Everything is wrong with me
Monday, October 04, 2004
the weekend in three parts
1) On Friday night for dinner I ate a half a box of pasta, with a half a jar of spaghetti sauce, four meatballs, and a giant chunk of Italian bread (with butter and cheese of course). Then I had a pint of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Caramel Brownie, the other half of a canister of whipped cream, and about thirty or so maraschino cherries. Then for an after-dinner drink I had two bottles of red wine.

I didn't make it out on Friday night because - surprise surprise - I had unbearable heartburn. This did not stop me from drinking, though every sip felt like someone was pouring heated shards of glass down my esophagus, as I polished off the second bottle just as Johnny Utah let Bodhi ride the wave of the Fifty Year Storm in "Point Break" (question: did anyone ever tell Keanu Reeves that he's a good actor? He's just laughable. Also, Patrick Swayze is a sexy mother fucker, and this comes from a man with nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality, save for a few dalliances around the holidays, in the spring, and twice this morning).

I couldn't sleep because of the heartburn, and kept waking up intermittently to (this is gonna be gross) spit up a mix of saliva, bile, and blood. Though I'm not really sure if it was blood, since I was all tired and groggy so it could have been the wine. Also, I could have dreamed the whole thing, since I remember having a gigantic penis during this ordeal and this is definitely not the case.

I consistently have terrible, terrible heartburn, and have talked to my doctor about it and am taking something for it. But I can't go back to my doctor after this episode to complain about it, because, though I don't have an MD, I'm guessing he's going to say, "Hey chubby - hit the gym, and stop eating enough at dinner to feed a family of 5. Also, drinking bottles upon bottles of wine and 150 Bud Lights a month is really going to fuck up your insides. Also, my god you are hairy. Are you Greek, or is your father a fucking monkey? What gives?"

How do I feel about all this? Eh. If I have to choose between drinking, eating to excess, and paying for sex (what?) and therefore occasionally lose some sleep and spit up blood, well, that's better than being sober and eating healthy. Although if possible, I'd like to stop paying for sex. Something's gotta give with my budget, since I'm losing all this money on betting on football, but I digress.

2) On Saturday afternoon, my roommate Brian and I went to the Falconer Fest in Central Park. Our plan was to get high and go watch this birds of prey in action. Well, we didn't have any pot. Also, "in action" is misleading. You see, I thought that I heard somewhere that Falconry was a sport, but from the looks of things on Saturday, the sport involves a) releasing the bird; b) watching it fly away; c) hoping it comes back.

Brian and I were a little late, but when we got there, everyone was looking up in the sky. Turns out things didn't go as planned and the birds just fucking flew away. The MC was telling the crowd, "Well, this is not entirely unexpected, but it appears that the falcons have gone squirrel hunting, and they won't be coming down anytime soon. Fortunately, the birds have electronic tracking devices attached to them, so we'll be able to see where they are and hopefully get them down later."

Sweet. Awesome sport. Why don't I just buy an exotic lizard, take it to Central Park, and shoot it in front of a crowd of people? Or maybe I'll just get a cougar, spend thousands of dollars on cougar equipment, food, and cages, take it to the park, and fucking leave it there. Isn't this kinda the same thing?

One cool thing: we did get to see a condor with a 9.5 feet wingspan. And it's good that I wasn't high, because I certainly would have lost my shit seeing that giant bird. Good lord. Last night I made my roommates sleep in the living room with me with the lights on, because I was afraid that giant fucking bird was going to swoop in my window and pick at my testicles with its giant beak.

I don't want to talk about this anymore...

3) On Saturday night, we got proper fucked up. My roommate Ben took the LSAT in the morning, so once the evening came we pregamed at my place a bit, then went down to Blue & Gold in the East Village.

I love Blue & Gold. It's a dive bar - the kind of place where you don't use the bathroom because its teeming with HPV. But I could care less, because everything (pints, mixed drinks, shots) is $3. Yes, $3. Sure, I was a little pissed that the SoCo and lime shots were premade and tasted roughly like 85% lime juice, 10% water, 4% SoCo, and 1% sweat, and sure, I still spent $80, but if I was at any other place, it would have cost, um, a lot more.

Naturally, the night is a little blurry, but I know it was capped off with an enormous diner order at 4am or so which consisted of: a reuben, cheese fries, potato salad, onion rings, a piece of carrot cake, two bacon-egg-cheese bagel sandwiches, a side of creamed spinach, and a milkshake. Mmmmmm...

[Can you believe that Ben, Brian, and I are single? It's shocking. Truly fucking shocking.]

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