Comments Posted By Thompson
Displaying 0 To 0 Of 0 Comments
That Proclaimers song brings back memories of the time I went out with the work crew for drinks and Indian food. I like my food – Indian or otherwise – super spicy, and I got my customary vindaloo or phaal curry, and ate other shit like onion bhajis and keema naan.
I got wasted pretty quickly because I’d been hitting the mouthwash hard in the offcie bathrooms beforehand and I wasn’t yet used to balancing social drinking with feeding the thirst. Took my happy ass off home relatively early, when the world started spinning and the coworkers wanted to carry on, sipping pints in old man bars and talking about their favorite pro-wrestlers while that Proclaimers song was seemingly on repeat.
Got home maybe an hour and a half after eating, get up to my room, and immediately spew into the sink in my bedroom. There’s chunks of chicken and shrimp, flecks of herbs, bits of rice, pieces of naan, curry sauce mixed in with bile, beer, vodka, and luminescent mouthwash foam. All that good stuff. I was fading fast and in no condition for clean up so just flopped into bed, fully dressed, immediately after.
Woke up the next morning to find the sink drain clogged with the congealed remains of my puke from the night before. My bedroom fucking reeked to high heaven of half-digested Indian food and vomit for what seemed like a month after. Even today just thinking about that song I can still smell that miasma.
Cheers for the trip down memory lane, John!
» Posted By Thompson On 22/November/2024 @ 6:35 pm
Glad to see you have your traditions and routines, John. I like to keep mine simple. Wake up. Have a glass of water or two for hydration. Smoke on the porch and let Morgoth the Third out. Have a drink or six. Pass out. Wake up, drink some more. Pass out again. Wake up. Drink some more, but there’s enough alcohol in my system now that I don’t need to head straight off to bed. Sponge out in front of the computer for hours. Head to the local gas station for booze, after sunset. Carry on drinking until I’m nodding off and my eyelids are closing at my desk. Take myself off to bed to sleep for the night. Rinse and repeat.
Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 10/November/2024 @ 5:05 pm
Munching on those sweet, tender loins
I recommend switching to mouthwash for a bit to cut down on those outrageous spending costs, John. The buzz is good and you don’t have to be concerned as much about not having brushed your teeth in weeks. I started on it back in 2019. I was at the homeless vets camp where I met the ex and had ostensibly sobered up, but I was secretly getting my fix via two big bottles of mouthwash every few days. By that point my only experience with it was as a teenager, when a friend and I were desperate for a buzz and tried mouthwash/soda mixers.
Sometimes I’ll swill it around my mouth, but most of the time it bypasses the teeth and goes straight down the throat. When you’re drinking mouthwash you really don’t want the taste to linger.
» Posted By Thompson On 30/October/2024 @ 7:59 pm
That Jeepney ride looks very uncomfrotable, John, and reminds me of an abscess I once had. I do not recommend abscesses. I got one in 2014. Roof of my mouth. Fucker swelled up to like half the size of a ping pong ball. Had difficulty eating because food would push into it and it would hurt. I could always feel it on my tongue.
Finally got sick of the fucking thing so one night I sterilized my pocket knife by holding it on an open flame, doused it with rubbing alcohol, and lanced the fucker. Like Satan’s piñata it burst and jizzed pus all over my tongue/mouth. Absolutely foul taste (and smell). Had to gargle with precious vodka just to swill it out.
» Posted By Thompson On 28/October/2024 @ 4:51 pm
I hope you don’t lose your way during that typhoon of yours, John. Getting lost when you’re drunk is NOT fun.
Early 2015 I’d not even been working a full month when I got sent home from work (my first job where I was admonished for not shaving) for being drunk. Decided to walk home, which I’d done precisely once before, but stopped into a liquor store to get more fuel for the ~2 hour walk back. Stopped into a back alley to lube up and ended up passing out for not pacing myself. Woke up hours later, after sunset, to find my phone had died and I was totally lost in what was effectively a ‘foreign’ city.
Got caught up in a thunderstorm (no jacket or umbrella). Walked through a field of mud that sucked off my new work shoes my stepmother had gotten me a few weeks earlier, for the Christmas I managed to polish off two bottles of whiskey in one sitting. At one point my passport fell out of my pocket and I ended up crawling on my hands and knees in the mud, in the dark, looking for it. I was lucky with the passport because I noticed it wasn’t in my pocket not long after it fell out. And because it’s light and has some waterproofing it stayed on the surface of the mud. It’s all tattered and dog-eared now. Only expired like last November.
Ended up shoeless and I couldn’t find the shoes. As the rain got heavier and the mud thicker they kept popping off, and even though I was stepping back into them the mud was sucking them off with every other step. Then I slipped and almost went on my ass, and when I got my bearings I couldn’t feel where one shoe had been lost. Then the other came off. I only had wet socks on for the rest of the journey home.
Shoeless and completely piss wet through from the rain, I then managed to fall over a low wooden barrier, going full shrimp and just remaining there because drunk and “fuck it”. A few cars did actually stop with drivers calling out asking if I was ok. Silent thumbs up sent them on their way.
Finally managed to extricate myself and tried to wave down passing cars for directions. I lucked out with this young stoner kid who offered to drive me home. I remember profusely apologizing I was soaking his passenger seat with my soggy ass, but he was cool as hell. Offered me some of his joint he had in the ash tray. I remember a string of spit like pizza cheese leading from my mouth to the spliff when I gave it back to him but again, he didn’t seem to give two toots about it.
Finally got to the new housing development where I lived with my brother, one of those cookie-cutter HOA affairs where all the houses look the same, and staggered home.
Only when I got ‘home’ the door was locked up and my key wouldn’t work. I thought my brother had locked me out because he’d somehow found out I got sent home from work and he was pissed about it. After aggressively trying the lock some more I hammered on the door and I heard a muffled voice behind it ask “who are you?! What do you want?!” I laughed. Actually laughed. I thought my brother was being a dick and playing a prank on me, pretending not to know me.
“It’s me, Thompson, come on man open the door.”
“Who? I don’t know any Thompson.”
Sigh.
“It’s meeee, THOMPSON.”
“I don’t know any Thompson!”
Ffs.
“Ok, it’s your b-r-o-t-h-e-r, Thompson!”
“I don’t have a brother, and I don’t know any Thompsons!”
It was only then that I realized my ‘brother’ didn’t sound quite right, and in the porch light of the home my eyes fixed on the home number plaque. It was a different number from my brother’s house. Ohhhhh fuuuuck.
“Shiiiiiit, sorry man. Wrong house, wrong house. I thought this was my brother’s house. Sorry!” Sheepishly backed out of view of the peephole in the door, hands held up in placation.
My brother’s house was actually two or three streets down, and my key worked as soon as I plugged it into the lock. As anticipated, he was pissed. When he didn’t hear from me earlier in the day he drove to my workplace to pick me up, and my dickhead boss told him he’d sent me home, and why.
He threatened to break my legs for being a mess and basically kicked me out, where I went up north to the Bay Area to live with cousins for a while, and the rest is history.
Every now and then I think about hammering on that stranger’s door. At the time I didn’t think much of it; I was still thinking more like jolly drunk than a rational, smart drunk, and to me it was at worst an annoying, but understandable, mix-up. Since then I’ve read about people like Andrew De Vries, Yoshihiro Hattori, and Renisha McBride, who were shot to death for.going to the wrong door, and I think that could have been me.
» Posted By Thompson On 25/October/2024 @ 5:38 pm
I assume you Hashers just let loose and pee wherever when you’re out in the wild like that, John. At my last job I used to hide out in the toilets quite a bit just to kill time. Maybe drink a shooter or three in there, eat some snacks, watch some Internet porn. I used to spend so long in there the motion sensor lights would cut out and I’d have to do this dance on the throne, thrashing my arms and legs around to try and catch one of the sensors. Sometimes it just didn’t work so I gave up and sat there in the dark. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence that the lights would only come on again when someone else came into the bathroom. 95% of the time I detected a minute pause; a falter in footsteps, a sharp intake of breath. They must have seen my feet under the stall door and thought wtf was he just sat here in the darkness? Yes, yes I was. Now do your business and go.
If anyone questioned me about my bathroom breaks I know my anxiety would be through the roof, as I’d clearly established a pattern and was visibly going to the toilet at a questionable rate. I’m always paranoid about that because years earlier I was working a retail job and passed out in the bathroom, woke up like 20 seconds before my supervisor – who was heading into the men’s room specifically to bust me – caught me asleep on the toilet.
» Posted By Thompson On 23/October/2024 @ 12:59 pm
I can understand you and Swan being unable to swim, John. I’m totally non-functional when drinking. I have enough energy and coordination to head to the liquor store and back, and maybe make some food, and that’s about the limit of stuff I can accomplish for the day.
The ex was one of those energized people. Alcohol was like fucking crack or meth for her. I’d be flagging and want to lie down for a pass out, she’d suddenly want to do all the housework, all at once. Unlike us crippled boozehounds I can see her willingly diving into that pool and splashing around just to complain later about how the water wasn’t too her liking, the tiles were slimy, she tasted “Mex-urine” in the water etc.
» Posted By Thompson On 18/October/2024 @ 2:30 am
It’s good to hear that your ticker is still ticking, John. In fact, your various health woes made me take a good look at myself and see what was currently ailing me. So far I’ve got:
– Vision problems the last few months. Like I’ve rapidly become…not exactly far-sighted, but text has to be a certain sweet spot away from my eyes before it’s legible. I get periods of colorless blobs/blurs in my vision as well.
– Hearing problems. Someone can be talking at ‘normal’ volume and I can barely make out what they’re saying. Last year I went to get takeout with the ex and could not hear a word the woman on the register was saying, despite her only being like 2-3 feet away. I was too embarrassed to say anything.
– Alcorexia. Occupational hazard for drunks like us, John. I have no appetite when on an extended bender. How you manage to wolf down all that non-Indian food every day is beyond me, but I never see you post pics of breakfasts so I guess you are going most of the day filled with booze and not food..
– Libido problems. I’m rarely interested in sex anymore. I thought it might be an age/testosterone thing so I had my t-levels checked a couple of years ago and they’re actually above average for men my age.
– Memory lapses. The brain fog of withdrawal and the initial confusion of sobriety is both longer and stronger. I find myself missing more words when typing out sentences and forgetting names of people.
– Heart/respiratory problems. I get severe palpitations even when drinking, and sometimes feel certain it’s an imminent heart attack from the pressure in my chest. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe very well and have to contort my body just so and take massive breaths to get any kind of relief.
– Random sharts, frequent bed wetting, and horrendous skid marks pants even when it felt like my sphincter was doing its jog.
There’s no doubt more but all this focus on myself reminds me I need to drink to forget. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 11/October/2024 @ 8:23 pm
It looks like some of those kids could use aftershave and deodorant instead of candy, John. I used to sometimes wear cheap and nasty cologne to hide the smell of booze. I mean like shitty Dollar Store stuff that smells like rubbing alcohol; Brït, Channel for Men, Jewp, Tommy Pullmyfinger, Calvin Climb. Those terrible/wonderful off-brands no one but 8 year olds and crackheads think smell nice.
I remember back in 2017 I worked at a sports bar and usually did late(r) shifts but one day I had to go in early because the place had won an award from the city or something, so they needed everyone in for a photographer to take pictures of us holding the award.
I struggle with morning shifts even during sober periods, but I’d gone heavy the night before and woke up late. Didn’t have time to gradually get lubed and have a shower, brush my teeth, the whole routine to look, smell, and seem normal etc. Just crushed a few beers as I was rushing, had some shots, washed my face and… had the brilliant idea of emptying the remains of a bottle of cheap ass cologne over my head, to cover the stink of ass and booze. The bottle was like a quarter full.
Dashed out of the house to get a taxi into work before I was (too) late.
Because I was oblivious in my rush, a little bit drunk, and because I have a notoriously poor sense of smell (smoker who grew up in a smoking household), it wasn’t until I was posing for the group photo in-between other staff that it hit me: I fucking reeked of shitty cologne. Like, it was starting to make my eyes water, and I noticed colleagues making faces or turning away for gulps of air between photos. I knew with complete certainty everybody knew it was me – I was late, and I was the only full time male waiter there – but I tried to pretend I didn’t notice anything, even when I spoke to coworkers and my eyes were pooling with moisture.
Think I might have blown my chances with a couple of the barmaids that day.
» Posted By Thompson On 07/October/2024 @ 5:11 pm
I hear you about staying at home all day, John. Sometimes us drunks just need to take a break from the rigors and strains of constantly hunting down booze and just make sure we have enough at home to tide us over till the next day.
In the time since I last posted I haven’t really been up to much. I mean things have happened to me, but I haven’t really done stuff. At least nothing worthy more than getting drunk on extract every day. I was going to switch it up 2-3 days ago by buying mouthwash for my drunk when my dickhead landlord ambushed me at home while I was in full-blown WDs, and my gimpy leg turned into excruciating leg on the walk to the Chevron (and it also rained on the way back, yay) but other than that it’s just been drinking and dealing with the ex.
I finally managed to kick her out. Even threw a suitcase loaded with her puke- and piss-stained clothes out which landed on her leg (which means more accusations of trying to cripple her again). All that said and done, she’s been coming around practically every day. Asking her for a day ‘off’ is like pulling teeth; she throws a tantrum (because the narcissist cannot be told “no”) or manufactures a crisis that necessitates her having to come here, like needing to wash the sheets, or collecting vegan food she has here. We got into a serious argument because she said I was being mean to her and disrespecting her by telling her she couldn’t come around so much. I had to put my foot down and told her we’re not a couple anymore, that I’m not obligated to see her every day, that she needs to respect my boundaries, and that as my ex-girlfriend she’s really quite low down on the list of social priorities, to put it mildly.
I’ve practically given up on the job search. By the time I wake up I have maybe an hour or two to myself before she’s around. I’m hesitant to use the laptop when she’s here – I’m sure she’d find some way of sabotaging what would be a silent browse if I was alone – and I don’t like making phone calls around other people. The days she isn’t here I essentially waste in recharging my ‘social battery’ by getting drunk and indulging in me-time. I tell myself today we’re going to update our resumé and call the agency which is always followed by but first we need a drink or three and then it’s nap time.
We had a spat over that. I told her I wanted more days off, that I needed them to actually get busy with finding a job. She countered I was probably just getting drunk and farting around when she wasn’t there. I mean, she’s not entirely wrong, but I had to explain – mindful of not escalating things into an all-out fight – being around her is literally draining. I’ve got mad social anxiety, and on the rare occasions I socialize (sans alcohol) it takes willpower for me to suffer through it. I need time to recover, to recharge, as it were, and the more I saw of her the more time I needed to ground myself.
I discovered this feeling years ago, even before I was a lush like you, John, when a childhood friend and drinking buddy always wanted to see me after I finished my shift at a job that had, for me, odd hours (1300-2100). I wasn’t averse to seeing him, we were good friends after all, but I found when he left I felt like I had only just finished work, even though I’d already been home for hours. I felt agitated, stressed, tired. I didn’t feel like I’d had any quality relaxation time, despite the fact we usually just sat on my bed, playing Xbox and talking shit.
It was the same sensation with her. Even though we did nothing more strenuous than watching tv – and me cooking for us – every time she left I just felt tired, like I’d finished running a marathon. After Black-Gums Girl (a previous fling) and the complete dissolution of any lingering feelings I might have had for the ex it’s exhausting being around her so much. She didn’t understand, much less accept, that when I tried to explain it to her.
For the most part she had actually been ‘good’. Sometimes the narcissist creeps out, like when she casually dismisses something factual I’ve said, accuses me of having ‘improper’ relations with women (i.e. the female bartender who served me once), commands me to do tasks she can perform herself, or turns a lot of shit into a lowkey competition, but at least there’s no violence or delusional psychosis. Hell, she’s even treated me at times; she’d throw my broke ass some booze money, or she’d pay for my Lyft home after dragging me to the grocery store with her. She even bought me a pair of new shoes – actual Vans, as opposed to the $10 knockoffs I usually wear. I’m under no illusions though that this isn’t affection or friendship; she’s merely buying my time and tolerance. I don’t mind though, as long as it aligns with my interests. To paraphrase Bill The Butcher from Gangs of New York, you gotta pay for the pleasure of my company.
At some point I must have offended her because she called me a “rotten mixed-breed cunt” and said “my mongrel ass is dead if she ever sees me again” but for the life of me the only thing I remember doing was asking her to stop stubbing her ciggies out on my computer desk because she knocked an empty beer can over that landed on Morgoth the Third’s head. Relieved as I was that she’d finally left it was a stark reminder that I’d need to go out at some point and steal some cat food for the kitty.
So that brings us to today. Comfortably on Sprite and extract number 8 at 11:45 in the morning, and I’ve still got enough to tide me over before it’s back to the mouthwash. I’m not really bothered about the ex, I mean, I am in the sense I might have burned bridges with what could have been the source of next month’s rent and booze money, but I’m sure she’ll rear her head again before long. If not, I’ll figure something out. Win-win.
Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 06/September/2024 @ 8:12 pm
Sounds like you have a harem of women in your abode, John. One has always been too many for me. I simply can’t imagine having to deal with a murder of Filipinas as well. I tip my hat to you, sir, even though the ex threw my last hat out the window after she thought I was pouring methylated spritis in her ears to exorcise her “spic demons” while she slept.
I sure wished she was sleeping yesterday. I’m busy mixing some extract with the last drops of rancid orange juice in the carton and warm Sprite while she talks about how the US is doomed and she wants us to move overseas, an idea she’d become fixated on during her time in jail. I’d briefly considered the idea but dismissed it; reading some of your posts here reminds me that at least we have electricity and children who can afford their own candy in the US. Besides, I’m not willing to take the risk we move to a foreign country and then she suddenly gets drunk and kicks me out and/or decides she doesn’t want to be with me anymore, leaving me fucked in a place where I have no idea how the support network operates.
If there’s one thing that consistently irks me about whenever she talks about moving overseas, it’s that she never mentions her kids. She abandoned three of them when they were young, and a fourth she lied about the kid dying. I mean, fair enough it’s not really any of my business as it happened long before her and I were a thing, but it bugs me on a personal level how disinterested she is in getting back in touch with them – the least she could do is ask her kids for some booze money so I don’t have to be stealing bottles of extract from Wal-Mart all the goddamn time. I just can’t imagine someone discarding their children and shrugging “if they want to get in touch with me they know how to contact me.”
I wasn’t trying to be cruel or hurtful, but I must have struck a nerve as the ex started crying. I mean really crying, like wracking sobs and wailing. She keeps repeating to herself she “did the right thing” and her kids would have been so much worse if she stuck around. I don’t really agree with her, but I hold her and try to comfort her as she cries. There is a pungent whiff of onions emanating from her pores and I wonder if it’s another “yeast infection” or if her viscera are finally fermenting within her.
She ends up passing out, after she polishes off the last of the tequila. I am genuinely astounded. I’ve written here before about how alcohol seems to be like an upper for her and the more she drinks the more she wants to do stuff. That she succumbed to a blackout is a dubious boozing milestone for her.
We went out for dinner afterwards. A seafood place. I love seafood; she’s a vegan. I’d asked her multiple times if she really wanted to go, because there wasn’t really anything on the menu for her, but she insisted she wanted to. Why anyone would not regularly eat fish is beyond me; sure I can understand in Asia not eating fish as there is no clean water in places like China, but the health benefits are simply too much to ignore.
We get seated and I suggest she find stuff on the menu she might like. She calls the waiter over and says we’re celebrating. She wants to get me a sampler platter off-menu, and insists money isn’t an issue; “I don’t care if it costs $300 or $1000!” I didn’t realize she was that fucking tanked.
We share a couple of dishes before she suggests we go outside for a cigarette. On the way back she snatches out for my arm. “I can’t walk!” She slurs. JFC. “Should we go home?” I ask, “Are you ok?” She answers in the affirmative and that she just needs me to guide her back to her seat.
We sit back down and she immediately starts talking about how she feels nauseous, and like she’s going to throw up. I ask her again and again if she wants to go to the bathroom, but each time she waves it off. “I’m fine.” I tell her if she thinks she’s going to power vomit it would be best if she went to the bathroom, but again declines my offer to walk her there.
“I’m ok, it’s just my PTSD, this music is triggering me.” I immediately switch off. I don’t doubt PTSD is a thing, and I don’t knock those who suffer from it, but I’ve met so many homeless veterans like the ex, who milk it for attention and sympathy. In particular, her ‘PTSD’ flare ups always coincide with what other people would call ‘being a drunk asshole’. I’m also a little irritated by the fact we passed by the DJ booth on the way out for a cigarette and she expressly said she’s impressed there was a DJ and the music was cool.
Not wanting to gamble on the ex projectile vomiting at the table, I scoff the last of my food and order us a Lyft home. I notice her debit card on the table, half under a napkin, and figure she can lose it. I reach for it and ask her “Honey, your debit card’s there, do you want me to put it in my wal-” she immediately snatched for it. “Don’t touch my fucking debit card. You will have nothing to do with MY money ever again, you thieving cunt!” I normally carry her card in my wallet because she doesn’t have her own purse/wallet.
I tell her I’ve ordered a Lyft and I’m going out for another cigarette to wait for it, and she’s welcome to join me if she wants. She says she’ll join me in just second.
I’m outside and had barely smoked half my cig before the Lyft driver arrived unexpectedly early. I ask him to wait while I go inside to fetch the ex.
I can see her as soon as I step back in and she’s a changed woman. On my way out she had stooped shoulders and was cradling her head over a half empty Black Russian; now, she’s smiling, laughing, and gesticulating wildly with one of the barmen. Anything for male attention.
I tell her the Lyft is here and we need to go. I notice she’d ordered herself a fresh drink and she shotgunned it before she staggered towards the doorway with me. “Wait, I want a cigarette” she says. “The ride home is only like 5 minutes, and the driver is about to leave. Have one when we get home.” “Nah, wanna have one now.” Whatever, I’m not paying a declined ride fee because she wants to smoke, so tell her to get her own ride home as I climb into the Lyft.
She shows up about 30 minutes after I get home, complaining about how I ‘abandoned’ her, what a PoS I am, and how she doesn’t want to be with me anymore.
I remind her I was giving her exactly one chance not to be a drunken fuck up, and her histrionics at the restaurant violated that. I tell her to get her shit and get out. “I paid rent for this place, you can’t throw me out” she smirks. I’m not having any of it, and as she stretches out on the couch, as if to sleep, I grab her arm, hoist her up, and lead her towards the door. “Come on, out you drunken wench.”
She pulls out of my grip and dashes into the kitchen to grab a large knife. “Go ahead, touch me again, see what happens!” She waves it in front of her. I’m not risking her toting a knife around when she’s blasted and advance on her. She takes a tentative swing at my neck. I don’t flinch. “Go for it” I laugh. I lift my chin up, exposing my throat, and spread my arms wide, theatrically. “A murder charge isn’t really going to look well for you, two weeks after getting out of jail.”
“It will if I’m defending myself in a domestic vi-” I lunge then. She has her wits about her and immediately places her knife-hand behind her back. As I struggle to secure her wrist I’m distantly aware of the possibility she can just plunge the fucking thing into my chest. I’m about to headbutt her but the dandruff in her hair could blind me so I hold back on unleashing my true might.
She rakes at my face with her free hand, clawing at my eyes. I can feel the nails breaking skin.. “if you try to slash me-” “I’m…not…going…to…slash…you” I pry the knife out of her hand and throw it into the next room.
“What were you thinking, drawing a weapon on me like that??” I pant. “Out. Just go.” “I’m not going anywhere and you can’t make me!” She sneers. “I can call the police!” I harrumph. “Go ahead!” She laughs and points to the bruise on her arm from yesterday, “I’ve got all the evidence I need that I’m in an abusive relationship, and they’ll take you away! And you know what? I’m going to press charges for my hip you broke!”
(For those not in the know I inadvertently broke her hip last year when she drunkenly attacked me and I pushed her off me)
“What do you want?” I ask her. “I don’t want you here anymore, I don’t want to be with you, and if I’m such a horrible person like you believe, it’s in your best interests to get out of here!” “I’m not going anywhere”, she repeats. “I’m staying until the 31st because I’ve paid rent for this place!” “Is that it?” I ask. I have no intention of leaving her here alone when I go on my next booze run, so she can destroy my laptop, kill the cat, or fuck some Mexican stranger in my bed; “I’ll transfer you the money you paid for this month, $400, and then you should go.” “$400?” She cackles, “No, no, no motherfucker, you owe me $1300 for all the rent I paid when I was in jail!” I don’t have that kind of money and I wouldn’t give her it if I did anyway.
“I’ll transfer you $400 and then you should get gone.” “I’m staying until the 31st, where I go after that is none of your business!”
She then launches into a predictable diatribe about how she doesn’t love me anymore, I’m such a PoS, the sex is bad (she even dances around the idea I raped her), I spend all her money etc. etc. She even says she’s the best I’ll ever get. The narcissist’s mask falls off. I actually giggle at that and can’t resist a twist of the metaphorical knife. I respond to one of her barbs “Yeah, you’re absolutely right, I’ve never been married and I don’t have kids, but you know what – if I did, I wouldn’t abandon them and pat myself on the back for it, you wretched scuzzball.”
3:10AM. She’s passed out in my bed. I’m on the couch. I took a gamble and snuck out earlier to get some more beer with her debit card. I was worried she’d lock the door behind me if she woke and discovered I was gone. There’s a just-opened bottle of tequila outside that she got on her way home. She’s so tanked she didn’t even drink any of it. I’m tempted to just empty it into the grass and replacing it with bleach, in lieu of waking up to her being in a booze-fueled rage again.
We’ll see what happens. Cheers to good living!
» Posted By Thompson On 29/August/2024 @ 7:04 pm
Very glad to hear Kevin is doing okay, John. I know a few older bucks who’ve gotten stents and they’re doing just fine. He should probably avoid American food/products because and switch to food and products from other countries as they tamper with the shit less. And at least he is in hospital, a place of refuge and silence, something I would kill for right now.
This week started okay with the ex. She was very loving and attentive, almost to the point of obsequiousness.
I should have taken it as a forewarning when she started talking about how we have problems; how every major blow up we’ve had is because we can’t communicate. My knee-jerk impulse is to point out this is manifestly not a “both sides” issue and, in fact, every major blow up we’ve had is because she mixed vodka with cough mixture and once again turned into a drunken jackass. But I let it slide…for now. I don’t want to get into a fight with her right away and I can gently work on correcting her gaslighting later.
We actually had a fun day together. We got pleasantly drunk, watched some TV, ordered some pizza and had even had what they call “sex.” Everything seemed fine. I was willing to hope against hope that maybe, just for once, it wasn’t just hot air she was blowing. Maybe she had changed, maybe she really was working on her issues.
I was proved wrong yesterday. What started out as a fairly innocuous discussion quickly became heated before turning into a full-blown argument. I tried to steer the conversation into whatever else we could talk about, to defuse the situation, but I noticed no matter what we were discussing, she immediately took the hard opposite of whatever point I held. This wasn’t something diametrically opposed, like political parties or abortion or Kamala Harris’ real race, we were talking about things like history and theology (the latter I went to university for, the former I am very interested in) and whatever I said, she would jump to the opposite side. Even when I feigned agreeing with her, she would then start supporting the point I’d ostensibly abandoned.
Power struggle. Those were the words my best friend used to describe my interactions with her when I would tell him about her and how my day went. It’s like a contest of wills on the smallest of things, isn’t it? He’d previously dated a narcissist too, and was happy to chime in many of the things my ex said and did were just like his ex (and mine from years ago). He’s absolutely right. Even when the ex is sober it’s like pulling teeth just to get her to agree to the most trivial of things. “Fine,” I used to mock in her voice, “I agree to this but not because you said it, but because I did”.
As I said, our heated discussion quickly devolved into a shouting argument. She deployed the projection and odious lines she’d used before. “O mighty and wise cocksucking Thompson, who is never wrong about anything, what pearls of wisdom do you have for us today?!” she smirked. I don’t bother engaging with her dumbass rhetoric but tell her I’m wise to the fact that she’s deliberately chosen two topics I know infinitely more about than her, and framed things so unless I just agree with everything she says that somehow makes me arrogant.
She holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “See? You see? This is what I’m talking about: sometimes we need to just take five minutes out to chill because we’re not good communicators. We need to work on our issues together.” She tells me if we’re going to have full trust she wants access to my phone and Reddit account. Apparently I have “Reddit bitches” because someone on Reddit was kind enough to send me kitty litter for Morgoth the Third earlier this year when I was too wasted on extract to get out of bed. This person could be sending me nudes, I could be telling them I love them and they’re “my angel”, but no, a kind Internet stranger sending kitty litter is proof positive I’m on a tour of the States, banging my choicest hobags from Reddit.
It’s more ridiculousness than I can bear and I can’t help but laugh. “This isn’t a ‘both sides’ thing, you rancid whore. It never has been and I’ve told you repeatedly since you’ve been in jail to stop trying to blame me for issues that are solely yours.” The cat’s out of the bag and I go further – I tell her she acts like an absolute lunatic when she drinks and she has narcissistic personality disorder.
She flinches as if slapped and takes a glug of her mixer (yes, using the mouthwash I paid for). “Well if that’s what you believe I don’t see any point in us being together. I am going to go shopping and when I get back I will take my things and leave.” This is the point where I’m supposed to beg and plead for her not to go. Red rag to a bull. Uriah Thompson begs from no one. “Why wait until you get back from shopping?” I ask. “You want to go, take your things and go now.” “No, I’ll go when I’m ready, and not a moment sooner.” For a microsecond I consider letting her have her way, but I know the folly of that; she’d continually show up every day demanding to be let in because she forgot a shoe, or a beloved sock, or whatever. Any excuse to keep coming back.
My blood is up and I go back into the house to get her luggage. “You want to leave? Ok, leave now then, here’s your stuff.” I throw it onto the porch. She sneers she has stuff in the dresser and closet and she isn’t going until she can sort it out. “No need” I laugh, “I’ll do it for you!” I go inside and start taking armfuls of her clothes out of the dresser and throwing them on top of her luggage.
“Let go of my stuff!” she squawks. I keep picking up her clothes and taking them outside. She tries to grab them out of my hands but I’m taller and faster than her. “Ok, you want to touch my stuff, I’ll touch yours!” I hear scraping and cables being moved. My blood runs cold when I realize she’s fucking with my laptop. I turn around and sure enough she’s disconnecting my laptop and has it clutched in her arms.
“Bring my stuff back in and you can have it back.” The red mist descends. I’m not going to bother with negotiation. My last laptop, she fucking hurled it across a hotel room we were staying at, like a goddamn frisbee, and she tried to steal it last year as a compliance mechanism. I’m not taking the chance with this laptop. I drop her things and grab at my laptop. She’s too drunk to register what I’m doing and doesn’t have the chance to snatch it away. We end up grappling over it and I pour all my non-existent upper body strength into wresting it out of her arms, which I accomplish, as she collapses to the floor. I hide it under the mattress and carry on throwing her clothes outside.
“Stop! I’ll call the police! Rape! Rape! Assault!” She shouts. “Go ahead” I tell her, “Call them, I’ll have them remove you from here for trespassing.” “I don’t have any warrants anymore, I’m not afraid of the police!” she responds. “You’re not on the lease, remember? In the eyes of the law you’re just a guest who overstayed their welcome.” “I paid for the rent, I can prove it!” “You transferred money to my account, a gift between friends. Did you pay the landlord directly?” Something seems to sink in there. “I have receipts for all the furniture in the house, so it’s mine!” “Ok, so take it with you when you go. Whatever.” I laugh. She points to a fresh bruise on her arm that she must have acquired when I grabbed my laptop from her, “What do you think they’ll make of this then?” She smirks. “I don’t know where you got that, perhaps in jail…where you were recently released from.” As I’ve always said, the repercussions for getting locked up for public drunkenness extend far beyond the weekend.
I think it hits her then she’s in a no-win scenario and she starts to tearfully apologize. I sigh and gently put her clothes down and sit down on the porch with her. She’s blubbing now about how she didn’t mean it and she was just being defensive. She expresses shock I would just throw her out like that and says even in her two divorces and with nasty exes, they would always let her into the house to get her stuff. “If the situation was reversed I would never do that to you!”
Never do that to you. That phrase has been rattling around in my skull all week now and is a stark reminder of when she abruptly took off years ago, leaving me on the brink of homelessness. She never asked how I got by, financially, between her departure and me getting a job (which I got fired from for drinking cough mixture in the bathroom when I was meant to be restocking the shelves). By the skin of my teeth. I tell her as much and she scoffs. “I have no sympathy for you. You could have gone out and gotten a job. You were on the verge of homelessness? You made me actually homeless!”
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this and it once again makes me angry. I tell her I expected things to follow the same pattern they had so many times last year: that she would go detox at the VA and come crawling back a few days later and we’d pretend nothing happened. But she let her supposedly ‘rapey’ ex – who she shouldn’t have been communicating with anyway – sweet talk her into going and staying with him.
I’m acutely aware going over old wounds isn’t going to solve anything, because I know she won’t accept the fact I didn’t kick her out, like she believes, or the colossally stupid, drunken, mistakes she made, up to and including buying that stolen car, so I just let the matter drop. We drank until we passed out and surprisingly no one wet or shat the bed.
I was woken up at 5 this morning by music coming from the porch. The space next to me in bed was empty, so I knew it was the ex listening to music. There are headphones on the porch table she used the night before, so the fact that she was listening to music out loud set alarm bells ringing. She almost always only listens to music aloud when she’s drunk and overly emotional.
I consider trying to go back to sleep but eventually roll out of bed and head out for a cigarette. There’s a near-empty bottle of tequila on the desk. It was full when we went to bed. Fuck.
Sure enough she’s already trashed. Her eyes are glazed over and she’s listening to Irish-American folk songs or something.
I sit across from her and drink my ice water as I light up a smoke. “Why are you up so early?” She asks, “I didn’t wake you, did I?” I tell her there’s no bedroom window because she broke it when she threw my favorite ashtray at it and she’s playing music at full blast so, yes, she did. I ask her to turn it down in case she wakes up the neighbor.
I get confirmation she’s blasted when she starts shouting at me. Not angrily; when she’s well and truly drunk she has no volume control. She’s ranting about Labor Day of all things and how “kids these days” have no idea what it means, but her (supposedly) Irish ancestors suffered for people to have a day off. Yep, she’s trashed. She has an agitated drone to her voice and I know she’s angry and we’re on a countdown before she finds something to blame me for.
It’s not long in coming when she says people like me (meaning just me) are ignorant of the struggle of her ancestors (meaning just her) and I’m a pussy and not a “real man” because I used to abide by my employer’s regulations on lunch and break length and wasn’t willing to spend 45 minutes on the phone with her when I was at work.
I repeatedly ask her to lower her voice and calm down, but I know I’m not getting through to her so just silently head inside…where she follows me in to continue talking to me herself about how much of a pussy negroid simp I am because I never argued with my bosses about lunch or break length. “You are such a follower you know that?” She chuckles. “How did we ever end up together? I would never kowtow like you do, even when I was in the military!” I can’t help but laugh, “Uhh, isn’t an essential part of any military career conformity and following orders?” “What a stupid fucking thing to say” she sneers, as she walks past me with a fresh drink. “Maybe for idiots in the army, but not me!” Whatever. The only to do now is to catch up in drunkenness and prepare myself for any forthcoming fistfights. It’s all very tense at the moment but my fists of fury, while subdued right now, are ready to spring into action at any moment.
The next six drinks are for Kevin Kim! Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 15/August/2024 @ 2:45 pm
I can’t wait for Monday to arrive, John, as I am getting a payment. It’s been a rough couple of days on my end. Left it to the last minute – as I’m increasingly wont to do – to make a last-minute trudge to the shop on a booze run. I thought I had $6 left in my bank account, obviously not enough to tide me over and get something to ward away the shakes the next day so figured I might as well go out with a bang and get myself a bottle of mouthwash. Fuck going to Walmart, at one of the worst crossroads in the city for crime and methed-out mentalists, so late at night. I’d have to trudge to the alternate ‘posh’ grocery store the ex always preferred we go to, despite their products being indistinguishable to Best Value shit, at ridiculous mark ups.
In a rare bout of forward-thinking I decided to double check my bank balance before leaving, probably inspired by the high(er) prices of the particular store I was going to. Turns out I actually only had like $3.55. Groan. Decided to check the price of their mouthwash, dreading they weren’t going to have one anywhere near as cheap as Walmart. Sure enough, they didn’t. The cheapest one was like $4.50, and that was for a smaller bottle than the 1.5L I was used to getting. Still, rummaging around for some change I’d discovered earlier, I was able to find enough to add over a dollar to the mouthwash fund. With that I finally set off.
After a false start – I was a few houses down the road before I realized I left my wallet at home, and then couldn’t find it – I was on my merry way when I was almost run over. Now, I hate US car culture on general principles, but Tucson is particularly notorious for pedestrians getting run over and this was almost a textbook case of that. Came to an intersection that usually fills me with a little anxiety, when it’s busy, because I’ve almost been run over there a few times before while casually strolling around drunk. I wait until the relevant vehicles come to a full stop and the pedestrian walk light comes on. I wait for half a second or so, in case a driver decides to turn because of the weird ‘disregard red lights if you’re turning’ rule before I step on to the road. The intersection is well-lit but even then I’m still constantly looking around me. It’s especially a good thing I am, then, as to my right I see a truck slowly pull into the intersection. The driver must see me, surely, I’m almost halfway across the road. For a microsecond I figure they’ll idle there until I’ve fully crossed. Nope. In slow-motion I watch them turn left on to the road as I’m still walking. I see the driver clearly, she’s not looking at me, she’s not even looking in my direction, she’s looking to her right, looking for oncoming traffic because why would a pedestrian be crossing the road when the walk light is on? I immediately stop and can only watch in amazement as the truck completes the turn and drives right past me, maybe only about 4 feet in front of me. The driver stares straight ahead as she pulls into the road, completely oblivious to me in the middle of the road. If I hadn’t been constantly looking around there’s a distinct possibility she could have run me over. Fucking idiot.
Get to the store in good time and make my way straight to the health aisle. Guess what? They don’t have the bottle of mouthwash I can afford. I think maybe I’ve missed it, maybe they’ve sold out, but no; I desperately scan over the price tags again and again, looking for that $4.50 special, maybe there’s a gap I missed, but it’s simply not there. The cheapest bottle they have is $5.99. Fuck. I absentmindedly wander over to the booze aisle on the off-chance they have something discounted or on offer. No such luck. Only thing I could afford is like a $2 small carton of shitty, weak, wine and such a small amount of weak booze was only going to give me anxiety. Ye gods do have a sense of humor; almost forgot my wallet at home, almost got run over on the way here, and now the trip’s been all for nothing.
I distantly consider the possibility of just trying to power through the night and hopefully catch some sleep. I wasn’t feeling too bad; surely if my body didn’t go into meltdown on just 3 tall boys and a shooter it should be ok, right? Maybe pop some of the ex’s sleeping pills to knock me out. I’m about to accept defeat and just head home when I have a eureka moment: I can get extract! I still have food stamps, so if I throw in some mixer as well I can make some acceptable, if not gross-tasting, drinks to tide me over. I head on over to the spice aisle and am greeted with all the colors and flavors of the of the discerning booze-lover’s rainbow: vanilla, almond, lemon, mint, rum, maple, anise, coconut. I’m spoiled for choice! Shit is not cheap though, with prices going from $3.50 up to $19 for comparatively tiny-ass bottles. I hadn’t drank any of the stuff since I recommended to you that Swan start drinking it and I couldn’t remember exactly how much I needed to make do, so I grabbed a few bottles of different flavors and brands, just in case. I even managed to pocket a couple on the sly to make up for the bad karma of almost getting run over. Made sure to check the ingredients first – IIRC by law extracts in the US must contain alcohol or they have to be marketed as imitation extract. Sure enough, the small(ish) bottle of lemon extract I grab has 83%(!) alcohol, as do the others. I pick up quite a few bottles; if that’s more than enough to get me fucked, let alone just tide me over, I can use the rest for later. Price tag isn’t cheap and I wince at paying $50+ for a couple bottles of soda and, erm, baking ingredients in the packed self-checkout section. Still, at least the mission wasn’t a complete failure and I had something to warm me cockles.
When I got home later it was time to sample the wares and wind down for the night. I chose lemon as, from memory, vanilla was a bit blegh on the tongue, and also mostly because I had my eye on that “Alcohol (83%)” label. Tentatively poured about a shot’s worth into my ice-filled glass and topped it to the brim with some nice soda. As I brought the glass up to my lips I could really smell the lemon; it was potent, like industrial cleaning product. Well…bottom’s up. The sensation was…somewhat unpleasant, to say the least. My lips instantly began to tingle and I felt this itching, biting, sensation. Even when I wiped my lips clean I could still feel them burning. I worried for a second I might then start to feel my guts melting and wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake. My mouth felt strange, itchy and tingly; and I had the constant urge to lick my teeth and scratch my tongue. The taste was how I imagined lemon pledge with a dash of soda flavoring would be. Couldn’t be done with maintaining on that all night, so take another big swig to top up the glass with more soda. Maybe diluting it further would help. Had to do that maybe three more times – even committing the sin of just tipping some down the sink to get the liquid out faster for more soda – before finally it approached something tasting like an overly-liqueured Long Island iced tea. Still, eventually got the job done – despite the itchy, burning, lips.
Sleep was, once again, put on the back burner. It was already something like 0430 in the morning before I even entertained the idea of going to bed, and I barely felt tired despite having been up for some 48 hours by that point. I decided to just power through and blast some Uriah Heep on my headphones while the ex was still passed out from her sleeping pills. I briefly consider getting up to check if she is still alive, but I’m quite comfy on my Doctor Who cushion on the floor. The only thing to do now is keep drinking until that money is in my account tomorrow, and then I can buy something snazzy like a few cheap box wines and a handle of Tito’s. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 05/August/2024 @ 2:09 am
If she can handle the saltiness, John, you can always convince the missus to switch to cooking wine. Off the top of my head it’s like 21.5%, so stronger than wine but weaker than spirits. Or even better, she can switch to mouthwash or extract. A bottle of mouthwash will keep me nicely fucked up for like 2 whole days, maybe 3 if I pace myself, and it’s only ~$4.50. Extract is ‘free’ because the bottles are small and easy to pocket (and then you won’t have to worry about the money being spent).
As for my daily whine,I think I need to see a proctologist or something. Despite making it rain ass piss, when using the toilet, I’ve had this constant sensation of a bowling ball-sized wad of shit impacted just beyond my rectum. I’d strain harder but I’m worried about a prolapsed anus.
» Posted By Thompson On 01/August/2024 @ 3:54 pm
Good to see you and your lady still together, John. As for me, I’m in a committed relationship with the bottle and my jerking-off hand. We’re a happy throuple.
And of course good that you are walking again without half gagging to death. I think the furthest I’ve ever trekked for booze was a 6 & 1/2 hour round trip walk. Middle of an Arizona summer so temps were 100°F+. I was living at a makeshift homeless veterans shelter in the middle of fucking nowhere. We had a guy with a snaggletooth who would normally take me on beer runs in his truck, but he’d been spending more and more time away, at his girlfriend’s house, and I was desperate. Had to lug a 30-pack of Natty Daddy, or something equally blergh, in my backpack for the walk home. It was tiring, I tell thee, and the sun beating down on me didn’t help, but I dipped into fields every now and then to crack a can open. Goes without saying by the time I made it back to camp the cans were unpleasantly warm, but they were enough to tide me over for the next day or two until beer run guy decided to pay us a visit.
Took me a long time to learn pacing, and it wasn’t just being a broke ass bum that did it. Earlier in my drinking career normie mates I’d be drinking with would chastise “Pace yourself, Thompson! You’re drinking like a negro in heat!” because every time I drank it was a race to black out and by the end of the night out I’d be snoring in the back of a taxi or behind a Target dumpster. Nowadays I’ll try to slam drinks until I’m nicely sauced and then coast on that with maintenance drinking, otherwise I just wouldn’t get shit done.
» Posted By Thompson On 29/July/2024 @ 4:00 pm
It’s good you tend to stick to the same foods, John, and don’t dare try anything different. One can never be too careful. I remember the first time I shit myself, back in 2018. Had been drinking vodka all day & night with a Magic: The Gathering buddy. Had to make a last-minute booze run to Walmart before cut off time and about halfway through the walk my brain suddenly gives me a 3-second warning of ALERT! SHIT INCOMING!
I didn’t even really have time to react, aside from desperately calculating if I could make it to a hedge or a bush or something, before I felt a loaded burrito-sized package of shit forced its way through my ringpiece, filling the seat of my jeans. I just remember dying inside at the horrific sensation of warm, fluffy, peanut butter caressing my cheeks.
I didn’t have time to make it back to my mate’s and get showered/changed, before cut off time, so penguin-walked it the rest of the way to Walmart. Shuffled straight to the bathroom, peeled off my semi-skinny jeans, tried to flush my loaded boxers down the toilet (evidence?) and did as best as I could to scrape off the cooling shit caking my ass crack.
Least I managed to get the vodka in time, and my pal passed out not long after I got back, so plenty of vodka for me that night.
Never mind “never trust a fart”; since then if I get even a hint of leaky anus I try to make sure I’m never too far from a toilet.
» Posted By Thompson On 28/July/2024 @ 11:33 pm
That’s an interesting poem, John, and makes me wish my toilet would flood because at least then it would be working somewhat. As it stands, it’s clogged with a pot of spaghetti the ex dumped in it after she accused me of hiding her benzos from her so she would “hallucinate the devil” during her booze withdrawals. I’ve barely been able to get off the couch so where she expects me to find the energy to hide stuff from her is beyond me.
Last night, however, I somehow found the willpower to walk to the liquor store before bed called and I passed out. It was around 10:30 and they close at 12, so I knew I’d have plenty of time. A few trips in the past I’d made right up to 11:50. I get to the store and the shutters are down. Groaaannn. For some unknown reason they closed ridiculously early. It’s a Chevron gas station, not some little mom and pop liquor store, so I have no idea why they closed early.
There’s a Circle K across the road I can go to, but I hate going to that one. I can get beer but, bizarrely, the only liquor they sell are Fireball shooters, and I fucking hate Fireball. I suppose I could always get the Lyft to divert on the way to work tomorrow morning, but that’s another couple of bucks and I’m already here so fuck it.
I must have been dumb-drunk as I ended up picking up a can of Pringles, I was feeling a bit peckish. When I got home I munched my way through practically the whole tube and turned around to see a bag of nacho chips on the couch I’d completely forgotten I bought on Sunday. Whoops.
I woke up a bit late this morning feeling oddly fresh. Maybe it’s just because I didn’t have yesterday’s wine hangover, but I feel good enough to question if I even need to drink mouthwash this morning.
It’s hot out. Blistering. I’m shirtless and I’m still sweating. Not that normal sweat either; that thick syrupy booze sweat that coats one in a layer of grease. The ex calls them the Mexican shit sweats, but I don’t know what that means and I’m too afraid to ask because I know it will result in another deranged monologue from her.
I sleepily tread on some glass shards on the porch, leaning over to stroke my cat, Morgoth the Third. It doesn’t draw any blood but fuck does it hurt. They’re the remains of the beer bottles the ex was throwing at the front wall when she had a meltdown after I told her there were no Nutrageous bars in the house. I couldn’t be bothered cleaning it up after she passed out on the kitchen floor. I figured it was her mess, why should I clean up after her? When she came back to the world of the conscious I told her as much too. She cleaned up the larger pieces of glass but there’s still all these small shards lying around, along with cigarette butts she threw on the ground because she was so drunk she forgot where she put the ashtray. I really should sweep all this up.
After quaffing a few glasses of water I decide I might as well have some beer. I mean I feel ok right now, but that doesn’t mean withdrawals won’t strike 1, 2, 3 hours after I leave to use the toilet at the Shake Shack (the library is still off limits for me; I’d been having dreams where I am accused by a portly black security guard taking a shit of murdering the guy I found dead).
A kitchen sink piss and a few beers later and I am back in the sack. Of course I forgot to bring beers with me. There’s a bottle of cough mixture on between the pillows and I down it, the taste making me think of chicken gizzards for some reason. I stagger out of bed and try to quaff some water. Wash the cough medicine out of my system. I immediately double over and spew into the sink. It’s odd, the ex told me not long ago she believes the tap water here has been poisoned with fentanyl by the ‘chinky dink government.’ Maybe she was on to something for once in her life, a retarded clock being right once a day and all.
I wobble outside to join the ex for a cigarette. She doesn’t look at me as I sit across from her and light up a smoke. “Looks like you were right about the ‘not being able to trust the water’ part” I pant, sweating from the puking and mild withdrawals. She turns to me slowly, eyes lidded, and smirks. “I wish I could say I care but the truth is I don’t.” What the hell!? “I’m just here to perform CPR if I have to. Make sure you don’t die, and then we’re done.” She shrugs as she pulls out a cigarette from the packet, “Not that you dying is a bad thing. I think humanity would be better off actually.” Holy shit. “Honey…” I shakily ask, “What’s wrong? Why are you angry?” She shrugs again and blinks slowly, “I’m not angry, you mongoloid cunt. Why would I be?” Not good. I do not need an angry, psychotic ex when I’m trying to to get drunk enough to be sober. The state I’m in, shaking like a leaf and wobbling all over the place, she could easily finish what she started with the rock if she gets angry enough.
I try to play diplomat. “Honey, you’re obviously upset about something. What have I said or done to put you in a mood?” She smirks, “This whole relationship, pussy lips.” I try to deescalate by asking if I can have one of her clonidines to help with my palpitations, redirect her into focusing on the nurse role she likes to LARP. “Why are you asking, cockface? Go ahead and take one. You probably already have. All you do is take and take and take, so go ahead and take one, you don’t need my permission.” For a moment I’m a child again and the ex is my stepmother. The sheer venom with which she attacks me is like a slap to the face. “You took my gabapentin when I was in jail (she’s confusing it with when she left the state at the start of last year) and I remember you talking about drinking cough medicine just to get high (I didn’t even know you could get high off it until I did). I didn’t know you were such a drug addict, you turd. I would never have gotten with you if I knew you were like that.” I tell her I’m going through withdrawals and that she needs to be supportive or go back to Dr Greg’s (a single-kidneyed drunk who was so deluded he thought his tour as a medic in Vietnam made him a doctor). “How can you be going through withdrawals, dumbass? Look at all the empties you drank in the sink!” Just hours ago she was lambasting me for wasting so much booze by having it dribbling off my lips – an event she witnessed the night before – and now she’s saying I drank it all!
This is why I can’t be sober around her. These episodes. They’re extremely disturbing to deal with when I’m tanked; if I was sober I’d either be bouncing her head off the pavement or running off into the sunset screaming. I abandon my plans for taking it easy and down the bottle of mouthwash I’d been saving for a special occasion, along with discreet coffee mugs of wine when I can.
Feeling normal, I decide to listen to Uriah Heep on my headphones while she does fuck-knows-what in the kitchen. And then if happens. She stumbles and collapses on the couch, passed out like a spaz with her leg bent at a weird angle. I’m finally living the life I was meant to be living, and for the first time in ages I feel close to content. But any happiness on my part is a wistful dream. From the corner of my eye I see the step out out on to the porch, again sans pants. She’s saying something with a snarl on her face but I can’t hear her over my music. She plops down in the chair across from me, mouth still working, and I point to the headphones to indicate I can’t hear her, as I struggle to pull them out and switch off my music.
“…fuck you right up the nose. Fuck that bitch-cunt aunt you call ‘mom’. Fuck your brothers, fuck your sisters, fuck you.” Sigh. “What? What now? What’s wrong?” She tilts her head to the side and smirks, “Hmmm, I wonder. We were supposed to share that vodka and you drank it all.” I genuinely lol at this. When she came in off the porch and passed out on the couch there was a quarter of the bottle left; enough for 3 or 4 drinks for her. There’s no physical way I could have drank the last of the bottle without spewing up and/or passing out. I go inside to grab the bottle, in case in her delusions she couldn’t find it, and discover she’d hidden it. She must have woken up at some point during my Uriah Heep session and had been drinking it since.
I tell her I didn’t drink the last of the vodka, she did, and she’s blaming me because she’s so out of it and needs a villain in her narrative so she can feel sorry for herself. She charges over to me and starts punching and slapping at my face. I push her back and tell her to fuck off. She sits down in the next chair and continues to spout off about what an evil man I am.
I’m not in the mood to listen to her crap and get up to head back inside. I stop by her chair to tell her she’s delusional and she’s just trying to gaslight me. She launches up out of her chair and tries to punch and slap me again. I push her back defensively and she falls into the chair which topples over backwards. In a repeat of jets & furry men night she’s furiously indignant. “Don’t you ever lay hands on me like that again! How dare you hit me!” I tell her I didn’t hit her, but pushed her back to stop her from hitting me. She comes in after me, shrieking about how she’s going to call the police and get me done for assault, how she’s going to slit my throat in my sleep blah blah. I don’t respond. When she’s this psychotic there’s no talking her down. The only way to resolve this is to just get more booze to shut her the hell up.
I quietly palm some of the dollar bills from my emergency stash and order a Lyft. I’ll just get some smokes, some more booze, let her cool off for a bit.
When I get back I tip-toe up and peer around the corner of home. Sure enough she’s sat on the porch, ranting to herself “…abusive asshole stole my vodka!” Clearly she hasn’t had enough time for the cooling off part.
I head around the corner, sit on the curb, and call one of my mates here for moral support and to kill some time, while I swig from the Buzzball I’d nominally bought for her and I.
After a while the sun starts to set and I grow bored. I want to go home. I creep back up to the house and peer around the corner again to see and hear she’s still on the porch loudly rambling to herself. I really, am not in the mood to deal with that.
I go around the corner, into a side alley, and lay on the ground. I curl up under some bushes and pull a nearby tarp over me, to hide from the prying eyes of ‘concerned citizens’. After a few glugs from the Buzzball I end up passing out.
I come to what feels like hours later, well after sunset. I check my phone and as expected there’s some missed calls and texts from her. Most of what she says is incomprehensible. She calls me an “abusive drunk loser fuck” and accuses me of hiding the Roku remote from her. She misplaces the thing multiple times a day, but of course the running theme of the last few weeks has been let’s accuse poor old Thompson of random shit because he’s such an evil person he would obviously do something like that. Then I read she’s going to hunt for my laptop as retribution. My stomach twists into a knot. It’s been hidden for most of the time she’s been back, for fear of something like this happening. She knows how much I value it and sees it as a rival for attention, hence I dare not even power it on while she’s around in case she tries to break, hide, or steal it like she did the last one. The chances of her finding where I’ve stashed it are pretty low, but I’m not taking that chance.
I peek around the corner and I can see the porch light’s on. She’s sat on the porch, smoking and listening to music on her phone. Game time.
I stride through the gate as casually as I can, dropping the tobacco and Buzzball I’d bought on the table, to explain where I’d been. She barely acknowledges me. I can see there’s a new packet of cigarettes in front of her and a fresh handle of Platinum vodka at her feet. I’m confused. “If you had the money to get more vodka why didn’t we just go out and get some, instead of you attacking me like a psychopath?” I ask her. She shrugs, “I didn’t have any money. You did. While I was searching around the house I found the $50 in your backpack. It’s my money.” Shit. She found my emergency stash. I expect a lecture about me ‘hiding’ it from her but instead she sniffs, “and this is my vodka and these are my cigarettes and you can’t have any.” Real mature. I could fight her for the money, I should, even; it’s mine since I was the one who paid for our visit to the Cheesecake Factory. But I know with complete certainty she believes it’s hers and a battle over it could get ugly if she thinks she’s been wronged. I mentally sigh and concede it’s a lost cause. At least she’s just going to spend it on booze and smokes, both of which I can avail myself of if she doesn’t willingly share.
“Whatever. I’m going to bed.” I bring the Buzzball inside with me and check if my laptop is still safe and hidden which, thankfully, it is. Not so one of my carnivorous plants, which she got me for Christmas. She must have punted it across the room as there’s sphagnum moss everywhere. She’s already killed two of the other plants she got me when we got into a prior argument. She’s also thrown some of my display action figures on the ground. Another casualty is my laptop cooling pad, which looks tampered with. I pick it up to examine it and find she’s snapped off one of the support struts. I leave her to her music and rambling on the porch as I climb into bed, frazzled and depressed, ready to pass out and wondering if it really would be all that bad if she killed me in my sleep.
And that’s it. I’ll pass out and hope I don’t wake up with the artery in my neck slashed from a kitchen knife. It’s the best we can hope for in this world. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 27/July/2024 @ 5:11 am
Unfortunately, where there is joy, bad news lurks not far behind. I didn’t listen to Uriah Heep today, John, instead going for the American Black Sabbath. If these riffs don’t rock your boat then I am afraid nothing will:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0C_W2h0y30&ab_channel=Pentagram-Topic
It’s hard making musical choices sometimes, especially with a “woman” snoring her pimply ass off on the couch. Sometimes I’ll agonize for hours or days over whether I can stretch my scant coins to get lubed for a while and I dither so much cut off time has come and gone so I just try to put it from my mind. Other times I quite literally go through the motions; it’s like I’m not really ‘present’, not really thinking about it. I just slip on my socks and shoes, slip my wallet in my ass pocket, keys in my front pocket, double check I’ve locked the door on the way out…and then I’m just around the corner to the liquor store and I haven’t really been in my own head for the walk.
Bear in mind beer in Antiquity and the Middle Ages was weaker than today. When you hear of medieval folk drinking beer all the time, every day, we’re not talking Natty Daddy strength, but much weaker, like 2% or something.
Also, in Ancient Greece and Rome it was considered uncouth to drink your wine neat, and they watered that shit down. So while you might hear of Alexander the Great & co. drinking wine with breakfast, it would have been pretty weak.
And I think that’s why the Romans looked down on the Celts and Gauls and considered them barbarians; they drank their wine straight up, and so do I! Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 30/June/2024 @ 6:41 am
Good choice of music, John! If you can’t get enough of that song (and who can’t, really), WASP did a passable cover:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27IcW4aP1N4&ab_channel=W.A.S.P.-Topic
May your explosive shits not stain the bottom of the toilet seat too much! Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 30/June/2024 @ 6:26 am
It’s a good thing you can walk in a normal manner, John. My leg has been killing me recently to the point where I am limping and wondering if the ex injected me with something while I was passed out. Somehow I managed to shuffle my ass down to the bus stop to head to the local Walmart for a beer & mouthwash run, despite my gimpy leg. I tried not to roll my eyes as I checked out and the little self-checkout screen announced “assistant needed”. A lot of people say I look younger than I am but, buddy, I sincerely wish I looked under 21. Walmart grunt comes over and asks for ID without even looking at me; he doesn’t even glance at my passport before he chuckles “oh yeah, I remember you”. Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Ended up having to get a Lyft home, as much as I hate spending money on them. I ended up buying too much to carry and gimpy leg was feeling especially gimpy that afternoon. Had a nice Lyft driver though. Normally I hate the talkative ones; I tend to use the ex as social ablative armor for dealing with talkers, but this one was different. She was a dead-ringer for Zendaya, about as far from my type as you can get, but she had this wonderful, smoky, voice, I was entranced by. She’s not from here and we had quite an interesting discussion about our experiences as out-of-towners or transplants. I was tempted to ask for her phone number, or even her address so she knew I meant business. Shyness and an urgent need to drink and urinate overtook whatever compulsions I might have had brewing within.
I remember when I was concerned about the roaches I’d find crawling in my shoes and under my pillows, but I think the roaches have been displaced by mice. I’ve lived in this apartment for almost 3 years now and never had a problem with mice. But in the last few weeks they seem to be ganging up on the place. I thought the first few times Morgoth the Third caught one it was just a fluke; strays in the yard. But now they’re in my house. I was shuffling to the bathroom for a piss and explosive shit the other day when I happened to see one literally standing on my oven top, defiantly staring at me. Morgoth the Third is either lazy, or the massively crowded counter can’t support him chasing them down, but that doesn’t make a difference. I was on a chat to my good friend Sir Daley when Morgoth the Third seemed to find a mouse, and it was at ground-level! He was thrashing around, slapping at things, and overall seemed tense in his body language. He’d been doing that for a few days before the first mouse showed itself. He seemingly had one cornered behind the tv and I thought I was helping him by knocking a broom in and around the tv stand. Sure enough Morgoth the Third caught him, and it was somewhat grimly amusing to watch the mouse’s tail pinwheeling out of Morgoth the Third’s mouth, but he let the little blighter down and was confused when the mouse promptly ran away. Like, FFS dude. The mouse ended up diving into my bedroom closet where I’ve got like 2-3ft of clothing piled up, and Morgoth the Third didn’t seem clued up the mouse ran there. I could see it scrambling through my clothes and tried to catch it so I could release it down the road, but when it dashed under a thick-heeled shoe of mine and I pressed down to catch it…yeah, I kinda don’t feel all that great about the results. Still, what’s another stain amongst many, eh?
Speaking of stains, I think it’s time to continue staining my internal organs. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 28/June/2024 @ 6:20 pm
Our pride goeth before the falls
It’s good you and your bird have made up, John, although I wouldn’t expect it to last because it’s damn-near impossible to co-exist peacefully with females. Take the ex for example. We got into an argument when she said she’d rather eat “negroid semen” than have to listen to another Uriah Heep live concert which led to us getting somewhat physical and her knocking a bottle of wine onto Morgoth the Third (my cat). By that point I knew I had to put an end to it and restrained her calmly but forcefully until she quit her banshee-like screeching (and this is the woman who has the gall to complain about David Byron’s vocals!).
After some more vodka she calms down and we sit outside and have a cigarette together. She tearfully tells me she’s sorry about the problems she’s caused and she loves me “so much”. She even offers to buy the next day’s booze, talking longingly about rum and even brandy. This is the best thing I could have asked for.
Then reality comes crashing back. She gives me a laundry list of things I have apparently been doing wrong in this relationship and how’s she been so hard done by. Everything is wrong with this relationship (which ended the last time I kicked her out btw), apparently. “The coffee and cigarettes we have every morning…it’s so fucking stupid!”
I try to redirect into the house. She’s practically shouting, and all it takes is one noise complaint to get the cops over here. She tells me to reach into the bag she brought to pull her drink out because she needs it for pain. It’s a hidden pint of vodka. I simultaneously think I shouldn’t be surprised and for fuck’s sake. I thought she might have been honest with the booze she had on her, but she’s still a deceptive drunk. “How long are you going to be drinking vodka for?” I ask, hoping she’ll resign the bottle over to me so I can take care of it properly. “You know you get crazy and things happen when you drink vodka with reckless abandon.” “It’s just for the pain, not long” she moans.
When I ask what pain, it is no surprise when she claims I broke her finger in three places. She’s always exaggerating injuries she’s constructed in her cranium. She doesn’t seem to remember (or won’t admit) hitting me first, either, never mind an apology for insulting Uriah Heep. Faking a serious injury to gain sympathy is right up her street. She holds her hand making pained, exaggerated, very likely fake, “ow” noises, when I barely twisted it all to get her to stop her incessant shrieking.
In between telling me how bad I should feel about ‘hurting’ her she returns to normal and starts bossing me around again like nothing’s changed. We go to bed together and I get what I feel like is an hour’s sleep before she wakes me up at around 2 in the morning. “Get me this”, “do that”; I climb out of bed, exhausted, to do her chores. It’s only when I’ve done it and climb back into bed she gives me a new one. “Can you get me a cigarette?” she nudges me awake. Oh my fucking God I just want to sleep. I get her a cigarette and climb back into bed, hoping to pass out soon. “Can you get me something to mix my drink with?” she nudges again. Oh. My God. She carries on like this for what I feel is all morning. Order, I get back into bed, another order, I get back into bed. I try not to voice my irritation in case it sets her off but I tell her I’ve had a long day and please, I just want to sleep. This is classic her. Drunk or sober she always tells me to do stuff like this. Instead of saying “can you get me a drink, a sandwich, and some chips?” she will ask me for one infuriating thing at a time. “Can you get me a drink?” I’ll get her a drink and sit down to get on with whatever I was doing. “Can you make me a sandwich?” I’ll make her a sandwich and sit down to get on with whatever I was doing. “Can you get me some chips?” WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST ASK ME TO GET YOU ALL OF THOSE AT ONCE!?
I give up on getting any sleep. She’s ranting. I honestly considered recording it on my phone just to upload it for proof but I’m sure that breaches some internet privacy rule. No matter what I could write I would struggle to capture just how crazy her ranting is. It’s link-surfing verbalized. Pure insanity. I don’t say anything, I can’t. She literally just voices whatever pops into her head, continually. This isn’t a conversation; it’s a monologue. She goes on about everything from her uncle owning a boat, to how modern religion is an expression of patriarchy designed to oppress women, to how she’s in pain and only needs to drink to deal with it. I stop “uh-huh”ing and “ok”ing; I just stare at the ceiling in silence as she continues talking. She stops talking to briefly ask me if I want a blowjob. I’m not in the mood and haven’t had a shower in a week; from all the fapping my dick probably looks like one of those crusted cheese logs with extra cheese. I’m doing her a favor by saying “no”. She tries forcing my shorts off. I’m kinda flattered. When she drinks she has that “drunk slut” vibe going to her and I’m more attracted to her. I get up to get a drink instead and take my time outside the bedroom until she forgets about it.
This morning was a fucking nightmare too. She’s hammering the vodka more than she was last night and promptly spews onto the pile of my dirty clothes next to the bed. She makes noises about needing to go to the store to get more booze. “For the pain.” I consider telling her I have a near-full bottle stashed away but decide against it. I’d rather drink it myself while she’s gone getting more booze to tide us over through another day.
We get in the Lyft and head to Walmart. “Two stops?” the driver asks. I’m confused, I thought we were just heading to Walmart. “Yeah, Circle K and then Walmart” the ex says. *Oh for fucks sake*. I know why we’re heading to Circle K; she wants some shooters to drink before or in Walmart. I can’t count the number of public bathrooms she’s suspiciously slunk into for a sneaky drink. We get to Circle K and she mumbles a request for me to go in for her to get some shooters. We get to Walmart. I’m conscious of the fact that she said she only wanted to buy like three drinks and then we’d be home. We end up going all around the aisles, picking up random shit. Classic her again. Aside from going grocery shopping, she can never say we’re just going to one place for one thing. We always end up picking up more shit that we don’t need. She asks for a shooter and I think she’s heading off to the bathroom to drink it when she just pops the lid in the middle of an aisle. “Are you fucking crazy!?” I hiss “go to the bathroom to drink that!”, “Why?” she shrugs, before necking her shooter in the middle of the toy aisle. I’m acutely aware at least two soccer moms see her do that. We get to the register to pay when my drunken brain realizes we haven’t picked up any booze at all. “Aren’t we here to get you something to drink?” I bend over and whisper to her. “Oh yeah, I forgot!” We end getting this six pack of Smirnoff alcopops for her and a handle of vodka for me. We get outside to walk up to the Best Buy a couple of doors down. I reflexively touch my pocket looking for a cigarette when I realize I’ve left the pack at home. Groan. She’s going to want to go back into the store to buy some when a Lyft will take us maybe 15 minutes to get back home, where we have a carton of cigarettes.
When we get home the ex makes some noises about ordering take out. Neither of us are interested in eating when drinking; she simply HAS to spend her money. Whether it’s a shopping spree at Goodwill for clothes she doesn’t need or buying groceries that will go rotten because the fridge is already full she just has to empty her bank account.
I try to suggest I make egg-drop soup for her. We bought most of the ingredients when we went to Walmart and it’s our go-to bender food; small portion, easy to digest, tasty. She won’t have any of it and orders Chinese takeout instead. I look at the menu; I’m too fucked to eat anything heavy, she should be the same way too. But she insists I get myself my own meal…then she orders one plus a starter and a side. She’ll eat maybe a quarter of that before the rest has to get binned.
She also stops drinking her alcopops and switches to my vodka. She asks me to make her a mixer and I pour in maybe two and a half shots. “This is too weak. I can’t taste the alcohol” she complains. “Fine,” I say, “I’ll mix you a proper one.” What I do is just add a drop more vodka and a Valium to it. Sometimes the only way to shut a woman up, John, is to lend them a helping hand to snoozeville. I go to the kitchen area to rustle up some old fish bones for Morgoth the Third and sneak some drinks and when I return the ex is fast asleep on the floor. I consider getting a pillow for her head which is at an awkward angle but decide to get another drink instead. Besides, who wants to rest their head on a vomit-encrusted pillow that still smells like last year’s BBQ sauce that was spilled on it?
Today come hell or high water I am sorting my Uriah Heep magazine clippings and finishing off this vodka, so let’s get things going! Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 27/June/2024 @ 5:58 pm
It’s good to see you taking it easy, John. I woke up this morning feeling not too shitty. Must have something to do with the 3 pints of vodka/mouthwash mixers before bed. Didn’t actually black out, for once, as I distinctly remember feeling proud of myself for consciously climbing into bed before midnight. Head is full of fog. I’m not drunk, but I’m not hungover. I put the coffee on and momentarily ponder whether I’m going to drink beer this morning or just go directly to the vodka.
I decide on both and forsake the coffee for a shot of vodka chased by a beer. Already my spirits are lifted, and I’m keen to repeat my actions but drinking so quickly and so early on an empty stomach is a one-way ticket to Pancreatitis Town in my experience. I quickly make myself a tuna salad for lunch. As I turn on the kitchen faucet, to rinse the same knife I’ve been using for a month, this swarm of fruit flies just erupts from the kitchen sink. I forgot I took out the trash yesterday; I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve done so since the ex returned, and the bag was heaving with all kinds of goodness like rotting chicken and vegetable matter. The fruit flies nesting in there must have set up shop in the kitchen sink, where the dishes have been piled high for a good few weeks now.
It isn’t long before I realize I need to stock up on my dwindling booze supplies. I’m even close to being out of mouthwash. I decide the best course of action is to bus it to Wal-Mart. The memory of the drug-addled corpse in the library bathroom is still too fresh in my mind, and I simply am not in the mood for any awkward post-death talk with my new acquaintance in life-saving, Luna.
The bus to the Wal-Mart goes without incident, and I even manage to surreptitiously pocket a few bottles of extract while I’m there. The aisle was surprisingly empty, but I suppose most people don’t want to bake in summer and would prefer being as far away from possible from someone who smells like yesterday’s vomit and cat piss.
There’s a guy on the first bus home I immediately notice because he’s wearing an admittedly cool Liefeld-style Magneto baseball cap. I puzzle for a moment as to why Magneto’s portrait is surrounded by throbbing black dongs when I realize they’re silhouettes of the opening of Magneto’s helmet. I mean they still look like cock and balls, so maybe it was just a questionable design choice? Magneto Man seems to be vibing like he’s listening to R & B or something; he’s making these gestures with his hands like he’s in a slow-mo rap video or something, bending his neck to one side and swishing over, before going the other way. I notice he’s not wearing any headphones. I can’t hear any music playing out loud so it must be all in his head. I pay him no more mind and stare out of the window as the bus gets on its way.
A few stops later I see Magneto Man get up with a couple of other passengers. He’s maybe a meter away from the bus doors before he casually removes one strap of his mask and screams, to no one in particular, “Yo, it’s just TOO FUCKING EASY! Play some more of that evil music! Play an evil song!” He gets up in the face of this just-beyond-middle-aged rando standing by the bus doors and does that obnoxious ghetto head-shake thing, “PLAY ANOTHER EVIL SONG!” he screams “Y’ALL GOT EVIL SOULS! ALL Y’ALL!” Some of the other passengers are heckling him, chuckling, murmuring. Just get off already, man, you’s crazy, just shut up, man. Magneto Man gets off as the people who were waiting at the stop move past him, uncaring of the scene he’s making. “TOO. FUCKING. EASY! PLAY SOME MORE OF THAT EVIL MUSIC! MAN FUCK THE CHURCH, FUCK THE JESUITS, FUCK THE MORMONS!” He moves like he’s going to get back on the bus but the doors abruptly close in his face. Some people laugh. As we drive off he’s still at the stop and starts screaming to himself. I hear this black kid behind me, with a comb in his hair, quietly say “man, must be on something, or just fuckin’ stupid”. I can’t help but laugh without looking at the kid and I hear him laugh too “Right!?”
I’m just about home when I almost collide with next door neighbor, Matt. When the ex and I first moved here he was really friendly with us. If she and I were having beers and cigarettes on the porch and he happened to be out, he would always stop by the entrance to our porch and say hi, chit-chatting mundane things with the ex while I sneaked some of her drink down my gullet. All that abruptly changed, of course, when the police went to his door, asking about us; when he must have heard the screaming fights between her and I, or her on the porch talking to whoever on speaker phone about her alcoholism, PTSD, and how much she hates this relationship. He stopped talking to us after that, wouldn’t even look at or acknowledge either of us until he couldn’t avoid it, like now. “Hey, what’s up?” he says with flat effect, I notice not even making eye contact as he moves to his vehicle. “Hey”, I can only say. I don’t hold it against him. He’s just a young guy, with a young kid. Probably thinks we’re on meth or something. I mean, even I think the ex is on meth, so Matt is probably not that far off the mark there.
Of course as soon as I enter my abode I get the regular “Who were you talking to? Was it agents?” BS I’ve come to expect from the ex during one of her paranoid states, a state that quickly changes to sheer greed and desire as soon as she sees I have booze in my bags. She doesn’t even offer to help carry them to the kitchen area; instead reaching in and grabbing the first bottle she can find and haphazardly casting the cap aside and taking a massive gulp. I really should have picked up a bottle of bleach as well.
And now it is time to drink more than she does so I get my money’s worth (even though I took money out of her purse for the purchase). Let’s get this boat rocking! Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 25/June/2024 @ 7:52 pm
Thank you for the concern, John and Kevin, but I’m quite all right, except for the dead heroin addict I found in the library toilets when I rushed in for an emergency session at the urinal.
So yes, someone at the. library died of a heroin overdose, or maybe his supply was cut with fentanyl, the police said, and I was the one who found him.
I finished on my way to the Chevron, still had one last shot of Fireball packed away and decided to duck into the bathroom for a piss and a shot before picking up some more of that sweet nectar that keeps me going through the day. I even volunteered to do the booze run, having become sick and tired of the ex picking up the wrong beers and/or cigarettes.
I ignored the books on display at the library (which all seem to be homosexual propaganda these days) and headed straight to the bathroom, opened the door, and the most incongruous fucking thing I’d ever expect to see was in front of me: there’s a guy lying face down on the ground in the disabled stall, head and arm slightly poking out from under the door. He’s not moving. I thought I was hallucinating.
Thoughts run through my mind. Maybe he was a homeless person who’d crept into the building for somewhere to nap. The library doesn’t really have security, as such, and there’s a surprising amount of homeless people who wander the area. One of them could conceivably just come in off the street and camp out in the bathroom. I thought maybe he was a fellow booze hound who’d over-reveled and passed out. It didn’t occur to me – stupid, I know – this could be someone who needed medical help.
I call out “Hey, buddy, you ok?” No response. I advance and only then notice he’s lying in something he spilled. My brain connects the dots as I notice the color and the chunks: it’s vomit. I can’t just leave him there. Even if he doesn’t need medical help and he’s just some passed out fellow boozer or hobo, the last thing I need is my favorite library bathroom being noted as the place to get smashed and pass out. I move close to the stall door, making as much noise as I can. If he is just drunk I don’t want to surprise-wake him and have him come at me angrily. He still doesn’t respond to my calling him again and making noise. I get on my hands and knees and gingerly shake his shoulder. “Hey…dude, wake up, are you ok?” I recognize him, I think. He got in the elevator with me at the unemployment agency when I came in drunk on extract. He seemed quite jovial, and like a nice person.
No response. I’m still convinced he’s just passed-out drunk. I focus on his chest; it’s not moving. He’s not breathing. For some reason my brain can’t process that. No, no, he’s ok.
I get up and into the actual and make eye contact with a heavily-tattoed, blue-haired, and obese woman. Her name tag has Luna written on it and I wonder if it’s because she resembles a graffiti’ed moon or if they forgot to add the “-tic” part at the end. Whatever. I’ll tell her and she’ll call security and they’ll fish him out, and he’ll be ok. Something we’ll joke about later down the line; “Hey, minty library patron, remember that time you found that dude passed out in the bathroom? lol”
“Um, there’s some guy passed out in the men’s bathroom and I’m not sure if he’s ok.” I finally find the words. Her face creases in disbelief but she immediately gets out of her seat and waddles with me to go to the men’s room.
She hesitates at the last second and gingerly opens the door. “There’s no one else in there” I say, assuming she’s afraid of walking in on someone swinging their dick around or something. I hear her gasp as she walks in the door. I’m guessing she realizes something’s up too, as she doubles back and says she’s going to ring security while I wait there.
This old, almost doubled-over, guy shuffles into the bathroom, resplendent in his ill-fitting security uniform. “They said there’s some guy asleep in there?” he says, more to himself, as he moves past us and goes into the bathroom.
Luna shuffles over to the closed door, and cranes her neck to listen, I find myself doing the same. We can hear the security guard calling out “HEY! HEY SIR! ARE YOU OK? ARE YOU OK?” There’s a moment of silence and we hear the guard make a noise. Luna pushes the door open and we go in. The guard has managed to unlock the disabled stall door.
The guy is still not responsive. There’s even more vomit in the stall. I see a small piece of discolored aluminum foil and a lighter in the corner of the stall. I try not to look like I recognize it. The security guard turns around, exasperated. “Call 911! I’m not equipped to handle this! Call 911!” I seem to be the only one there with a phone and whip it out. Some people are walking past in the corridor now, and rubber-necking to see what’s going on. This big, older, guy I’ve never seen before comes inside, presumably to assist us.
911 tells us to put the guy flat on his back and start chest compressions. I hand the phone to Luna and help other guy drag the man out of the stall and position him on his back. There’s vomit running all down his front. His chest still isn’t moving. His mouth is slightly open and tongue poking out a little. His eyes are only just barely open. I don’t know how I know, but I get the distinct feeling he’s gone. Luna and other guy take turns with the compressions, as the operator and I call out the timing.
Paramedics arrive and they drag the man out of the bathroom and into the corridor, where they further try to resuscitate him. The machine he’s hooked up to makes multiple beeps and flatlines. I hear one of the paramedics say there’s evidence of black tar heroin use.
Luna and I are separated by the paramedic team. She’s with a bunch of the other bizarre.looking librarians, women all, and a lot of them look visibly distraught, almost on the verge of tears.
Me, I feel nothing. I don’t say that to sound big or cool. I just feel cold silence. I feel numb.
There’s shouting and there’s people running around. The medics tell security to shut the doors so no one walks on to the scene.
They call it at some 20 minutes and lift the dead man up to put him in the bathroom again, to clear access for staff still in the building, until the coroner arrives. The police are coming, they say, and they’ll want statements from those of us who were on the scene. The EMS people repeatedly tell us “good job” or “you did the right thing”. I feel a bit sheepish nodding my head in agreement when it was the guy next to me who was doing the chest compressions and I was just holding the phone and doing a count as directed by the operator.
The library manager is super nice to me, offering me water, candy, if I need to talk etc. The police surprisingly enough are nice as well. They ask me how I’m feeling. Still nothing. I just shrug. I don’t know what to say and I don’t want to sound heartless. They ask me some seemingly innocuous questions that the paranoid part of me can’t help but feel are to test if I even really am a patron of the library and I’m not some random homeless person who was shooting up with the dead guy in the bathroom. If so, I don’t blame them. I look shabby as fuck; my hoody is 50% hoody and 50% Morgoth the Third (my cat) fur, I’m two-strapping a dirty backpack with rips and holes in it. My shoes – once again – reek of cat piss.
I don’t really have much to say for the statement: I didn’t know the guy, I (think) I saw him before in an elevator, I went in the bathroom to wash my hands so I wouldn’t stain any of the gay library books and found him facedown, in a pool of his own vomit. End of.
The police officer clicks her pen in boredom and says that’s all she needs from me and I’m free to go. I decide to sprint to the Chevron and know for sure I am getting a handle of vodka which I intend to open and chug immediately. I need some brain bleach for this.
The ex is now spinning yarn that my opening the door shocked the guy in the stall causing his heart to give in.
“You didn’t see the amount of vomit,” I say in my defense.
“I don’t need to,” she replies, her words already slurred from the hits of vodka she took. “The sight of you would scare anyone to death.”
I ignore her snark and decide to drink myself to oblivion as planned. It could easily have been me in that stall, dead from an explosive mouthwash shit, and who would feed Morgoth the Third then?This next drink goes to all the junkies out there who have died in public library bathrooms covered in their own retch. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 24/June/2024 @ 6:15 pm
Maybe it would be good if China took over the place, John. They could open some coal mines and put the local population to work and consequently boost the economy. It seems like no one works there where you are, including you! And I am sure you would make a good coal miner. I’m simply to lazy to be bothered going down sixty feet in the earth in search of black things.
As is ever the way with me, I get incredibly fucking lazy when I drink. I haven’t done any cleaning whatsoever, and the apartment still looks like a mess, with months-worth of grime everywhere. In addition to the ubiquitous mold everywhere, the trashcan is in the bathroom full of bleach water for…something I can’t even remember now. The squashed maggots on the carpet are starting to take on a greenish hue as well, as though someone’s wiped boogers on them. And of course there’s empties everywhere in the apartment – beer cans, vodka bottles, mouthwash – and all of my dirty clothes and the ex’s used tampons are in a couple of trash bags on the kitchen floor, where they’ve been since…forever, I think.
Woke up this morning with a screaming hangover. Not in the least bit surprised. Wine mixed with yellow Listerine* always does that to me now. Used to be a big wine with mouthwash drinker and don’t remember feeling so awful the next day. It feels like there’s two giant screws twisting into my brain on either side. I entertain the thought of following through on yesterday’s idea of not drinking wine and mouthwash this morning and just sticking to bottles of rum like a normal human being. I gulp down a few pints of vodka but the vice on my brain will not relent. I experimentally crack open a beer and add some vanilla extract to see if I’m cured by a somewhat more flavorful hair of the dog. Half a can later and the headache is easing away.
The ex is still sleeping on the shit-encrusted bed. What does that mean? Well, it means time for another beer and extract and a Uriah Heep album or two. Beer and extract is a great combo. I feel strangely good. Like, not apathetic, not emotionally numbed. I mean I feel good, like I could go out dancing or some shit. Promise me you will also mix extract with your beers today, John. Every supermarket where you are should have them. Cheers!
*Pro tip: Always drink blue/green Listerine. You’ll thank me later. Yellow does have a slightly higher ABV but it’s fucking nasty as fuck – above and beyond drinking mouthwash should be.
Bonus: the mintiness of the blue/green stuff will add a pleasant hint of toothpaste to your inevitable explosive shits.
» Posted By Thompson On 20/June/2024 @ 5:40 pm
Well, John, it finally happened: we ran out of booze. We’d foolishly passed out before going to the store for more fuel, a recurring theme for us. Cue lifting every empty in the apartment to test how much liquid is in it. Managed to get maybe 3 and a half cans worth of gross, stale, beer from…I can’t even remember when I’d opened them.
Polishing off my last half-beer now. There’s no ‘proper’ alcohol left to drink now so I’m on the mouthwash mixer after this, for the last hour before the Chevron opens and they can sell alcohol again. It’s damn-near impossible to listen to Uriah Heep in this state, so I’ve settled for Dinosaur Jr while the ex whines about how she wants to listen to Pearl Jam instead (she is convinced she saw Eddie Vedder wave at her from an Uber in Tucson, Arizona but when I ask what on earth would he be doing there she shuts up about the incident she so clearly made up).
» Posted By Thompson On 19/June/2024 @ 6:39 pm
It’s good you didn’t wuss out like a faggy pussy, John. Perseverance is key for success in this world, or so I have been told. Patience, too, something my neighbor Matt apparently has in spades. I’m surprised Matt hasn’t called the police on us yet, especially after the ex went on a screaming porch rant about him and how he’s “raising his daughter to be raped”. So many times after we got into a scream fight I expected to see a police cruiser roll up the driveway, responding to a noise complaint or domestic violence report. I’m also surprised none of the AirBnB guests complained to the landlord about our very public, very noisy, fighting. I expected to get a text or call from him saying I can’t have ‘guests’ anymore or he was evicting me for being a garbage tenant.
It’s interesting seeing the ex’s hygiene going down the tubes. She’s normally fastidious about showering and brushing her teeth, but she goes weeks without showering and brushes her teeth maybe once a week. We’re on the porch, yesterday, smoking and finishing off the bottle of Listerine I started on the other night when she makes a joke about giving me a blowjob – she sticks her tongue out and the middle of it is streaked black and yellow, like one of those poisonous, hairy, caterpillars you find in rain forests. She claims it’s because of a yeast infection and when she sleeps naked boy is she ripe. On a related note, she doesn’t seem overly concerned about the dilapidated condition of the apartment. Aside from bitching about the dirty dishes in the sink and the occasional maggot crawling across her foot she doesn’t comment on the state of the place when normally she’s so anal about keeping the place clean and gets on my case about how I’ve let it deteriorate in her absence. The Christmas tree and all the decorations are still up, which I thought would have been the first thing she’d comment on, but she’s mostly oblivious to the mess.
She demolished half a handle of vodka last night as well. Singlehandedly. When I pointed that out earlier to her she scoffed it was actually me who drank most of it. I try to point out I can’t drink liquor like she can and have been on wine mixers, but she won’t have it and insists I drank most of her vodka. This is a repeated theme with the ex. She’d once said she doesn’t drink vodka because it makes her an angry drunk. I mean, she’s an angry drunk anyway, but it’s only then I notice she’s drank that pretty heavily since she’s been back, eschewing her usual rum or tequila. So many times I’ve begged her “please don’t go on a rampage when you drink this” and she just rolls her eyes and tuts “yeah ok, whatever, I won’t.”
Well, she’s passed out over the toilet again so I’m going to hit up that vodka before she realizes there’s more left. Gonna to need it to as she crapped the bed again last night. With the fresh wet shit mixing with the dried crusty shit on the sheets it’s one hell of a miasma in there, and no way I am going to be able to sleep in that stench without passing out. Let’s get the party started!
» Posted By Thompson On 18/June/2024 @ 6:01 pm
Swan looks absolutely livid in that second pic, John, an expression I find myself often encountering on my ex’s face. Did you perhaps ash in her drink when you thought she wasn’t looking? That usually does the trick for me, although with my ex’s brains being bonkers I don’t have to do much of anything before she is deeply embedded in Cuckooland.
Take yesterday for example. No mention was made about the bruise on her eye (although to be fair ever since I accidentally burned her forehead with a lit cig she doesn’t look in the mirror much, and my bathroom mirror is broken anyway from the time she threw my paintball gun at it).
Anyway, it wasn’t long before we had lift off yesterday. We got into a spat about her gaslighting me. It’s been constant since she’s been back. She accuses me of saying or doing something mean to her the night before and assures that of course I don’t remember it because I was in a blackout. I get blackouts are an occupational hazard for those of us who like a few drinks for breakfast, but when I blackout it’s usually on the way to bed. I rarely lose hours or nights, but the way the ex tells it it’s a nightly thing for me. I don’t buy for it a second, it’s gaslighting 101, a textbook narcissistic manipulation tactic designed to get the victim to question their own memory (and eventually sanity). I distinctly know she’s full of shit because she alleges I drank half a bottle of cough medicine the night before. I know I didn’t because she was the one necking the bottle, and when she offered me some I declined and reminded her it’s not smart to mix booze and acetaminophen. Besides, I know I hit up the Listerine bottle before bed as my shits smell extra minty this morning.
I tell her I know she’s trying to gaslight me and I don’t appreciate it. She’s immediately apologetic, claiming that wasn’t her intention, she’s not doing that at all etc. I don’t want to fight so go out to have a cigarette so I can cool down and I don’t have to be in the same room as her.
She follows me out not long after. We smoke in silence for a while before she strikes up a “can we pretend that didn’t happen?” conversation, with a meek tone. I’m always quick to make peace so join the act. But something changes in her tone after a few more drinks.
I should have picked up on it sooner but I’ve noticed that before she has one of her psycho episodes, her tone changes. She goes from being expressive, changing pitch and tone appropriately, to speaking in this low, mumbling, monotone. The calm before the storm.
I’m inside, watching a Uriah Heep concert, when she slumps in, eyes lidded. “You could have apologized at any time,” she mumbles. “The whole neighborhood heard you call me a whore and you never apologized. You’ve got 30 minutes to apologize, or I will be going and I never want to see you again.” She slams the door shut behind her as she goes out on to the porch to drink and smoke more. I can hear her playing music aloud on her phone (another herald of an impending episode) and mumbling to herself. Here we go. Incident time.
I expect us to have yet another scream fight, but to my surprise she just abruptly, gets up and leaves in a Lyft. I track her on Maps and she goes back to Bernhard (a supposed “friend” of hers she just occasionally fucks), as expected. Maybe that buys me a night to sort my clipped Uriah Heep articles, maybe get some gaming in, some quality fap time perhaps.
But no.
She calls not two hours later saying she wants to come back so we can “reconcile”. She uses oddly stilted and formal language at times, I’m not sure why; maybe to play up the appearance of being ‘eccentric’ or appearing smarter than she is.
She’s mumbling about “some black guys in furry suits” trying to rob Bernhard’s neighbor, and the military heard her through her phone and sent some fighter jets to scare them away (I wish I was making that up). I have to switch off to preserve my sanity and ask about her getting back here. Turns out – and I know this was the real reason for her wanting to ‘reconcile’ – she left her debit card here. She wants us to go to the liquor store and then we’ll watch a movie or something.
She rolls up to collect me in a Lyft and as I hop in she carries on with the conversation she was having with the driver. “…and there were these four black guys, and they were wearing furry suits – can you believe that!? – and they were trying to break into the next door neighbor’s. He’s a Korean War vet. And I shouted ‘Leave that man alone!’ and the air force must have been monitoring me through my phone because they sent a flyover. Yup. 5 minutes later. Two fighter jets and an attack helicopter. I’ve talked shit about the air force before but I never will again. I need help I’m not calling the police, I’ll just say ‘corpsman down!’ and they’ll be listening and send help. Man, that Korean War vet must be someone if the military is tracking us like that!”
I see, in the rearview mirror, the driver’s brows furrow in confusion. “A flyover? As in…the military?” “Yes sir!” the ex chirps. “And…you’re talking about a video game you were playing?” “No sir, this was real life. I am not delusional.” We spend the rest of the ride in silence.
We get home and the ex repeats the same story again: she was having a cigarette in the yard when she saw these “furry men” try to break into the neighbor’s. The military is monitoring her phone so they sent two fighter jets and an attack helicopter to assist her. The furry men ran away.
I don’t even give her story an ounce of credibility. We’re talking about the woman who thought the owner of the shelter we met at had been kidnapped by the neighbors, or that I tried to kill her in her sleep with my “death magic”. I have suspected, at times, she must been a heavy meth user before we met, as I’ve only encountered this level of delusion in homeless tweekers.
I don’t engage, at all. She’s deep in one of her episodes, where my participation in a conversation (and even my presence) isn’t required and she’s really just talking with herself.
I silently finish my cigarette and go inside to take a shit, hoping to buy some time and that she’ll maybe drink herself into slumber out there. I’m on the throne when I hear her burst in. “Did you hear me, honey? DID YOU HEAR ME!? One of the furry men is here! I saw him and he ran into the backyard! They must have been tracking me! The police only caught two of them, they don’t know where the others are! We’re not safe here. We are not safe!” She wails. I can do nothing but bury my face in my hands.
But she’s not done. Oh no.
I vacate the bathroom and head straight towards the bedroom, telling her I’m tired and I’m going to bed. I don’t wait for a response.
I can hear her on the porch, again repeating the same fucking story about furry men and fighter jets and how she’s so VIP the military is tracking her. I swig from my bedside drink, hoping unconsciousness claims me sooner rather than later.
She comes in a while later and climbs into bed. The light’s off and my back is turned to her but I go stiff (no, not like that) hoping she’ll think I’m asleep and have some consideration for that. Not so. She continues to mumble to herself about furry men, fighter jets, and government tracking. It’s eerie because it’s like she has a sixth sense for when I’m about to drop off. She will be silent for 5, 10, 15 minutes and as soon as my eyelids start to droop she begins to mumble again.
I notice a change in her tone as she becomes more animated. “But the military already knows who I am, why are they following me? Wait…what if they’re not following me, but they’re following you!?” I feel and hear her turn sharply in bed and she begins shaking my arm “Honey, why is the air force tracking you!? HONEY WHY IS THE AIR FORCE TRACKING YOU!?”
I’ve had enough. I’ve tried my best to be patient with her but this is beyond ridiculous.
“The air force isn’t tracking me! No one is tracking me. No one is tracking you! You need to stop smoking meth with Fear and come back to reality. You’re starting to sound like Meadows!”
‘Meadows’ was the owner of the shelter the ex and I met at. I met him a couple of years before I lived there, when I ran my own homeless veterans camp. I thought he was a sound guy, and we had some fun times when I first moved to his shelter, but he gradually unraveled mentally, culminating in him dancing on the roof of one of the shelter structures, with a loaded rifle, filming himself on Facebook Live. The sheriffs took his happy ass away. Meadows believed the government was sending spy planes over his property every day to monitor us. We won’t talk about the fact Meadow’s shelter was just down the road from an airfield.
The ex absolutely loathed Meadows, so the comparison strikes a nerve. She pushes me in bed. “You think I’m lying? What, that I just made that all up?” I so am not in the mood for this right now. “No, I think you need to just calm down and go to sleep.” She gets out of bed. I don’t turn to look but I can hear her pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed. “How dare you compare me to Meadows. You think I’m a liar? You think I’m crazy like him?” She slaps my feet. “You want to step outside, cunt?” The bedroom light flashes on and she slaps my feet again. “Huh? You want to step outside, cocksucker? Do you want to step outside, chicken shit?”
I roll over in bed to retort and I’m struck by one of the most incongruous sights I’ve ever seen and I know I’ll be taking it to the grave with me. The ex is stood at the foot of the bed, arms wide in a come at me, bro stance. She’s wearing a Deadpool shirt she got me for Christmas and…nothing else. She’s literally butt-naked and challenging me to a fist fight.
I have to laugh at that. “No, small tits, I’m not going to fight you, you crazy bitch.” Without warning, she screams and launches herself at me; she clambers up my body and starts trying to punch and slap my face. I’m still laughing at the sight of her when she tries to reposition and put her knee on my throat. Instant reflex: I throw her off me and pin her arms to the bed, telling her to stop attacking me. She starts shrieking as if she’s being tortured, “don’t you lay hands on me! How dare you attack me like that!” I tell her I was defending myself from her, that I’m going to let her up, but if she comes at me again like that I’ll respond appropriately.
I let her up and she darts into the kitchen. I can hear her rifling through the utensil drawer. She’s going for a knife. 50/50 she comes back into the room and things get uglier, or she rants to herself from the kitchen. Luckily, it’s the latter. In an eerie callback to her warped version of attacking me with the stone, she maintains I launched an unprovoked attack on her and she’s not afraid to ‘defend’ herself. I have to get up to use the bathroom at one point, which involves passing by the kitchen. The ex holds out a carving knife in front of her like she’s a duelist or something. I barely glance at her as I go into the bathroom to pee. She’s still rabbiting on about how I just assaulted her and I’m lucky she’s not going to call the police.
She never mentions fighter jets, furry men, or government tracking after that. Instead we opened a bottle of rum I am sure she stole and drink it straight from the bottle because no one had the wisdom and foresight to purchase Coke to mix it with. Next up: some cold beers to wash the furry men away, cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 17/June/2024 @ 6:21 pm
I’m surprised you like cake so much, John, being a drunk and all. I’m usually in full alcorexic mode but with the ex food has popped up a lot here, too. Yesterday the ex wanted to order takeout for lunch and asked me what I want. All she seems to eat is Chinese and Japanese food; I enjoy both considering they’re usually touched by Asian hands, but the over-saturation has me burned out on both. I jokingly told her as much and suggested we go for Indian, which I’ve wanted for soooo long, and which she should enjoy, given she’s nominally a vegan and Indian cuisine has a lot of vegan and vegetarian-friendly dishes.
We were sitting at the porch table drinking and smoking and she asked me to find an Indian restaurant so we could both get something from there. Sounds like something finally going my way, right? Wrong. She either just dismissed my choice of restaurant with barely a glance (“it’s probably run by Mexicans”) or torpedoed any dish I suggested for her at a restaurant she would eat at. She was lost in monologuing already and when I tried to draw her attention to something she barely acknowledged it to just ramble on with a story I’ve heard dozens of times before about how awesome and special she is. The end cap to that is she bleated “Come on, honey, it’s been an hour and you still haven’t chosen!” Excuse me what the fuck? In the end she said I should get Indian for myself and she’ll get something else. I was still mostly lacking appetite and did’t fancy her paying $35 for a meal just for me. So we got nothing, because she thought I was throwing a protest and she didn’t want to eat without me.
The day’s dose of crazy came not long after. She’d been trying to contact her dad to arrange to transfer him some money (and coincidentally never mentions the hundreds she owes me) and it turned out she was not getting texts because she hadn’t paid her phone bill. I told her it’s an easy fix and we could just pay it through her Verizon app. It wouldn’t load for some reason and that’s when it began. “You know what this means, don’t you?” the ex whispered, after I told her the app isn’t loading. “Alert level black. The country hasn’t been on this level of security since World War II.” The laugh died on my lips as I put down my drink. “What?” “Look, sweetie, there aren’t any planes in the sky, not even civilian aircraft. Something big’s going down!” And you know this because your Verizon app isn’t loading? I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t even lunch time and she was already off her rocker. I just mentally braced for impact and hopde her meltdown wouldn’t be as bad as I fear.
But of course it was. Later she accused me of urinating in her drink again (and I only did it the first time because she hadn’t washed my Uriah Heep t-shirt I needed for a very important job interview that could have changed my life), when I had clearly been pissing in the dead pot plant she stole from a retirement home last Xmas. I told her this and pointed to the liquid seeping out the pot onto the carpet, but she would have none of it. Despite my alcorexic state I am still stronger than her and had to pin her down on the floor until she calmed down. When she saw she had a maggot in her hair she shrieked and ran out, leaving me to finally drink in peace and quiet to regain myself until my nerves had calmed down enough to play some Uriah Heep. She came back hours later with a bruised eye (I can’t wait to get the blame for that tomorrow) and a bag of beer and boxed wine, then promptly passed out on the couch. So far today she is a bit subdued but there’s still some wine left so let’s live the life God intended for us to live!
» Posted By Thompson On 16/June/2024 @ 6:18 pm
It’s good to see you feasting, John, even though some of that local food resembles cat vomit. Yesterday the ex complained about being hungry. I offered to cook her something, eggs maybe, whatever she wanted. But she complained the kitchen was too filthy (both sinks are stacked high with dirty dishes) and maggot-infested (from the now overflowing pizza box) for her to eat anything cooked there. She wanted takeout but only had ~$10 in her bank account. I suggested she could use that for Lyft fare and offered her the last $30 in my account so she could get us breakfast, which I did’t even particularly want anyway, but she said she wouldn’t eat if I didn’t. She went to this local café and got us some breakfast; eggs, biscuits, potatoes, a Polish dog for me. I managed like half the Polish dog and a couple mouthfuls of egg and potato before I felt stuffed. The ex didn’t touch her meal at all, opting to drain the bottle of vodka I had my eye on instead. It’s not that she opened the box and was like “ew, I’m not eating that!” or she’d momentarily lost her appetite; she just set the Styrofoam tray down and promptly forgot about it. $15 pissed down the drain.
Later on we had a scuffle after she accused my of having a carton (a carton, not a pack) of cigarettes hidden from her, and while we battled it out the pizza box on the table got knocked over spilling squirming maggots everywhere. Some of them got crushed under our bare feet, the rest made their way up the vacuum a bit later. But not there is more space on the table, and there are some quarter-filled beers here to tide me over until I can convince the ex to make the trek to gas station for more booze. Hope is on the horizon, so let’s the guzzling going on!
» Posted By Thompson On 15/June/2024 @ 2:35 pm
«« Back To Stats PageWell John, while you’re letting a woman into your life I am doing my utmost to get a woman out of mine. It didn’t take long before the mask dropped with my ex. Earlier on she still had her lovey-dovey façade going on and at one point I had to put myself to bed because I was fucking trashed. As I was swimming in and out of consciousness I felt her sit on the bed next to me. “Do you want me to tell you something?” I think I heard her ask. Here we go; another lecture about how I don’t ‘appreciate’ her, I need to value her more, blah blah. “Do you want me to tell you something?” she repeated. I sleepily tried to wave her away. “Do you want me to tell you something?” “Ok, go ahead,” I sleepily mumbled. I felt her hand slide up and down my inner thigh and she giggled. “Well you need to take your pants off then, silly” I was not sure what the hell was going on and leaned up a little, “wha-?” I could only burble. “I asked ‘Do you want a blowjob?’ You need to take your pants off if you want one.” I laughed. I wasn’t sure how I misheard her on that one. I patted her hand and gently declined. I hadn’t showered for some six weeks by that point and I was still wearing the same clothes I put on at the end of April. I’m sure exposing someone’s face to my genitals would constitute a human rights violation.
Later that evening we were smoking and drinking on the porch when she brought up that she withdrew the last of her cash from her bank account so she can’t order us Lyfts. Curiosity bit and I asked why she’s carrying so much cash on her. She said she was going to buy a car. I almost choked on my drink trying not to laugh. “You were going to buy a car…after how you got arrested last year?” I absentmindedly pointed out the warrant she has, for stoning me in the face, and that is the precise moment the mask dropped. The transformation was instant and complete; she’s smiling and giggling one minute and then her face droops into this cold and stern expression. “Why did you have to tell them about me!?” She hissed. “You could have said you fell over, or ran into a door or-” “-fell down some stairs?” I tried not to roll my eyes. She said it’s “not right” there’s a warrant out for her when she was only defending herself. “Erm, what?” I asked in incredulity. She recounted her version of events and it’s complete DARVO – that I attacked her, threw her to the ground, and she grabbed the rock and struck me because she was afraid for her life.
I didn’t want to get into an argument but I couldn’t help myself. “That’s not true and you know it. You attacked me. You could have just walked away, you could have just slapped or punched me, but instead you calmly picked up that rock, closed the distance between us, and hit me in the face with it while my arms were at my sides. You could have killed me.”
“No, no, you attacked me first. You’re not dead because I chose not to kill you!” Instant denial, I don’t know why I expected anything else. I quietly dropped the matter but there’s definite tension between us and if if weren’t for the booze I forced her to go buy earlier I would kick her out right here right now.Right now she is watching reruns of Airwolf on TV while all I want to do is play some Uriah Heep again and sink into my bed, but someone (I will let you guess who) wet the bed last night. My patience is wearing thin but there is alcohol yet to drink, so let’s get it going on!
» Posted By Thompson On 14/June/2024 @ 6:40 pm