, smoking indoors. And then the second smoke jarred a little. After that I was constantly gagging, ferociously ingesting G&Ts to avoid throwing up from lack of oxygen. This resulted in a very drunk me, very quickly. The rest of the girls were oblivious. I guess I’m just sensitive to smoke, although I’m a smoker. Skip forward a bit and everyone is dancing. Sexy girl dancing, in hot pants. I can’t do that, I have annoying hipster tendencies to ironic sexy dance to avoid the embarrassment of failed sexy dancing (or so I think). So I busted out the Matrix bullet dodging moves, a pathetic attempt at a robot, and whatever my booze addled mind thought was the macarena. In fairness, they did actually play the macarena.
Skip forward and I’m talking to some blonde chick I remember as Heidi. She was a bit of an idiot, but I was extra nice to her because she was very pretty, and my drunken defense system is to be almost lesbianic in my attention to rivals, for some reason. So I practically assaulted the barman, leering at him and shouting in what I thought was a flirtatious bar manner, “give my friend a free shot because she’s hot” or something similar. Then I ended up telling her blonde jokes which pissed her off, and then she was gone and my friends were on the bar, dancing sexily. Me too, I thought, as I hoisted myself up while the barmen looked on in horror. Once up there I realised it was a bad, bad idea. The bar was very thin and I was very drunk. I copied a few moves from the girl next to me, but when people started climbing up and squeezing past me on a 60cm platform, I gave up and clambered down sensibly, only knocking a few glasses from the bar.
I turned around and saw an ugly guy, but he was speaking English, so I decided to talk to him. Suddenly Heidi turns around and pretends to be Scottish, although she was Eastern European. English guy does a 180 and starts talking huskily to Heidi. I was incredibly offended, because I wasn’t hitting on him, and both Heidi and myself were way out of his league. So I start screeching “she’s not scottish, it’s a LIE” and then when that got absolutely no reaction, I decided to offend him in the worst possible way, and insult the royal family. I was drunk, it seemed like it would work. I tapped him on the shoulder and said matter of factly, “the queen sucks cock”. He took it surprisingly well, and answered “yeah, she sucks my cock”. I was taken aback. This was not the effect I desired. I wanted him to cry. So I upped the anti. I can’t remember what I said, but it was horrendously graphic and was more insulting to him than the queen, and he told me I was a fucking psycho and marched off as I screamed abuse at him.
Then I was outside, and two friends were holding me by the armpits and marching me along to the taxi rank while I growled “I’m fine you cunts, I’m fine!” I woke up falling out of the taxi while the driver swore at me, threw all my money in the world at him and lay quivering on my doorstep for a while. I had no energy to look for my keys so I started pressing doorbells. Eventually I summoned the strength to vomit green stuff with a pungent gin and tonic flavour all over the doorstep and crawled up the stairs and into my bed.
I was going to tell you the next failed attempt but I don’t have the stomach to dig into my repressed memories any more right now.