Los Angeles, CA
Drinking makes me sloppy. I'm a sloppy drunk. I usually have precise hands, something I prided myself as a someone who once worked behind the bar, but I broke two glasses in the last 2 days. I thought they were cheap Ikea glasses that cost $1.50. I discovered that Nicky had those specific collins cocktail glasses since her days at Northwestern. Fuck me, I destroyed two college-era heirlooms.
I feel like an ass.
A drunk ass. That's part of the downside to my experiment to spend as many waking hours drunk. I dunno how those fuckers from Mad Men managed to drink and actually do a job. I guess part of the reason they drink so much is to stay perpetually buzzed because nothing is worse than a hangover, and nothing cures a hangover better than another cocktail.
I wished that I had better results from this experiment. All I have to show for it is that I put on 7-10 pounds from all of the booze and high fructose corn syrup in the mixers that I used. I also owe Nicky two glasses. I thought that I'd smoke less weed, yet I smoked anywhere from 90-95% of my normal daily consumption -- I think most of that happened early in the day and I truly used bud for medicinal purposes to kill headaches, body aches, stomach aches, and nausea.
I only ate pharmies once during the stretch and it was on the one day that I got most crocked -- Saturday. I did a decent job holding out, but I had such a massive headache on Saturday morning that I didn't know what else to do but eat a sliver of oxy. Just a sliver, mind you. I barely noticed the buzz. If anything, it made me somewhat normal, at the least, made some of the hangover pains feel tolerable. It wasn't until the fifth cocktail of the day/night that I felt the cumulative effects of the rum mixing with the tail end of the painkillers. Once I had dulled all the pain and it went away, the pain killers made me a little more schwasted. That's when I had the first of two major accidents in the kitchen.
The first accident turned the floor into a pink lake and made it sticky afterward. The second accident made the floor turn red. And that fucker was twice as sticky.
The first accident happened as I was finishing the mixing/shaking process of a batch of Bahama Mamas. The top got stuck and I didn't know my own strength. The cocktails splashed all over my jeans and the ground. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Most of the floor was drenched in a pink liquid. I quickly cleaned it up, but it remained sticky for the rest of the night and all of Sunday.
Then on Sunday night, after a shitty night of betting on basketball, I made myself a "sore loser" cocktail. I was about to pour the rum into a glass when I knocked the glass over and it fell on the counter. The glass cracked. As I said, "Fuuuuuuck!" that's when the real accident happened...and I spilled an entire small bottle of Maraschino cherries onto the counter and on the floor. Splotches of thick red gooey syrup covered the floor. It looked like a crime scene and I quickly tried to clean it up. I was not as successful as Saturday's clean up. My half-assed job will be ridiculed by Nicky at some point because my cleaning skills were inept. To which my counter argument will be: "It's not my fault our maid got deported."
It's true. One day we called and she never picked up her phone. Had she been more up to date on her paper work, or if we had less stringent immigration policies in America, then I'd simply would have given her a call on Monday morning and requested her impeccable services. Alas, no mas maid.
That's why we have a sticky kitchen floor. I'm to lazy to clean it up. I blame the booze. It made me slothly. I used to jump out of bed and want to work, but now, all I do is slowly crawl out of bed with a hangover, and then count the minutes until my next drink as I do everything possible to cure the throbbing, pounding, searing headache.
Life on the hooch. It's not for everyone. Look at my kitchen for fuck's sake.