Portrait of an Alcoholic

Tonight I’m dropping a double-feature right in your lap, free of charge. You can thank me later (or now…it’s whatever), but be sure to keep on reading when you get to the end of this one (don’t just close your browser in disgust like you usually do after reading my blog).

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This weekend was the annual Blow Job (watch this video for an explanation and no, it’s not a blow job video) on Cedar Springs (It should be noted that Blow Job 2008 could be considered an actual event, given the lack of fellatio that occurs in my apartment). Anyway, held every year on the Saturday before Halloween, the Block Party is like Mardi Gras Lite with drunk, half-costumed, half-naked people EVERYWHERE. One of these people just so happened to be my lady friend, who is not afraid of a champagne bottle (take this either as a testament to her fondness of the bubbly, or her ability to, well, use your imagination).

Now, she claimed her costume was “something out of Studio 54,” but if you ask me it looked like Amy Winehouse and Joseph (you know, from the Bible…you’ll see) ran head first into each other. Either that or she went as an indiscreet flasher since the only things she wore under her vibrant coat were a bra and bathing suit bottoms. What a pervert.

Pervert or not, I love my lady friend. She’s beautiful, intelligent, passionate, caring, fiery, hilarious, and nobody can make me smile like she can. She also gets on my last goddamn nerve when she’s drunk. We split up like we usually do for most of the night (she likes to dance and I have the rhythm of an epileptic, I like to shoot pool or throw darts and she has the competitive nature of a zombie), but when we met again, she was on the floor. I don’t mean the dance floor. I mean she was laying face down on our hardwood dining-room floor, still fully-clothed (if you can call it that). Upon discovering her in this state I was informed by her best friend that she had fallen down 6 times already on the way home. Now that we were back at the apartment, guess who was on clean-up duty (the answer is “me” in case that wasn't made clear).

“Well, first thing’s first” I thought to myself, so I gave away her Big Mac and fries. Then I busted out the camera and snapped a few shots for posterity’s (and posterior’s) sake. Then I covered her with a blanket and put a pillow under her head. After I ate about 2 bites of my meal, she informed me she was ready for bed. Usually, tucking my wife in is a snap, but that shit ain’t easy when none of her limbs work. And I mean NONE of them. So now my drunk ass is stumbling around, trying to balance a flailing, yelling mess of alcohol and glitter so that I can get back to my fucking cheeseburger. Once I successfully got her into bed, I had to stick around and answer her barrage of questions (well, really it was the same question, but she asked it about 100 times).

“WHAT’S MY DIAGNOSIS??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?”

Aside from “drunk” I didn’t have a good response. When this answer finally satisfied her, she felt it necessary to tell me that her “arm [was] like the Sahara!” which I took to mean either hot, dry, or lousy with camels, none of which made any sense.

Then she was done with me. After I had literally carried her to the bedroom, got her dressed for bed, put water on her nightstand, set the trashcan next to the bed for her, AND put her under the covers, the only thing she had to say to me was “NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF THE DODGE!!!”

I had no idea she was a Ford girl.