K is for "Kill me now"

My head hurts. It's not as bad as it was when I woke up this afternoon, but it still hurts. 

I got way too drunk last night.  The "falling down for no reason" kind of drunk.  The "willing to at least mack on anything with a vagina" kind of drunk. But unfortunately, not the "can't remember anything that happened" kind of drunk. 

Not that it was all bad. But seeing a beautiful young girl with red underwear throwing herself at men old enough to be her grandfather still causes me emotional anguish. 

No, I wasn't at a strip club. That I would have understood. It was one of my two local bars, and it was thanks to her low-riders that I know the color of the pretty girl's undies. I forget her name. I learned it when I offered to dance with her. (She refused, citing exhaustion. Thirty seconds later she was dancing with her friend. Mmm-hm.)

I did end up dancing. Some woman whose name I also forget. She was probably about 40 and frankly not very pretty. But she had on blue suede boots. Royal blue, my favorite color. And she was friendly. So I danced with her because she wanted to dance, and a few drinks later there was some macking outside. I'm not proud of it but at that stage of insobriety I'll kiss pretty much anyone who's willing. It's one of the major reasons I don't drink that much anymore. 

The irony of this, of course: If I'm that drunk, my junk goes on strike.  Essential services only. Which is actually kind of awesome. Because it prevents me from going too much further down the "anything with a vag" path.  

Before the debauchery I was up in LA visiting a friend and her friends that she wanted me to meet. That was interesting and fun.  But the night would have been a lot better -- and the two hour drive there more worth it -- if I could have met up with some of my other friends in the area afterward.  Sadly, my primary contact wasn't returning my calls or texts. 

Note to self: Don't drink a can of Red Bull immediately before plunging into the Friday-Night Crawl.  Not unless the drive also involves a catheter.

This put me in a somewhat foul mood exacerbated by the endless stream of Valentine's Day-themed commercials on the radio.  Hence: debauchery. 

I know. I'm telling this all out of order. This is essentially a stream of unconsciousness blog, a otnemoM blog; ramblings of a man drinking lousy coffee and pushing too-curly hair out of bleary eyes.  Trying to jump-start my mind, trying to bootstrap myself to humanity. This is my second cup of coffee and I want to go back to sleep. 

This morning my phone chirped from somewhere. I'm pretty sure it wasn't what woke me up. Might have been.  More likely it was the necessity for various types of excretion. My clothes were all over the room, my computer was on the floor, unplugged.  Miraculously, the half-emptyfull can of beer on my makeshift bed-table was still upright.  

It took a few minutes to find my phone. It was in my pants pocket, half under the bed. I had three messages; the first made no sense but appeared to be a recording from Verizon. I think someone paged me, but the recording doesn't wait for your greeting. It just starts.  Another was from a friend here in OC who wanted to go see a movie tonight. And the third was from my buddy who didn't return my calls last night.  Apparently he's been unwell and had gone to sleep at an early hour last night, well before I called him.  

So I needn't have been worried about possible friend alienation. But I could still be annoyed by the Valentine's Day commercials.