I'm a drunk. As are my friends. At least the drinking buddies I call friends. I've spent many a night with my lips on the bottle of Whatever's Available, singing Oldies and dancing like a kid with Palsy. Trying to keep up with these friends can for can and bottle for bottle. I'm mostly over it now, but for a while I was a stereotypical college student except for my hatred of all things "collegy".
I've never been a fan of the college lifestyle. I find it to be pretentious and fake. Hell, I find most things in our American culture to be fake, but something so gross as the college lifestyle is to be genuinely loathed. I would guess that my dislike for it results from it's false brotherhood. Yes, I get it. You went to the same school. Big fucking whoop.
Some (whoever that is...) say that college can result in alcoholism, which is understandable. I didn't end up going to a "real" college, just a community college, but I'm familiar with all the bullshit it brings. All (but not really) parties with sexy women that hate you and experimentation with all sorts of things. I almost miss not going to a real college, actually. But I would still feel the same and end up in a superiorly misanthropic situation.
But I digress.
I'm a drunk. And this is a tale from a drunk's perspective.
I was at work the other night. I make pizza. It's a dull and shitty job that doesn't pay the bills. Work your ass off for minimum wage and suck the store-owner's dick. No fun. You do get free pizza though, which is quite nice. Anyways, I got out of work at around 10:30pm, and gave my friend Roy a call. He said everyone is over at Evan's house and so I headed over there, hoping to see some long-since acquaintances and friends.
This evening started off by me having to pick up Roy from Evan's house so we could go get some beer that I could drink up yummy yummy yummy. I've always been partial to Busch light, being the beer I grew up knowing. It was always drank by my parents, grandparents, and other sorts of family. Recently though (as in the past year or two), I've developed an appreciation for nice beers like Sierra Nevada and Bell's. Even my father's own beer, brewed in my very own basement, has found lovely grooves in my palate. But for tonight, it was Bud Light on the menu.
We cruised out to the bar where he would buy my underaged self beer. On the way we caught up a little, seeing as how I haven't seen him in a few months. He told me of his father's woes while working at GM and he told me about how well his farm-work is doing. I suggested that his boss hire me for the summer and he agreed, knowing full well that it wouldn't happen.
Roy and I have been friends for a few years now, bordering back and forth between almost too close and almost alienated. We were at the latter in this point of time. Finding our way down Grange to M-21 was easy as pie, having guided that stretch hundreds of times. We made it to Good Times Bar with ease. He ran in to grab my 12-pack. While waiting in my car at the back door of the joint, I started to wonder how this venture would turn out. Wondering how I'd be recognized by those I hadn't seen in a long time and by those that I'd never met before. Wondering how I'd handle my booze and if I'd turn into a stark raving lunatic again. Wondering if I'd be celebrated or thrown out (again).
In any case, he ran out of the place 10 or so minutes later with the 12 Buds, sat nicely in my passenger seat, and handed me a drink. I immediately grabbed it and opened it, throwing the cap out the window carelessly. Fuck the cops. I rule Pewamo. You might be a bit weary, here I'm drinking and driving. Oops! But this behavior in the Pewamo-Westphalia region of Michigan is not only ignored, it's somewhat encouraged by questions of prowess and apathetic influence.
I swallowed the first drink down in terrible, unrelenting, and uncaring fashion. It's my personal style to do so. I like to cram as many beers into the Pre-Jag as possible. During the first couple of drinks after picking them up, we low-rided down dirt roads talking more about ourselves and each other. Being friends for so long, we've grown to know one another quite well. He told me of his work and woman, which sums up the entirety of his life. Roy's always been somewhat unintelligent, suffering from a learning disability or two so he puts his efforts into more physical activities, and despite this, he was fairly out of shape. I ended up telling him of Deanna and our wondrous meeting. I told him of Charleston and sex and better times. He understood completely my need to get out of P-W. He, despite his learning disabilities, is aware of the Hell this place is.
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