It’s all true. And if you’ve known me for more than two years, you can attest to that. You would also know that throughout all of those years, I never had a problem meeting women. Hell, they threw themselves at me sometimes, whether I was taken or not. I’ve not met a woman while I was sober, since I was 17 years old. Now I’m clean and sober for two years, the most physically fit, financially stable, health-conscious, independent, motivated and creative I’ve ever been in my life- and there’s crickets chirping in my heart.
And pants. I know. Boo fucking hoo.
So how the fuck did drunk, disheveled, barely employed, broke-ass, fat, hot-dog eating, sweaty, drooling, mumbly, asshole me get so impossibly laid?
• Danger- Girls are attracted to danger. They love that shit. But I wasn’t the most adventurous drunk. Actually, I’d be fine on the couch watching SVU. Wait. This is preposterous. I wasn’t fucking dangerous. I mean, I was a hazard to myself. Occasionally, I fell down. That can’t be it. Maybe it was in a way. Hmm.
• The Florence Nightingale Effect– Women want a man who they can change, am I right ladies? “A danger to himself.” A “unique fixer-upper opportunity.” Oh what great potential I had, if only you could cure me. Well, that never worked (albeit some tried) and I managed to remain inebriated and stumbled from relationship to relationship, almost seamlessly. Actually a great deal of them were total enablers including the last one, who had to leave cuz she didn’t want to quit partying. (Ironically, it was I attempting to mend that broken bird.) And now that I’m all ‘fixed’, no one’s interested. So fuck Florence. In Berkeley Square. With a Nightingale.
• Pity– Now here’s a grim route to go. Surely, no woman dates a man out of pity. Pity fuck? Sure you do. Pity date? Waste of time. Not even a thing. Moving on.
• Zero Pressure– There is zero pressure being with someone who does not give a fuck about life. You can pretty much get away with anything. I’ve been cheated on and said, “Well at least it was with your ex-boyfriend, I guess that’s okay…”. But still, a couple of ladies I was with were pretty solid, career types with futures (they live to tell about it even if you don’t want them to) and they couldn’t have enjoyed that. Oh right. They’re the ones who tried to get me to quit. I digress.
• I Was Fearless– Being drunk afforded me the lack of intelligence necessary to firmly believe that I knew exactly what I was doing, or at least convey that was the case, to some effect. It quieted all the voices in my head that even now tell me that what I’m saying is stupid, nobody cares, you’re making an ass out of yourself, and so on. Without this stronghold of acute self-awareness around my brain and mouth, I was a hose without a kink; gushing all sorts of whimsical witticisms and silly wordplay without a second thought, channelling Oscar Wilde and/or an Oscar Meyer weiner, depending on the combination of spirits available in that particular basement that night and/or day. Sometimes I would dance like around like an idiot but I still do that. Hmm.
My conclusion: If-
A. I am no longer a danger to myself
B. I am living up to my potential
C. I give a fuck about life
D. I have rational fears and think before I speak
Nobody’s interested. I know. Boo fucking hoo.
Now I can hear the voices saying, “Yeah. And a sure fire way to meet a nice, single lady who is incredibly smart, talented and motivated is to compose an essay with bulletpoints whining about why you can’t get laid and then posting it on the largest social media network in the world. This is so fucking stupid. You’re an idiot. The only way to meet someone is to go out drinking.”
Oh, I wish I was an Oscar Meyer weiner again. Then maybe I’d meat someone nice. I know. Wurst joke ever.
Okay. I’m done.
Wanna know what 2 years sober is like?
It’s exactly like the movie Teen Wolf.
If you didn’t already realize that the movie is about addiction, allow me to point out all the obvious allusions: First of all, he gets it from his father. Enter ‘The Family Curse’, as it were. When he’s the wolf, he’s an unstoppable, charismatic, party animal (ahem). He’s fearless. He does everything better. Hell, he even plays basketball better. But after it alienates the one he loves (Boo, I believe her name was) he rethinks his whole wolf side. He decides to not be the wolf for love, consequently nearly loses the big game, learns that if he tries 50,000 times harder and relies on his shitty team, he can just nearly scrape by. Cue fluke free throw at the buzzer. Boom. Get’s the girl. Teaches some teens in the 80’s who are tripping out hard enough to understand what this really means a lesson-and roll credits.
What they don’t tell you is what happens after the movie (‘TEEN WOLF, TOO’ DOES NOT COUNT AND YOU KNOW IT). I imagine he and Boo dated for a while but that went south. What were they, in high school? Fuck that. No way they stayed together. So when that shit ended, he probably said, “Fuck this. Imma wolf out all the time now. Who’s gonna stop me? Love is bullshit.” And why not? So he gets wolfed the fuck out every night. Gets to the point where he starts wolfin’ out on the job- and turns out- he does his job just as good IF NOT BETTER as the wolf!! The wolf fucking rules.
Years of winning big and losing hard go by. He probably gets fired and rehired and fired again. Non-wolf girls come and go and he’s too wolfed out to care. Then he meets this SHE-WOLF. And MAN can this bitch WOLF. They wolf out like crazy together. The whole relationship is crazy, passionate, wolf sex followed by scratching and clawing wolf fights followed by even better make up wolf sex and on and on. But the fights get crazier and crazier until she ends up breaking his heart and driving him into a furry, blurry downward spiral until he’s rock-bottom. So, he decides it’s time to stop being the wolf again. After all, it’s been 17 years of non stop wolf. “I just wanna be Micheal J. Fox again…”, whatever his character’s name is probably says in the mirror in a poignant moment.
A couple of months go by. He’s heartbroken in the worst way because his human heart is not as resilient as his wolf one is. He asks the she-wolf if she’d quit wolfin’ for him so they could try being together as humans. She agrees, but as the months go by, he keeps catching her wolfin’ out on the sly. She tries to lie to him about it but c’mon. “Bitch, you a wolf right now. It’s all over your face.”, is most likely a line from this movie. Gets to the point every time he’s not around, she’s wolfin’ out- HARD. But he’s been there. He knows what it’s like. I imagine he tries to understand and keeps forgiving her and forgiving her until one night he wakes up to check on a bump in the night and she’s on the floor, almost dead, from wolfin’ out so hard.
So, in his most courageous move as a human to date, he cuts that lying, wolf bitch loose. He’s probably completely heart broken over it. He loved that wolf very much. But the claws are deep in her (metaphorically and literally, as she is part wolf) and he couldn’t be burdened by it any longer. He lives out his days as boring, old Micheal J. Fox, never to break dance, as a wolf, on top of a moving van again.
Here’s how l’ll probably pitch the ending to the Hollywood people when they read this and want to buy my completely fictional story: “And in a sick twist… it is as a human, that he is forced to learn to live…as a lone wolf.”
This shit fucking writes itself.
-and roll credits.
By the light of our devices we read and write about our vices;
a daily underwhelming crisis. Who are you bro? Who am I sis?
We’re still wondering, “where did we go?” Supercalifragile ego.
Turning Golems into Smiegels, playing possum feeding seagulls.
Building “COMING SOON!” ground zeros.
So we learn to just enjoy the parody of paranoia. Lest their stupid stories bore ya
but ya pick up when the call ya might as well just stay asleep
and rub a million rabbits’ feet because the dealers always cheat
you’re on a trainful of full seats.
Cuz there ain’t no vacancies on a trainful of taken seats.
A Kindle™ is an electronic book. The definition of kindle is ‘to start a fire, cause a flame, and to begin burning.’ Paper makes excellent kindling. Books are made of paper. The Kindle™ renders books obsolete. The robots take over. All remaining books are burned. Am I getting warm?
I look down and I realize I am cut diagonally in half.
My left arm is somewhere else and my legs are gone. Blackened denim and blood mushed flesh. Sandwich meat. My brain is too confused and soaked in adrenaline to fathom the pain. Smoke and fire. Air is sucked from me. That last drink of vodka. That womans’ head is ripped clean off by the pressure. God. Another hot blast. I can feel my face melt slightly. What’s left of me? Burnt hair. Mom’s laughter. I want to go home. Something. Gives way. And I’m out.
Close my eyes. I know I’m falling. Why do I know I’m falling?
I SHOULDN’T FUCKING KNOW I’M FALLING!!!!
Earth sky smoke. Earth sky blood. Earth sky and finally….
I can’t tell you what happens next as I’ve already left.
When I was a kid, my brothers and I were lucky (?) enough to have a TV in our bedroom. One Saturday morning I woke up from a dream where I was playing the piano. The song was beautiful. I ran downstairs and began composing this dream song. My parents, as did I, thought it was genius. Hours later while watching cartoons with my brothers, a commercial for a stupid jewelry store came on with some stock-footage classical music in the background. Lo and behold, my masterpiece was in fact a dream induced dupe. Robbed of (and in) my sleep, I couldn’t quite get back into that particular episode of Spider Man and Friends.
In related news…
In the beginning…
Men did not wear shirts. Nor did they wear pants. They were men. ‘Real men’, I imagined as I dressed for work that day, ‘would surely put these dirty underwear back on!’ I was 23 and lived with my parents and two younger brothers. Were it up to me, I’d wear a towel around my neck, run down the block and call myself a superhero. But my arch-nemisis (Let’s call her Mom) insisted on doing laundry every day. Daft cunning on her part, but one fateful day I decided, “FUCK UNDERWEAR!!!” And what a day it was….
Summertime. Primetime. Twenty-three years old. I’m in three bands. Ladies, you know what I’m talkin’ bout….Working at that cafe that’s kinda like McDonald’s now but wasn’t then…yeah…yeah…I’ll put some extra caramel on that…(ew.)
At the end of that work day I felt like a dozen roman candles without a pyromaniac. A shaken bottle of cheap champagne without a well trained chimpanzee. A virtual sexual Chernobyl. You get it. My parents always left the side door of our house open so no need to fumble with keys. I gotta do this…
I arrive home…..no one is there. “SCORE!!!”, I think as I pop in a porno tape. In my parents living room, mind you. (Sorry Mom)
So I’m working it. And well. Almost there when my little brother blasts open the side door and careens up the stairs. Fuck. I should’ve locked that shit. In a desperate attempt to hide my shame I switch over to the cable input and try to zip up quick.
At this moment I realize that there is more than one thing wrong with me. My brother sees nothing and goes upstairs. I go to the downstairs bathroom to assess the damage. “We can just pull this out…”, I squeamishly murmur to my now flaccid, frightened, fractured, frenulum (as a coach would.)
I give it a quick pull and then….