I hate getting a little bit drunk on the West Coast.
Because I get a bit buzzed and the thirst, you know, the real drinker’s yen inflames inside me and I look over at the clock and say, ‘God, it’s only 12:30 a.m. I could make a bar run and drink an hour, easy.’
When really I’ve got no money and nothing good will happen to me, but I’ll be alive and have fun and do things other than sit at a computer and drink beer which does nothing except makes me fat and slow. I’ll have whiskey! And whiskey will get me up and screaming laughing clapping in no time at all.
I mean, jesus. Pacific Time is forever to drink & keep drinking.
I’ve got at least 7 more bottles of beer in the fridge (I bought a 14 pack just this evening), and yet, and yet the liquor store is only five blocks away, and all the really good rollicky alternative so HIP but not at all HIPSTER places are just a bit past that, and what people would I meet? What people wouldn’t I meet?
Fuck, I might even get laid.
But no, I’ll stay in tonight, and pretend I’m on Central time, or better yet Eastern. It’s nearly 4 a.m. there. Time to be asleep there. But the Other Coast, no, they’re just getting started on a Friday night, and who knows where the afterparty would lead?
Back to my place if I have enough. And I mustn’t do that. I’ve drank out moderately the past two nites. Tonite, I’ll finish off my beers.
And masturbate if there’s time.