Words Couldn’t Describe/Drinking Stories

SONY DSCAt this point in my life I am living well beyond my means; however, everyone is in debt, and those who aren’t in debt right now eventually will be.  That is how the U.S. monetary system works; debt equals credit equals debt etc.  You own a dollar, you own one dollar of debt.  As Sean explained to me a few months back, before summertime, on a bridge, in NE Minneapolis, he said, “A dollar is a dollar of debt.” This is about pieces of paper and metal designated by those in charge to equal your time and your effort; and this is about the life you live.

***

Words couldn’t describe.

Standing at the mercy of checks and balances.  Breathing, concerned, yet still alive.

Excited to sit inside and open my eyes, excited to take time to take time.

***

Summer time along the Mississippi River brings out the best in people.  The river along La Crosse curves against River Side Park and slides down south towards Iowa, and further south past that.  I grew up on sandbars watching people get drunk.  Everyone was usually smiling.

But La Crosse and Mayflies and drunks have very little to do with this story, well less much the latter.  There will be plenty of drunkard stories in this tale…

***

The feeling of suffocation-when I smoke one cigarette it’s all over.  My day is ruined, physically.  I sit by the smoker (meat smoker), in the backyard sun, as white-grey plumes exist about where I sit, and on my clothes later.  I think of my accomplishments and the fact that I have little to no money, I mostly have credit, but it doesn’t really exist.  I look at my phone, nothing, there is no buzz, or new number, or new message, only a void where I am curious for someone to enchant my magical technology-instant satisfaction.  I sit and think.  It is hard to breathe.

The sky is clear and sun threatens my paleness.

I biked to the BroHouse, coffee in tow.  I mixed it with vodka-it was 10 AM.  My girl had to work all day and had to most days this month, which was a minor bummer.  I rolled up, after passing the gay pride parade in downtown and thought about how ridiculous it is that there isn’t a straight pride parade (apathetically joking), and how awesome it would be to come out for just one day; that day being pride fest Sunday when the parade is in full swing and everyone is throwing around rainbow flags like hot potatoes.

I imagine the experience would be epic.

***

Reality has it I sit and listen to No Agenda with AKA.  The heat is out and real.  A long winter granted us this pleasure.  I grab a hat and sunscreen.  There is no need to risk the red color that will come to my skin and cause taught pressure and pain to surge through my nerves.

***

I do SEO marketing stuff all day and come home to not writing.

***

I sit outside and smell the roasted pork shoulder (cooked 8 hours so far), 7 lbs of goodness about to be consumed by the best day-drinkers in town.  We speak of how the cops came to the house again, of how the music is too loud always, and how our roommate passed out in some awkward position in the driveway again.

Someone (as we will call him) has passed out in the middle of the driveway.  Handy and his buddy walked up and thought he was dead on the spot.  Someone says he was just laying there in pain, that’s all.  He said he couldn’t move because he was in pain.  Handy says Someone was out cold, they thought he was dead.  He started to tell them to “fuck off” when they woke him.  It would have been unfortunate if one of our friends had driven into the driveway drunk and that’s the end of Someone passing out in the driveway.  Someone passed out cold on the hood of his truck.  AKA explained this with jesters of Someone lying on the hood of his truck, G*ry (the name of Someone’s truck), his feet hanging off to one side.  Like blah…  HEY GUY!

***

I wore a tweed hat and took the sun in.  Apparently it was at 3 AM in the morning, the story goes.  Sometime later AKA would go inside, come out and explain to me (and this is why I lock everything), that a girl was trying to ram through the door of my bedroom, for whateverthefucksake reason.  With her head.  She couldn’t figure out that the door was pad-locked on the top.  She was banging her head against the door for 10 minute apparently.  I don’t know.  AKA told her it was locked and to leave, she looked at him confused and then she drunkenly staggered out the front door into the black night sky.

***

I tried to do some reading in between the vodka-coffee and the pop-culture book.  I tried.  These stories made me laugh a bit, but mostly it made me wonder how we all were still alive.  I went inside and got another beer.

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About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1/191-4788099-1818040?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=terry+scott+niebeling
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