So the bill is settled – drunk people scare the shit out of me.
I don’t know if its my supposed anxiety or that it just plain smells bad. Please, someone, do tell – what’s that they call – the burn in your throat that supposedly sweetens into mortal elixir? Tell me again, like they do in the books. I haven’t been convinced.
So when my roommate came back home (ever so briefly) tonight with her two slightly drunken friends, the inner alarms went off. What’s wrong with me? Maybe I just have trust issues. What else is new, Duck. Or suppose the fact that I could not help recalling the most recent memory (which would be now 2 years ago) when I was last surrounded by any sort of semi or entirely retarded inebriated adults, I was surrounded by the feeling of sex.
Maybe I’m just afraid of sex. But that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.
Well, so the story goes: they caught me. Ever so glamorously pulverized by my many excessive and pretentious pillows, struggling to operate a new scanner. With just the regular visit of a crime investigation down your pants and shower hair. Every woman knows how beautiful you feel then.
It wasn’t so bad. There were no come ons. The perfectly nicely smelly drunk French boy/man came to sit beside me to at first aid with the scanner, while my roommate and her other half chatted playfully in the bedroom in French. I struggled a little bit with the perverse thought of them just going down at it right then and there. I think I read too much. We all do, hoping for the most ridiculous situation. Thankfully, my roommate is a 5 foot 2′ inches awesome drunkard that handles it like a 6 foot 2 man. But dear lord, I can hear him pee for the next 3 minutes and thought to myself when was the last time I had two practically complete strangers stand in my home at 1am in the morning? To which might I add, would be kindly discovered was not flushed properly. Although in this case I suppose one ought to focus on the positive – at least he tried.
Meanwhile back at the couch, the nicely smelly drunk French boy/man, whose name I have already forgotten struggled with his English and all I can think about is that, damn, now my pillows are going to smell. But how do you wash those that come with the cover as its first skin? Struggles.
I’m just ready to throw my glass of milk at him if he happens to throws a drunken kung fu punch my way. I don’t know, drunk people are weird. That’s right – my glass of righteously half drank milk that has been advised to be finished two days ago and is being drunk unhabitually and unsocialably by an almost 19 year old. God, I just love my life.
As it appears, after some more Frenchness, they decided to leave for the night. Who knows. Maybe anxiety is contagious.
Off they went – but not before the more drunk French man/boy with my roommate decided to slip his sweater back on in the living room and walk towards me to give me a European goodbye. Two awkward close encounters on both sides of my cheeks and we have survived the evening.
I hear my roommate brusquely tell him to be quiet and leave – all in French of course – I’m just supposing.
So first of all, why do I have a roommate – well the Duck just moved, again. But she’ll brag shamelessly about how much she adores
herself and the new place next time. Not like you asked or anything. And second, why is she scanning stuff – for another opportunity to brag show love on Mother’s Day by personally selecting and scanning roughly 800 photos to put on the digital picture frame purchased.
I’ve got 768 more photos to go, and I’m just staring at the ones that my parents took of Asian transvestites putting on a theatrical show. Damn, I feel ashamed to be a woman.