So here it is: I was nearing the end of my drinking. I was on the down slope of a failed business manufacturing racing go-karts (yeah, that's a thing) and a long-term relationship that practically combusted. So I was in a really good place emotionally. I went back to bartending, and when my shifts would end, I would take my tips and donate them to neighboring bars, and in exchange those bartenders would get me drunk. Commerce is a beautiful thing.
So there I was, at my favorite local wine bar (because wine bars are way more sophisticated than bar bars, and I liked to delude myself into thinking I was some kind of classy lady) when I stumbled into a real sick puppy. By that I mean he had a reputation for being an animal with a voracious appetite for all matters of sin. (Also, he was no puppy, being close to 20 years my senior). I didn't know him well, but I didn't not know him, and that night, I had a hair up my ass to get to know him better.
Here's why: somewhere during the course of the evening I heard he had chips (our cutesy word for ecstasy). A quick bit of backstory about my recent breakup: it ended in infidelity with a non-gender specific prostitute on Craigslist and a case of the Clap so, you have to understand, I was living in a purgatory of numbness. Now add bankruptcy to the mixture. So I jumped at the opportunity to feel - anything - and chips were all about feeling good. Good was better than bad, and bad had been my residence for a year. More accurately, it was as if The Nothing from The Neverending Story had devoured my spirit. So I drank. A lot. And fueled by liquid destruction, I had all the justification I needed to excuse the following series of poor choices:
1) I made contact. This was the worst move I could have made, because it was all down hill from there. This guy had a bit of money, so one glass of wine turned into a magnum, which turn into a proposition, which turned into...
2) A cab ride to his place, where upon I decided to turn up the heat with a sexy strip tease, but my lack of coordination wouldn't allow it. I stumbled around like a freshly born calf, barely aware of the two THUDS my silicone "chicken cutlets" made when they hit the ground after being released from my bra.
3) I proceeded to round third and head for home with this ass clown, despite the news that he "couldn't find" any chips. Yet again, I was in a situation I was way too sober to be in, but far too drunk to get out of. I felt claustrophobic beneath him, looking up at him as he struggled to get his rocks off, grunting like a wild boar; and just as his asthmatic thrusting was about to launch me into an anxiety attack, he collapsed into a hyperventilating heap beside me and fell asleep. If only he had died. But the real cherry on top of this shit-show sundae was...
4) The ride back to my car the next morning. It was worse than any walk-of-shame I could conjure up: he threw a helmet at me and told me to hop on the back of his motorcycle. Great, one more fucking hog I had to ride before I could get away from this guy. But at that point, I was so ready to get the hell out of there, I didn't care. I didn't care that I could only find one chicken-cutlet. I didn't care that I'd be out in the open, on full display for the world to see me with him as we rumbled into town on his unreasonably loud Harley. I mean, I wanted to kill myself, but I didn't care. I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and that light was a shower and a warm bed.
Have you ever heard of incomprehensible demoralization? Well I was becoming all too familiar with it, so I can tell you from experience, it's the shittiest place to be - way worse than "bad." I don't recommend it. In fact, I suggest avoiding it at all costs, and the best way to safeguard against it is to have full control over your faculties at all times. Unless you want fodder for your own blog. Then, hey, bottoms up.
|There is a strong possibility this was my FB post the morning after the above incident.|