Any job that has motivational quotes or posters on the wall is a job not worth working.
the classless elite
No matter what status or class of people you work with, whether it's part-time minimum wage working the retail grind, or they make upwards of 6 figures in the boardrooms,
there will always be piss on the floor in the bathroom.
(NEW CONTENT)
**This is not a chapter, merely an update.**
I haven't been writing here per say, nor do I advertise this bit of the site and as little as I even advertise the site, this gets zero attention.
BUT I am writing in my head and every day I jot down ideas for progressing the story. I hope to have a majority of it done before the end of the year. But as it is, my life is in a hectic place and I have little mental space for sitting and writing with a clear head. As it's always been, I write best when I'm supposed to be focusing on something else, mostly work. Which is awesome, but not for work. I find myself screwing off and attempting to open this site and write write write. I'm constantly adding new ideas for bits and pieces in my phone in notes. Every day during the week comes at least two more pieces or chapter ideas. The story arch, pieces of conversation, problems the character encounters. As well as building my own life into it.
Which is another thing. I'm in an incredible point in life regarding this story I never thought I'd encounter but now I'm building into the story. I've gotten a job and I'm borrowing a car so I can't lyft at all. But i'm building it in. But as it goes with putting too much of yourself in the story, there's a fine line. You can't cross it or else it becomes too self-indulgent and pretentious. BUT, that being said, as I am using my own life to build the story, as these things are best written, I have to live it first. I'm currently in the thick of it, so it's tough to spend the time writing it as I'm emotionally focused on living it, and no time to write until I'm on the other end. I also have an incredible procrastination problem.
The only reason I get anything out in the Verbal Vomit section or on the blog is because an idea attacks my brain RIGHT THERE, and I have the means to sit and type it out as the thoughts come into my brain. It's easy for me to jot down 20 ideas for posts that strike me to write later, but near impossible for me to acquire the discipline to sit down later and hash out where my thought process was when i had the initial idea. So they all go unused and wasted until or if I have the idea again and inspiration to expel my brains onto the digital page again. So in that respect, it's incredibly hard.
But despite my downfalls with creativity, I have other things in my wheelhouse now. I very much want to write a book for one. Second is I feel the stories I've experienced I'm going to put in the book are worth telling and too good to go to waste. Third, many of the other forms of expression I have are being suffocated right now. I can't write easily on my acoustic, electric, or piano these days. My living situation won't allow it and it's getting too cold to park somewhere. Besides, i'm borrowing a car at the moment. So writing is becoming more the means to express these days. Fourth, the way in which I want to now write it is instilled in me. Bukowski's novels are written in a very clever way which comes natural to how my brain works. As in, it's all over the fucking place and short, brief chapters are key. Snippets, vignettes into this guy's life instead of trying to focus on maintaining continuity and a solid story line from beginning to end. i tend to think of the end, then a middle bit, then go back to tweaking the end. etc until I realize it's impossible for me to figure out how the fuck to start it and give up from being overwhelmed.
But it's on the way. It's a goal for 2018. It's going to take a while, but it'll come.
Plant (Nuit Etoile)
Back in the Fall of 2014, I had met someone here on a study abroad program at Wellesley College. She was from Egypt. It was late October or early Nov. I can't recall. After hitting it off we began what became a short-lived relationship until she left in December. We stayed in touch via the wonderful world of technology and it was kind of a muse situation. She was over 5,000 miles away and this is probably why this particular situation worked out. I was lying to myself at the time. She was in love. She was a very good person. better than you or I. We talked about future and eventually, when we'd meet again. We spoke for nearly a year until I visited in late September into October. it was the longest 'vacation' I'd ever been on to date. 10 days. (really 8 as first and last were spent travelling)
I was 22 when we met. 23 When I visited. It was an interesting and unique situation. I don't mean to get too in depth with it here as this is not the purpose of this post, but I suppose it's the best time to whether I want to or not. I was 22 and I had just gotten out of what I now know was an abusive relationship. At this point in Nov. of 2014, we had split with what I thought was a mutual agreement. She then began incessantly begging to hang out and see me. She was in denial. I wanted a clean break. She pestered in an incredibly unhealthy way and it was a very sticky situation as I was living in a spare room at her dad's condo. Yep.
I will now tell you a brief part of this story that I regret to this day. A piece of the puzzle that I attribute to the whole shit-show that ensued afterwards from her including the police, near restraining orders, stalking, psychotic breaks on her part, borderline homelessness, etc. She gained access to my notebook, which I kept by my bed under a dresser. My bed was on the floor. I had no other furniture there. You couldn't fit my box spring up the stairs and we only barely managed to squeeze my mattress up there. It was sitting on a twin size box spring, and both ends that hung off I shoved bottles and books under. it was class all around. Anyway, my notebook I wrote in was directly next to my bed, underneath a dresser. It was not hidden well. She'd stayed with me obviously and I wasn't afraid at the time she'd go through it. She knew exactly where it was.
Now, I usually tell people she gained access when i wasn't there, as it was her father's place. She very well might have and probably did. But the piece I leave out is that I knew exactly when it happened. After a solid month or so of not being together, we agreed to go to my stepbrother's wedding together. Huge mistake. A part I don't wish to relive. She cried all night, in front of everybody, it's the only time I've screamed at someone. She wouldn't stop begging to talk. I didn't want to. I wanted to go, pretend, and be done with it. I hadn't told my parents or anyone yet really. But she made a spectacle of it, crying throughout and yes, she caught the bouquet. She cried, forced me to dance. We fought out in the parking lot. Finally we left, and eventually talked that night.
We were not together, and we went to her father's, my room, which was never hers, but mine, and we slept together once outside of our relationship. It was very much a "fuck it." moment and even more a, "fuck you." moment. It was mutual and consensual. It was relieving. We had talked, and agreed this was not going to work, and this was the end and the last time. I suppose there hadn't been a true finale to the physical part of the relationship and that's what she wanted. I was ready to flush her out of my life at that point but sure, fine, let's. So we did. I regret it. It's the only time I'd been outside of a relationship and had any physical contact with a person. What the fuck was I thinking?
I left the room at some point to shower. It was then I believe she went through my things. Either that, or I had left for work the next day. She was left alone, as i still trusted her as a person despite our differences. What a damn mistake on my part. She discovered I had talked to someone else. Merely talked. This particular entry, I was very in depth about when i would see her again, which was the next night. As I am visiting my new, now-friend from Egypt, I get texts berating me and asking where I am. Obviously at this point it's none of her business and I politely tell her off as such. She THEN begins and kicks off this whole tyranical destructive behavior that ensues and escalates over the next 9 months, by TELLING me, exactly where I am. She tells me she knows where I am. I call her bluff, and she says so. That I'm in Wellesley. Wow. I can't fathom how she'd know, other than that she talked to my good friend that her and I were mutually close to. I began questioning him. "did you fucking tell her where I was?" I don't remember if I called, texted, or festered without mentioning it for a while, leaving myself to assume. But eventually he had to tell me he had zero part in it and didn't in fact tell her.
I felt like a shit head for blaming him for a day or two. What a piece of trash I was. He was still close, at this point to keep close to the enemy and make sure we were ahead of her at all times, and she lied to him, the first of many, that she had "accidentally found" my journal. She claimed she was getting some of her things out, which she had very little, and accidentally read it. One of which such entries, (a page or two back) conveniently mention jokingly that I was going to end it. I was dramatic in my writing. Boy I had no idea how far the other shoe could drop and how I'd feel a few years later haha, anyway... She took this small paragraph, which was clearly slightly sarcastic in nature as I continued another about my new friend, to contact every. single. person. in my life and tell them that she was afraid I was going to commit suicide. What ensued has been documented extensively in my journal, which I did not write in for 4 months as i was traumatized. Not only that but I wasn't validated until months later when she finally spilled the beans to someone else she deliberately went through it with full intention of finding things out. This, after a few other lies and stories of how she discovered it.
So as this is happening, I am continuing my budding friendship-turned-relationship with this woman from Egypt. It's very much a vacation for me. As this is happening, my living situation is decaying fast into oblivion as this man, her father has no idea and I need to keep it that way, and at the same time. My RV, which is now practically abandon is sitting out on the curb out front being vandalized several times and the cops, the condo association and her dad are breathing down my neck to move it. I cannot as I have no money. It was the most stressful time in my life. I had true nightmares. I once had a movie-esque experience where I shot straight up in bed and screamed at the top of my lungs in the middle of the nightmare. I was dreaming someone was breaking into the RV. (we had staked out a few times to try to catch said person. My van was also in need of repair.
So this was very good for me, escaping. I tried going down as much as I could. Every day towards the end. I only had a month with this and really only a few weeks in retrospect. She was very interesting and I was so intrigued by her past and life in Egypt. In hindsight, she was simply a naive foreigner who happened to be the only person to talk to me that day and decided to actually meet. She didn't know how people would take advantage of her here (thank god it was me I suppose) and was such an innocent human being. We talked. We talked and talked and talked and talked. We would lie on a couch by a fire in a common room in a dining hall building with a Steinway (yes, a Steinway, this was Wellesley after all) and we talked until the early hours of the morning. I needed that at the time. I also kept her from a lot.
Nermin (pronounced ner-meen) was a Coptic Christian. Take the most hardcore Christian in the United States and triple it. That's how devout she was. But she was into me. What I'm getting at here, is eventually, after my visit, her plans with me were set in stone and I was not ready to lie, become a Christian for her sake, or settle down living my life half in another country. As enticing and cheaply it was to live in Egypt. In December. When she left, we didn't know if we'd see each other again. She also had accumulated a few things she couldn't take back with her. One of those, was a bamboo plant which her and her French roommate named "Nuit Etoile" French for starry night. A Van Gogh painting. Up until just now I remember it being something Hillary related as that whole thing had only kicked off. Her French roommate and everybody in the college was rooting for her to begin running as Hillary graduated from Wellesley. At least I remember it being Hillary related. But I guess not. There's a stick on the side of the pot the plant's in that says so.
She gave this to me. Nuit Etoilee. It was a 3 stalk bamboo plant that represents good luck. She told me this. I am told the significance of the 3 stalks together represented good luck. It was a bit ceremonial in her giving it to me, so I didn't question and took it as such. i guess it's not about if it's true or not, it's the significance you or others put on it. So to me, it wasn't just a plant, it was this representation of our friendship, relationship, love, and now, good luck.
I babied and nurtured it all year in my room. I would take pictures of it's progress. I even moved it from the clear cup it was it with rocks, to an official little blue pot. I even bought potting soil if you can believe it. I trimmed it as instructed by the official Youtube bamboo pro online. Yes. I feared for this thing's life. All this responsibility on me. The whole year it was watered and stayed intact. It grew incredibly. 2016 I moved into an apartment with my sister. It survived there was well pretty in tact. It wasn't until I moved back in to my parent's place where it began it's decline. It all began when I had to leave it abruptly for 4 straight months. I asked for it to be watered occasionally. But eventually, it died. One stalk died as I think it was exposed to direct sunlight in the window. I removed it, the second stalk died from 4 months of no water. Fine, one left. I decided I'd be extra careful. I mean fuck, if I can't take care of a lucky BAMBOO plant (the name of the specific bamboo plant, lucky bamboo) which are supposedly incredibly resilient plants, then what good was I?
Well, now, this week, the last final stalk is yellowing. I'm not sure it can be saved. They say yellowing stalked can't be. It might be doomed. I am a failure in this respect. It's symbolic in so many ways. It's one of the final representations of that friendship, as well as a representation of the lack of luck I have. It's fitting really. I told myself (sarcastically really and in a time of deep depression) that I'd end it once this thing died. Now, here it is. I'll try to save it as best I can, but no promises. It's pretty gone. We'll see. I'm no expert.
The point is, it's the end of an era. It almost lasted 3 years. The nurture, care, and neglect of this plant. The last 6 months or so I've been on top of it. watering, mixing up the soil, and making sure it was upright, in tact, alive, away from harm and watered. But as all things do, it's dying. or dead. I could've cared more about it and there's a solid chance all 3 stalks could be alive today, actually, more than solid. But that's the breaks. It's a very sad day though. It's the end of that time, a closure of sorts. I deserve it though. It's easy to break it off with someone continents away. I was a jerk. I took advantage of this person's trust. I deserve everything I've ever gotten I suppose in some odd way. I didn't do anything outrageous by the standards of morals and values of the country I live in. We were intimate, but not fully. Her religion prevented her from it. But I did break a person's trust, as well as broke her in her innocence, and innocent view of the world. I basically ruined Christmas for her by telling her at too young an age that, "hey kid, Santa's not real and he's not bringing you shit this year. The world's a horrible place, and people are going to hurt you whether you are good or not. and there's nothing you can do to control it." That's basically what i did in my actions.
This so incredibly good person, the best I've ever known to that point and to date, I took part in breaking her view that no matter how good you are, people will hurt you. I am ashamed and will never live it down. And to boot, this plant that represented anything good from all that 3 years ago, is now dead. It suits.
But as we all must do, I have to get over it.
Here's to the future. Let's be better ey?
Motel Room
Wrote the first verse or so in a motel room. The Knights Inn. You know it.
Sometimes when I get stuck, I'll go back and see what I've never finished. Sometimes it works. out. I was down when i finished it. Oddly enough I suppose it needed the 9 month wait. At the time I was numb to it. I was in shock I think.
I tried recording a demo of it back then in the motel room. I can't recall what room. I love that motel. Such character. Dirty ass spunk that place. The kind of place you write songs about. Funny story, I sat down on the bed to try to record a demo of it. As I announced the name of it and began to play, there's a knock at the door. It's her. She's back from work. She brought me food. I forget the phone's on. Everything in my head turns to mush apparently and I forgot all about the song, the phone. It's muffled, but we talk and she showers the work off her. I totally fucking forget about this song and I end up watching some really awful motel TV, but it's really the best kind. I think it was the Oscars come to think of it. It goes on for 15 minutes or so.
If that doesn't explain right there how it was, then I don't know how else. Pretty fitting that it all happened, the accidental recording and me forgetting about it. I'm kind of appalled I did come to think of it. Perhaps I was too shy to write when she was around. I should've never opened that damn door haha. No. Maybe I'll stick that sound clip at the beginning of the next record. Wouldn't that be some shit. Come on, sadistic? Probably. Feel my pain damnit.
I don't regret a thing.
The Movies
It's not often I'll go to the movies, especially with my own mother. With friends (which is never at the moment) is good. I can dig that. But it's tough to get me to want to go unless it's something incredible. It's expensive, and there are so many different mediums and ways I can watch at home and spend no money, zero, zilch. Another reason is in my head, my brain says, "there are so many different ways you could be spending this 3-4 hours (going, waiting, watching, coming back). I'm hard pressed to get myself to go if I have even the slightest thought I'll be wasting all that time. If I see a shit movie i'll have wasted all that time I could be, oh i don't know, more nothing here, inside.
Anyway, we went. We saw it. I won't get into the whole damn story, but I smiled walking out, because once the film was over, I knew EXACTLY how my mom would react. She hated it. I loved it. I smiled because I finally realized that this is a good sign. If she hates something I enjoy, then that means it's decent in my eyes. I finally realized that our taste in all things art couldn't be more polarized. There was a deeper message going on in this film filled with some really insane murdering and quirky story line. But if you really get past it, it's saying a lot. She didn't see that, and when explained to her, she really harped and asked why. That's dumb why does there need to be a message? Why can't I simply zone out and watch some mindless thing. I don't want to go to the movies to think. (is the mentality here) Well, where does one go? It sure was entertaining. It was crazy yes, but also different. The story wasn't cliche. It wasn't how every other god damn movie story goes in this fashion. And the social commentary was laid into it ingeniously.
I smiled because I realized my taste and her's are completely different and I no longer need to convince her of anything. I once got frustrated she didn't get it or didn't appreciate a fantastic movie because it was "too slow." She wants mindless shit with explosions and sex. That's nice and all, but the story is shit and the acting is shit and it's cliche and a yawn-fest and mostly visual masturbation. But that's the snob coming out of me. Even critically acclaimed films sometimes get a "wtf was that?" from her and others. But I realize, "you know what? That's okay. You have your taste, and I won't be able to change it and so be it." I think she realized this when she asked how I thought I could've possibly enjoyed it. I explained, but it wasn't in defense. Also, I go by the old adage. I'm paraphrasing, but...
"If you write a song, and your mom likes it, shit can it immediately."
I can't stop
Listening to this song. After my facebook page extravaganza posting about their main hits, I've discovered some mo.
I'll post them all here because separately that'd be a pain in the arse.
All off the same record. Bam.
Ay
Let's post something positive ay? I dislike that the commonly accepted way to type that is "eh" Like Canadians. Dirty Canadians. At least I think that's how it's commonly typed. For instance, "Can you go down to the package store to get us some brews on this cold night eh?" Fuck that. Dirty Canadians. They probably came up with how to type that damn phrase. Or sound. Whatever they call it. It's 'Ay' not 'eh'. Type it how it sounds.
"eh" to me is more like, "Do you want Chinese tonight?" He asked. "Eh." she responded. "I'd rather stare lovingly into your eyes by the fire in this wonderful den located in the heavily wooded forest in this cabin we've rented for the weekend. We can stare and stare our hunger away until we both fall asleep in each other's loving, warm, starving embrace. We'll wake up, at the same moment, still staring into each other's eyes. Our bodies won't yet be awake so we'll feel no pain. We'll sit up and stare out of this wonderfully huge bay window before us looking over the lake at the quietly calm waters. You'll get up, trip over the coffee table. But it's cute, because the coffee table is beautifully handcrafted straight from a tree outside the cabin in 1927. It's literally a cross section from a tree, stained, with branch pieces for the legs. We know it's from 1927 because there's a cool plaque on the wall that says so. Also a crafty booklet the owner made about the history. The coffee table also contains a candle, scented vanilla. I like the scent of pine tree better, but since they're all around, that'd be pointless. It also has my sweater on it, yours too. We're on a really cool futon that fits the cabin perfectly.
You like the scent of vanilla better. Now you're jumping around as you've stubbed your toe. You hobble over to the big window. You squint at first as your eyes are still adjusting to the light coming off the enormous lake. You don't hear me, but I come up behind you and grab you. I look up at you, and you smile. I smile. We both smile a smiley smile. Your toe still hurts. But you've forgotten all about it. We've forgotten all about everything. It's the perfect temperature. It's the perfect day. It's the middle of fall and it's unusually warm. The leaves are all kinds of colors. Bright and Vibrant. Yellow, Orange, amber, deep red. Some are still green. Some are gone. Some are dead and chopped up and stumps. Like the stump long gone from that coffee table you stubbed your toe on. Damn that table. Fuck that table.
We're now next to each other with your arm around me; mine on your back. I look back at the table. I bet it wouldn't even hold a person. Stupid table. Stupid fucking table. That table hurt you. I hate that table. Fuck that table. FUCK that stupid dumb ass coffee table. I bet if if I were to sit on it right now it'd break. I bet if we fucked on that shitty coffee table we'd snap it in half. Someone made that dumb thing. I guess back before IKEA. Fuck IKEA too. Making everyone's dumbass apartment look the same, like they're fancy. IKEA is shit. But it's kinda that post modern look. Or whatever. Back to this handcrafted, beautifully cut coffee table. Fuck that table. You look down at me, I'm still looking at the table. 'What's up?' you ask. 'Oh nothing.' I look back at you and smile. I give the table one last dirty look, then back at you, staring off into the lake, then the lake. Fuck that table.
'What do you want to do today?' I ask, squeezing my arm around you. 'Hmm, well there's some cool trails around here I want to explore if you're up to it.' You say. 'Sure! let's do it. Maybe we'll run into a rabid raccoon or a moose or a homeless guy and get mauled and maimed and be one of those cool folklore stories 20 years from now!' I say. 'Yassss. That'd make my life.' You say. 'It'd end your life idiot.' I say. You push me jokingly as we laugh. 'That's why i love you. Shithead.' You say as we kiss.
You turn to me fully, away from the window, kissing. We're now backing up, closer and closer. Closer to the coffee table. You back me up all the way into the coffee table and I sit on it. You follow me and now we're lying on the coffee table. It doesn't budge. I shove the sweater and the candle and all the other crap off the table in a frenzy as we're completely on this coffee table now. Which is definitely not from IKEA. You're on top of me and I look up and you're staring right at me and deep into my eyes and you smile at me and I bite my lip because I think this might be the most sexiest thing we've ever done. Your eyes look incredibly blue in the soft daylight from the window as it bounces off the wooden walls of the cabin. I can't help but smile and it makes me want to cry as I am so happy. You give me this look and say, "You're so fucking amazing." I roll my eyes. You begin to lean down to kiss me and I close my ey..."
"So do you fucking want Chinese or not?" He asked. "What?" she asked. "Did you seriously just spend the last 10 minutes telling me this story when we could've ordered already?" "I don't want Chinese." She said. "Fine, what do you want then? Pizza? Subs? Rings? Pasta?"
She ignored him.
Well then
What a fucking shit show.
And nobody to tell.
Disgusted
I am disgusted with myself. I can't say why. But listening to a podcast, the WTF podcast with Marc Maron, he's got a few issues. A few is an understatement. But he talks about one specifically on his pre-show talks, and also interviews a few celebrities who share these issues.
There's a few stories I hear that make me cringe and shiver that I made someone feel a certain way. Even if they asked me and forced me into answering. What a horrible thing to think, "yea, this is a good idea." Which probably explains a lot. But I can't take it back. Although it was based on merely attempting to give someone what they wanted and nothing else. It wasn't based in truth. It wasn't what I thought or my opinion. It still doesn't help that I think back and want to die. Ugh. What a fucking person I am.
So there's that.
Signs
One of my biggest pet peeves is when people ego are really into the zodiac signs (aries, sagitarius, leo, cancer etc) generalize you as if they've got you nailed as if the day of that month you were born in is the only thing deciding what kind of person you are. Fuck you. Yes I'm in a mood.
Oh because I'm a (no I'm not going to tell you what I am.) That's the reason I am why I am. Really? Fuck you. There's things and reasons why. How about my up bringing? How about my dad's an ass taxi? How about when I was bullied the whole year of 6th grade by not one or two or 3 but nearly all the kids ever I've ever hung out with. Tens, twenty kids. No, maybe ten or so. More than I care to count. A whole lunch table full of assholes and beyond that table into kids who just wanted to be part of something. Yea. Didn't know that did you? I haven't mentioned it.
All started by one kid. One. And I maintained a friendship with him after the fact to. Years. If that's not loyalty I don't know what the Fuck is. Kid ruined my fucking life. To boot we had a push-over permanent sub all year and he let a lot of it happen. He was cool though. He was on my side. I believe ours the year he grew a pair. He had a lisp. Mr. Fowler. He made an impact. I paint him like a prick but he was a saint among a sea of little fuckers.
Long story short, physical abuse, verbal and mental abuse plagued me for the majority of that year. Also the year I got glasses. Nothing to do with the situation but it didn't help. I got hit, smacked, punched up, never beat up thank god. But most importantly, this kid started calling me gay and convinced everyone to play along and pick on me relentlessly. Re-fucking-lentlessly. Everyone I knew was against me. I found my real friends. Nobody I really talk to now. But thank god for them. Really.
This doesn't count? My experiences of constantly taking shit from people, experiences growing up, genes or history don't? I can't change me? Bullshit. Bull fucking shit. I'm a much different person than I was a few short years ago. Fuck your signs and generalizations. Don't condescend me with your crapshoot expertise knowledge on my "sign" like you know me before you know me. Or perhaps this mentality is exactly what my sign WOULD do.
Take your signs and stick em. You're limiting yourself. Looking up and memorizing you're not compatible with a damn human being because a website said so? According to the signs? These made up entities. Made up. It's all a crock of shit. To occupy you in nonsense that does not matter. So you're not going to make a friendship or start dating someone because of their sign? Or you're GOING to because the signs say you "fit"? Then you tell yourself it didn't work out or DID because of your compatibility. Always shifting blame. Take responsibility. Jesus Fuck. Just a little? Please?
Yes I'm in a mood, fight me. Fuck your sign.
I hate
the "let's get fucked up, yea! " ethos. Fucking hate it. They wear their high or drunk on their sleeve like a badge of honor and want EVERYONE TO KNOW. Everyone. As if you should be there too and you're a puss if you don't join them.
. I hate more though the "Look! I'm DRINKING." attitude. They can't hide their physical drinking or the fact that they're drunk. It makes it oh so pathetic and disgusting to me. It makes me not want to drink because I can't bring myself to the "come on man let's get fucked up!"mentality. Ugh. Fucking makes me sick. People can't hide their flasks and have to show you they're drinking. The point is to hide it. You moron. If you're going to publicly drink, drink publicly. Get a fucking cup. But if you're going to hide it, don't show anyone you have it like a 17yr old boy with baby's first nip inside.
don't be a god damn show off. It makes me not want to drink. Be an adult. Drink, have fun, too much I don't care, but for fuck sake don't go around telling everyone you're drunk like you've accomplished something. It insults those of us who drink for a reason. Drinking to feel good, forget, die, feel no pain. Fak you. Poser.