The Neighbors

2013-03-21 13.28.39Hey you over there. I’m sitting on the porch kind of parallel to you, surrounded by a pile of glass. Drunk on a Sunday morning, I’m trying to play it cool. Clearly, you’re at your family gathering or perhaps a friendly neighborhood tête-à-tête? You. Yes you. The one over there in the overalls with the curves – the incandescent lightbulb face and the fire engine hair.

Please ignore my idiotic friend and his antics: the yelping, the shouting, the general making a nuisance of himself. He’s drunk. I am too. Sure, it’s one in the afternoon on a Sunday. But I can handle it. I wish you’d glance over again without such obvious scorn. To be honest I can’t really tell how you’re looking at me. Even though you’re only a couple of houses over, my vision is Vaseline. As far as I can tell, though, you’re quite lovely. My eyes ache for you, a cool glass of water in the bristling sun.

Ignore the fact that I’ve been drunk since last night. That I never went to bed last night or showered. That I may have indulged in some Peruvian marching powder last night. We’d be smashing together. At least I think we would. I really mean it. You’re lovely. I’m tanked. For that matter, you look like you’re drinking a beer too. What kind do you like? I bet it’s microbrewed. You look like that sort. I could deal with that sort. At least we’d have something in common, aside from eating, drinking…

Shut up pal o’ mine!

I’m trying to impress – or at least not disgust her slightly tanned face, her standoffish posture. I’m trying to pretend I’m not a fuck up with a self-destructive bent; with a life line that may consist of 1) burnout, 2) rehab, 3) cirrhosis of the liver, 4) homelessness, 5) dialysis, or 6) an early demise. Don’t let her in on my secret, or not so secret, standard of living preferences. If I could just keep levelheaded, on ice – just maintain – maybe our lives could somehow intertwine. Maybe I could gain a genuine reason to wake up, beyond hair-of-the-dog; beyond trying to break away from this vortex of self-loathing and internal violence which often leaves me passed out and hurting all over for days on end.

Maybe.

Take a good look, honey. These stained features: nicotine teeth, sunken blood-shot eyes, war-ravaged organs and shitty tattoos, can all be yours. All of ’em…

Shut the hell up, you impudent jackass!

Please don’t break my aloof façade. You’re destroying what little self-respect I have left by mock-humping my head. All I want to do is sit here, repose, and try to attract the affections of a fancy young maiden hither down the lane. All I want to do is lure her into my neurotic, self-deprecating web of borderline alcoholism and soul-crushing isolation. Maybe if I could pretend for one more second that I have an ounce of respectability…

Ah, who am I kidding? I need another beer.

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