drunk

I am drunk. It started out with my going over to Joe Armon's place to help him with computer stuff. He pays me well to help him out, and I like helping him. I love that guy. Not because of this nice computery relationship, but because of just who he is. I feel like we understand each other without having to say why, specifically. Whatever the case is, I just love to hang out with him. I smile when I think of him.

Anyway, he fed me beer after beer. I'd not had any dinner, so I was feeling just fine by the time I was just half-way done with the work he'd had me over to do. And by the time I was done, I was more than slightly boozed up. I didn't seem too bad for driving, however.

I stopped at the grocery store and found some baked chicken. It's funny; many nights after rehearsal at the theatre I had a craving for fried chicken. The problem: it was always after 10 p.m. by the time I was on the road and looking for chicken (in a manner of speaking - hee hee). At that time of night, most of the chicken locations are closed. Only grocery stores are open, and they, mostly, seemed to be out of fried chicken. One night I bought a frozen dinner with the necessary chicken. It was pretty all right; but not quite what my taste buds were looking for.

Tonight, Joe sent me home with two Coronas (after having drunk about 4 or 5 brews at his place). So, I got the baked chicken at Albertsons, brought it home and ate it while watching another episode of "From Earth to the Moon." (By the way, I'm noticing the inordinate amount of typos I'm making - forcing me to hit the delete key more times than I'd care to let anyone know about.)

So, here I am, inebriated and full. The chicken was quite good. The beer plentiful. And I find myself (FUCK! It took thirty-six tries to type that last work correctly!) in a state of profound sadness again. Not so bad as when I am drunk and at a gay club, but a close second. I'm tearful. I'm thinking about how much I want to be away from here and in Portland. I'm thinking about "my" Germantown Baker, Scott. I, as usual, crave the presence of a lover. I feel stifled by my continued presence in this place: I want OUT!

So, what to do? Cry. Cry. Then take water and aspirin (to avoid hangover) and head to bed.

I called Rob tonight. I'd not spoken to him - except for when he called to ask if I knew what the white, flaky, pointy thing in Australia is (Sydney Opera House) - since I left him and Andrea on Broadway near Belmont as I got in my truck to head back home. It was, of course, a bit of a drunk conversation. He was with friends at the Belmontish cafe where they serve cabbage soup. VERY tasty. But none for me tonight.

Well, it's back to the couch and back to "From Earth..." for me. Then bed. It'll all be all right.