As soon as I left work I was in "Help the Pretty Ladies" mode. While I was on my 45 minute commute, I entertained everybody on I-5 with my renditions of Suicidal Tendencies, Slayer, and Faith No More songs. Yes, I've fallen in love with rock again. I'll revisit this digression another day.
In the middle of my I-5 concert I decided, on a whim, to call my man, Gary, and see if he wanted to go out with me. He accepted the invitation. When I got home, I had to convince violet_rain that I wasn't the bastard she was going to think I was when I told her that I wouldn't be staying for dinner, change my clothes, and hit the ATM. I had 30 minutes to do this. It took 40.
Back on the road and heading for the hill nothing noteworthy happened. I got to Seattle and did what I could to ensure the short-term survival/comfort of a person who is vital and important to me, the city of Seattle, and probably the world.
Then I had to race to Kirkland to get a shock-absorbing rubber mat from Costco before it closed. The mat is needed by a new aquaintance with a bad back and a responsibility to stand erect for the next few days. Preempting the suffering is what I'm aiming for here.
After making the purchase I was back on the road destined for the Vogue. When I arrived, I was happy to discover $1 rum+coke were the catch of the day. I swallowed one or two while waiting for Gary to show up. When he got there we each dumped another six pack of them while talking about what Wisconsin native males talk about. Sex, work, sex, old times, sex work, sex, and work. The Vogue was lacking scenery (read pretty girls spinning around enjoying the extent of their reach imprisond in tightly bound fabric) so we hiked over to the Mercury. There were a few more people there and a bit of scenery. The big attraction, for me, were the 3M's. Makers Mark Manhattans, baby. No place makes them better or sells them cheaper. I bathed my digestive tract with 2 of those and was finally ready to assume my role as the annoying, fat, drunk guy walking around sticking my nose in peoples business not making any sense.
When we left I had to help Gary change his headlight before I went home. Driving around hopped up on booze is bad. Driving around hopped up on booze at 1 in the morning with a burned-out headlight is suicide.
I'd like to say that I called a cab or beamed myself home safely but, no, I got behind the wheel of my 200 lb carriage of death. If you had asked me I would've said that I was too drunk to drive, listen to music, and eat Gardettos at the same time but, somehow, I managed to do it.
I made it to my hometown by 1:40 so I thought I'd catch a quick game of pool and a nightcap at Razzals. The door was already locked. Where the fuck do these places buy their cheap-ass clocks?
I went home, masturbated, and passed out.