‘The number of times I’ve puked in the Walgreens bathroom is becoming way too much for my pride.’

[Writing prompt courtesy of textsfromlastnight.com; time = 15 minutes]

The number of times I’ve puked in the Walgreens bathroom is becoming way too much for my pride. Whatever’s left of it anyways. That girl ripped my balls off with volition, sprinkled with determination. My fault, really. The drinking is, well, a problem. The intersection of bars, liqour stores, this Walgreen’s and her house is too convenient. But you know what? Fuck her. We met on a bar crawl for fuck’s sake. She thought it was cute when I slurred my gangta words at her. She was cute too. Ahh, Kendra. With her blonde hair all long and pretty to one side, matted and sweaty to the other. She had to lean against the wall just to maintain eye contact.

Fine. I’m the irresponsible one. Maybe I shouldn’t have lit that cat on fire. Maybe I shouldn’t have cussed out the bouncer as he was throwing me out of the bar. But she’s no angel! Oh no, what about that one time, she took her shoes off, ran across the street and hit that random girl in the head with the heel of her pump, just because she didn’t say ‘Excuse me’ when she passed her from the washroom? There was blood involved, Kendra! But oh no, I’m the asshole. Oh oh, another round into the Porcelain King.

28 days. We’ve known each other for 28 days. Wasn’t that a zombie apocalypse movie? Yeah, same shit. She ripped my heart out and made me watch her eat it. I need help, she says. I have a problem, she says. You know what? You didn’t have a problem with me buying you drinks, buying all your whore girlfriends drinks, buying all their fuck buddies’ drinks! I went the extra mile to fit in. What does she do? NOTHING. I have to hang out with her friends, go to the bar she likes. I bought two silk shirts for her. For. HER. I even know what she likes to drink and how she likes it made. I know her drink.

I know she’s just like me. She’s probably in the women’s room right now barfing up a lung. Lemme check. Whoa! Sorry Miss. Have you seen a tall, hot, blonde chick? No? Hey, YOU fuck off. Meanie.

You know what? I’m gonna tell her about herself, right now. Her apartment is right over there. Hold on, think we’ve got one more contribution coming up. Wait. Nope. Alright, all clear. No, YOU watch where you’re going, you cocksucker! Fuck your mother! Kiss MY ass! You know what, I don’t have time for this, I’ma go. No, YOU’RE the pussy.

“WATCH OUT!”

 

“Do you know that guy?”

“No! He’s some drunk talking shit. Oh fuck, his head’s bleeding. Whoa! That dude just took off! Hey man, you alright? You alright?”

“Bro. He ain’t movin’. He’s dead.”

My Day Under $5

We, Gina and I, had it in our heads we’d spend the afternoon at the Tampa IKEA. But that just didn’t happen.

Why?

We couldn’t stop talking about the thrift store.

It started so innocently. I needed to get new shoes on the Cool Whip. She needed to see if a certain top was available at Victoria’s Secret. Both were available off of Tyrone Blvd.

So off we went, dropped Cool Whip off to be shod, and to while the wait I says, ‘Hey, there’s a thrift store right across the way,” in response to her comment she wanted a better office chair for our office.

We-he-hell.

It so happened that particular thrift shop was going to close temporarily, so they were doing a fill-a-bag for $3.00. Lemme do that pheonetically: dey was doin’ a fill-a-bag fo tree dollah. I says, bet!

If you’ve never experienced the adventure of robbing somebody, the next best thing is to do a thrift store fill-a-bag. The goal of such an operation is to be able to put as many things in one bag, able to close the handle, and exit successfully with acquired things. And this is the standard market plastic bag, no tote bag or lawn bag, no. The bag that floats around in the street, the one you use to pick up your dog’s poop. Everything $3.00.

We had one main room and three side rooms to work. The cabinet was sold, but the jewelry in it hadn’t been, and ya’ll who’ve seen me stylized know how I commit to costume jewelry. So I sat there, took small basket after basket and offloaded into my bag. The thrift store manager, Debbie, made a face to indicate, ‘Leave some for others.’ Nah. I’m straight Viking right now. What’s mine is mine.

Gina found a nutcracker. You have no idea what kind of search that had been for her since she moved to the coast. So that just fueled her quest. More IMG_8993kitchenware, a fish-bird sculpture, a paintball mask, a weight scale, Pictionary, Scattegories, crystal dishes, a queen-sized duvet. You’re thinking, ‘she didn’t get that in one bag.’ Oh yes, Gina DID.

 

 

20131114_193612I went to work on outfits. How did a cozy pair of brown ranch boots just end up in the corner? Mine. Oh look, silk scarves from Italy. Mine. Cropped T-shirts that would make Miley Cyrus jealous. Mine. And since the rules were, the handles have to be able to touch, I started stuffing clothes in my kitchenware! A pot I picked up specifically for ramen doubled as a house for an evening gown.

They didn’t say the stuff on the wall was game, but I didn’t feel the need to ask either. So a poster of Daniel Craig as 007 has now been relocated to the opposite wall of my bed. Because…yeah. I also picked up a full dinner setting of steak knives, and some kind of knife that doubles as a manual chain saw. I’ll put that one behind my pillow.20131114_215039

We brought our haul to the counter, and I cashed out with $2 left. It was 3:54pm, so I recommended we celebrate by going to our spot on the beach and watching the sunset, because…at 4pm, they start the 99 cent beer until sunset special! This is why I have a degree in economic development, people.

But it gets better! We get to our spot, see our people, and our bartender says, ‘this round’s on me.’ To which, we got nice and toasty as the sun settled to the West.

We broke into a house afterwards, but that’s another blog for another day.