I’m too drunk to jerk off. I want to; it’s the only thing that gets me to sleep these days, but the room is tilting and twirling with sickening velocity and I can’t find my dick. I think it’s somewhere under the mass of sheets bunched over my left leg. My right leg is on the floor, preventing me from flying off into the cosmos, grounding my body, reminding me that I still belong on this planet. Maybe I don’t, though.
I replay the night’s events in my mind: empty shot glasses stacked up on a sticky black bar, shared cigarettes with crimson lipstick smeared on moist filters, a brief moment of amnesia, eyes leering at lusty tattooed thighs under preposterously short skirts. I think I had fun, but I can’t remember. A girl clutched my beard unceremoniously and asked what it would feel like between her thighs. I think this is the sort of things an unattractive person would say. I made a drunk friend, which is to say I didn’t make a friend at all but instead bonded with a similarly desperate soul seeking to misplace itself in the din of crunching cans of Tecate and whooping, cockeyed faces.
The night turned. I remember suddenly deciding I no longer belonged, that my presence was no longer welcome in a den of revelry. I made a b-line for the door, stumbling over bar stools, upsetting drinks and patrons, mumbled incoherent apologies. I think I had friends there, but I figured if I could drink myself into an Irish stupor I might as well give an Irish goodbye. I burst from the entrance into an assorted posse of disgusted smokers whose conversations had conveniently found their natural lulls. They considered me with disdain, regarding me as if I were a pigeon on the sidewalk munching on discarded chicken skins. A drunk at a bar — the most natural of sights, but eternally disgusting when he can no longer deal. I clearly could no longer deal.
I felt a swelling of emotions then, which is strange because I thought alcohol was meant to numb and that is precisely why I embarked on this self-destructive path, but they persisted in confusing, disjointed spurts nonetheless. Regret that I never told my first grade French teacher to fuck herself. Elated with the knowledge that I am not a Cambodian orphan. Wonder if I could ever have a gay tryst with a HIV-infected man sporting an acid-green mohawk. Sad that I never pursued my love of writing inanity and, thereby, adding in a meta sort of way to the entropy of the universe. Confusion about the meaning of the word meta and how it pertains to the word metabolism. I also became the proud owner of a horrific stomach ache, which I told myself was probably ulcers and that I would die anon, alone, gagging on the stomach acids creeping up out of my throat like some infernal demon from a sinkhole.
I swallowed my stomach acids for the moment and trudged off in what I imagined was the direction of home, suddenly aware of the distance I had to travel to get there. I would have to find a train, find a way to pay for it, find sobriety for long enough to interact with the lucid passengers. I put my headphones in and, not unkindly, Thom Yorke reminded me that I did it to myself, I did. This brought a sad comfort and, like a movie cutting through the dull portion of existence, I found myself at home, in my bed.
But now I lay here and my organs swell in my chest and the room continues to jolt and jitter and I can’t jerk off. I try to pick up a book but the words are nonsensical. “You are permanent, but this life is not,” proclaims some character in a Chuck Palahniuk book that lives forever on my desk. What? What does that mean? The physical is riddled with confusion, what chance do I have with grappling with the metaphysical. Metaphyiscal? Meta? Fuck.
I consider standing up and getting water but the idea nauseates me and I press my right foot more firmly into the ground. I cry for a little bit and think about relationships I have lost and all the ways in which I am an asshole: selfish, lazy, arrogant, judgemental. Conversations from four years ago flit through my mind, snapshots of what I should have said. I drum up responses I probably remember from movies because it strikes me that I’ve never had an original thought. “You’re not wrong, you’re just an asshole,” I say to no one in particular, but intending it for myself.
I must have fallen asleep like this. At night I dream about being crushed by heavy machinery; this thrills me. I awake with my hair and my sheets askew and stalk off to work without making my bed.