A True Story


What you are about to read is indeed,  a true story.  


I went out with friends for “a” cocktail last night.   Six margaritas later, I came home.  Dazed, confused and hungry.  And let’s face it, demon alcohol always makes you hungry.   But I’m trying to control my eating.  I’m short, so excess food has no place to go but outward, therefore,  I have to watch every damn thing I eat and while at the bar with friends, I refused to gorge myself on the steady stream of carb-laden bar chow that kept arriving at our table.  So, by the time I got home I was hungry.   My stomach was churning and feeding upon itself.  It was as if all my Ketone bodies were just chomping away voraciously on random areas of viscera.  It was like each one had done time at Dachau.

I looked in the pantry and lo and behold, I found a can of Chef Boy-R-You A Loser Mini Ravioli with Meatballs.   I pulled off the top, poured the contents into an over-sized coffee cup and microwaved that bad boy up.   One minute and 38 seconds later, I had a feast fit for a pauper.   It was so damn good.  Ambrosia.  I hate fast and furiously and can remember actually feeling disappointed that I’d gotten down to my last little stuffed ravioli pocket.   I gobbled that down then like  I’d just checked out of the Darfur Hilton.  Hell, I even brought the mug up to my face, paced it flush against my mouth and proceeded to lick the sauce from around the top of the mug, turning it to get every last bit.  I licked  all around the rim, about an inch into the cup itself.

And yes…all things considered,  it was almost as sexual as it sounds.

I was sated for the most part, but mostly tired.  I put the mug on my bedside table and with a clank, the fork landed the ceramic vessel and I then did what anyone would do in my condition: 

I passed out.

But the problem here is God hates it when I drink.  I would imagine it even makes the Baby Jesus cry, because I have constitution that simply won’t allow me to go unconscious like most normal people when pissed drunk.  No, I might sleep for an hour or two, then I’ll awaken and be fully cognizant of the all the more delightful physical repercussions of inebriation.   I’m completely lucid to experience the headache, the nausea, the over all malaise, plus the fact that every tooth feels as if each  is wearing a nubby weave sweater.

Such was the case this morning.   My eyes eyes opened at precisely 3:44 AM.   Thirst was my erstwhile alarm.  My mouth and throat were parched…Saharan-like, really.    I ambled into the kitchen for some water and after the first big gulp, I realized I hadn’t paid my rent, which is considered late on the third.   I figured I could write out the check, put it in an envelope and run down to the Manager’s office right then and there and no one would be the wiser.   They’d have it when they opened the doors a few hours later.

Brilliant plan.  

So, I threw on a T-shirt, some ratty old shorts and didn’t bother primping.  I mean, it was 4 am and even though the gym is opened 24/7 and located next to the office, it was too early to work out…even for the most anal of retentives.  No one would see me and good thing, too.  I looked pretty bad.  Somehow during sleep, my hair developed this odd Gumby-esque up do thing on the right side of my head, and all my eye make-up which I didn’t remove from the night before, decided to abandon those two oil slicks that resemble my eyelids and started this greasy, mass exodus  of Maybelline remnants to head south  towards Chinland.  I didn’t bother looking in the mirror, but I knew I had to have looked like an extra from a Tim Burton movie.

But it was early, right?  No one would see me.

I grabbed the check, made it out, stuffed it in an envelope and headed for the elevator.  I arrived in the lobby on the first floor.  I looked around, the coast was clear.  Not a creature was stirring.  It was 4 AM for crying out loud!!! 

 I walked over to the office, placed the check in the rent slot and was just about to head back to the elevator when two….count ’em….two men exited the gym.   We were five feet apart by that time and they just stared at me.  But it was the way they were staring out me.,

Ever notice the facial expression of someone who’s just smelled a horrendous far?   Well, this pained, contorted expression was all over their faces and I was the focus of their gaze.   Wow.   I must’ve looked worse than I thought.   We said “Good morning”  to each other and nodded.  I reached up and felt what looked like that hairy tumor protruding out of my scalp. It would pat down.   Arrrrgh.  I then proceeded toward the elevator with  my head down, like an outcast and a leper.    I pressed the button furiously.

I think I actually heard one of the guys tell the other to “‘avert his eyes”.

But I could be wrong…..

The doors open and I sprinted down the hall, back to the safe confines of my overpriced blogging atelier.  My teeth still felt woolly so I decided to brush them.  I slathered a glob of Crest on my toothbrush and began brushing.   I looked in the mirror.  That’s when I discovered why those two men had such pained expressions on their faces. 

I had a huge red pasta ring around my mouth, completely dried after that over sized mug filled with ravioli suck-a-thon from a few hours earlier.

I looked like Mr. Bill.Mr-Bill

Oooh noooo indeed.

I suddenly knew why I’ve never married.

I was mortified, then I thought, “screw it”.  What the hell!  At 4 AM the world takes its chances. 

But yeah, I was still mortified. 

I thought about going back into my pantry to drown my sorrows with a bottle of  Blueberry Syrup.   Maybe, if I spilled it all over my clothes and skin, I could keep that Mr. Bill homage going and get a Sluggo thing going.


I mean I had to go back downstairs eventually.

I had mail to pick up.

Think anyone I’d encounter would buy “oxygen deprivation” as an explanation?

What about being A HUGE Blue Man Group groupie?

A  large walking vein?

Violet, the the bloated, blueberry-eating malcontent from Willie Wonka???







Comments are closed.