Everything is wrong with me
Monday, January 31, 2005
 
the weekend and lines (as in queue and pick-up)
Sunday is the worst day of the week. It's not even close. Well, actually, Monday is a pretty bad day. Yeah, come to think of it, Monday is probably worse than Sunday.

Ok, let's start over.

Sunday is a very bad day. I usually spend my Sundays in various stages of nudity and disrepair, as I move from bed to shower to toilet to couch throughout the day, my body trying to figure out what to do with the several liters of booze slogging through my bloodstream. My head and body aches, so there's only one thing I can do: eat lots of greasy food.

What's worse than the physical repercussions of the hangover are the psychological ones. Sundays are the reason I stopped doing (most hard) drugs - I couldn't deal with the comedown. While flushing out all the alcohol, your body is going through all sort of chemical changes and reactions, and when this is happening my mood swings wildly between crying at a car commercial to chasing the little brown delivery guy down my hall and stabbing him in the leg because they only included ONE packet of ketchup with my sausage, egg, and cheese bagel. Fucking assholes.

Usually, the deleterious effects of Sunday are mitigated by hours upon hours on football, but this was not the case this past Sunday, the first since early September without meaningful football. And boy did I suffer. Left alone without such a wonderful distraction, my troubled-but-not-troubled-in-a-cool-way mind turned to several harmful thoughts, including but not limited to:

- "I'm dying"
- "I can't keep drinking like this - look what it does to me"
- "What kind of man am I? I'm 25 and look at what I'm doing to myself"
- "Seriously, I'm fucking dying"
- "I am fraud and a failure. I'm not sure how, but I know it's true and it sounds cool to say."
- "Why do I always smell like semen?"
- "Ok, that's it - I'm dying. Ready, 1-2-3. I'm dead. That's it. Over. Fuck."

It was a rough weekend. "Rough", however, means "fun because I got pretty damn f'ed up". Friday night I went out locally with some buddies, and Saturday night I ventured back to my old 'hood for a birthday party. I didn't drink especially hard either night: there was nothing like gratuitous "5 shots of Jaeger in an hour"-type drinking, but there was some long drinking. Do I have a problem if after drinking from 7pm on on Saturday night I got home at around 4am and decided to have some wine to help me sleep? Is this bad? Is something wrong with me?

What's terrifying to me is that this is a sign of things to come. Come this Sunday night when football season ends, I'm looking at a long string of hungover Sundays trapped in my apartment (too fucking cold to go outside) without football. These are going to be some dark, dark days.

[Sigh]

Anyway, the party on Saturday night was a good time. It was nice to be back in the old neighborhood, and more specifically, near my favorite pizza place EVER - Rosario's, in the Lower East Side on the corner of Orchard & Stanton. Holy shit it's fucking good. After leaving the party, my roommate Brian and I quickly hit up a few bars we used to frequent and then ended the night at Rosario's, with a $16 order. Fucking A, man.

But let me back-track: I was at said party on Saturday night, a birthday party for my friend Maggie, standing in line for the bathroom, when some guy who was about 40 or so who was also in line said to me out of the blue, "It's a shame that kids nowadays are no longer main-lining heroin."

I looked at him and thought, "Dude, who are you - me?" I thought it was a pretty funny line, and said something like, "Yeah, they're too concerned with their looks that they don't want track marks. When I was young, track marks on your arms from heroin use were a sign that you were not only becoming a man, but also that you were the man."

So props to that guy, and it got me thinking about some other good/shocking lines. My friends and I would do this thing in college where we'd try to be as obnoxious as possible within earshot of others, usually really hot girls. For example, we'd be getting cash out of an ATM before entering a bar, and at the ATM machine next to us there'd be two gorgeous, way out of our league girls, and we'd play out a scene where we were in mid conversation, talking about something horrible and offensive:

Me: [getting cash, being very animated] "So I said to her, I said, 'You better shut the fuck up right now before I fucking slap the shit out of you' and you know what she said to me? Do you know what the bitch said to me?"
My buddy Bill: [enthralled] "What did she say?"
Me: "She said, 'Fuck you fat ass.' Can you believe that? Can you believe the balls on her?"
Bill: "What a bitch. What did you do?"
Me: "What do you think I did - I fucking punched her right the fucking nose. Hard too. And I said, 'Mouth off again at me, and I'll swear I'll fucking give you brain damage. I will punch, kick, bite and claw you until your brain is permanently damaged.'"
Bill: "Serves her right."
Me: "God damn right it does. Now let's go get fucked up." [me and Bill high five, walk out of ATM to horrified stares of hot girls]

I know what you're thinking, "Maybe this is why you don't get laid, asshole". But there are many other reasons besides being obnoxious that I don't get laid. Besides, it's not like these two girls were gonna fuck us in the ATM vestibule anyway, nor would they even have looked at us in the bar, so we might as well have had some fun with them.

Some advice - next time you're at a bar, standing next to a cute girl, and you want to start up a conversation but don't know what to say, use one of these numbers. You have my personal guarantee (which means absolutely nothing) that any on of these will get you laid (whether it's consensual or not is for the courts to decide):

- "So, are you a religious person?"
- "You know, they should really put a magazine rack here or something. By the way, one of my balls is MUCH bigger than the other."
- "If we had kids, I promise that I would never touch them. Unless they were really, really hot. Or if I was left alone with them. Otherwise, I wouldn't lay a hand on them."
- "You look like someone who's on anti-depressants. Which is your favorite SSRI: lexapro, prozac, paxil, or zoloft?"
- "I don't know...I don't think I need a test to tell me whether or not I have an STD. I know I don't have an STD, no matter what the test said. A lot of guys get pus-filled whiteheads on the head of their penis. Not a big deal."
- "Cool music. So how do you feel about ass-play?"
- "Seriously, women like the taste of semen, right?"
- "I've been clean for a week and a half now and it's been the worst week and a half of my life."
- "You haven't kissed a black guy, have you?"

I know, I know - you're welcome. Just use them wisely, and if you live in NYC, don't use them at all. I plan on dropping those little love bombs at various bar bathrooms all over the city, in the hopes that one special little lady will say, "I can't speak for all women, but I love the taste of semen. Looking at you, I'm thinking yours taste like a mix of burnt popcorn and hepatitis, and I'd like to find out. Care you join me in the bathroom?"

Keep your fingers crossed. Just keep your fingers crossed.



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