I awakened again at around 10 o'clock, happy to see that the sun was down. I was much more comfortable knowing most people were sleeping in bed next to their spouse, their judgmental eyes closed to the sight of my disgraceful life. But without any liquor with which to enjoy myself I was at a loss. I brushed my teeth and bypassed a shower again, then ventured out to the bar.
"Double whiskey, and keep them coming." I told the barkeep. With a couple drinks in me and my hands occupied with cold glass I could sound like a genius to the common bar patron. Confidence and intelligence. Lying about both could get me laid most nights. Before long I was in a combination argument/flirting session with an increasingly beautiful older woman. She told me I was insufferable, I told her she smelled like a whore, then we kissed like we were trying to eat each other.
"Take me home" she said. But I hadn't drank my fill yet and I was willing to lose her over it. She understood and let me drink.
I had no idea what ghetto we were in, but she lived there. She tasted like cigarettes and other men, but I was happy to taste. I decided I would never speak to her again when she made a big phony spectacle during sex, screaming like she had something to prove to her neighbors. "Hear that? I'm getting fucked! And you all get to listen to it!" She wasn't massaging my ego, she was massaging her own. And for it she would win even more rejection, as I abandoned her used-up, snoring body and crept past her sleeping kids to make my escape.
At home I ate some canned sausages and crackers, watched a movie about a sled dog race that ended predictably in an inspiring moment of triumph, then went to sleep hoping I would accidentally swallow my tongue. But I woke up in the morning, disappointed.
My phone showed three missed calls and two voicemails. Fuck. I forgot I had given the whore my phone number. I brushed my teeth and washed my cock in the sink, then used the toilet. Upon inspecting the bowl I was not surprised to see the shit was dark like asphalt, reminding me that my ulcers would probably get infected and septic one day from all the drinking. A less-than-pleasant end to a less-than-pleasant life. But I was no quitter. With any luck I could manage a more epic and violent end.
I listened to the whore's messages, deleting the one where she was screaming and saving the one where she was crying. I didn't call her back, confident that a woman like her knew the look of a man's back when he was walking away. In all likelihood she was familiar with being rejected since her father climbed off of her when she was nine. I fed the dog for the first time in two days and got ready for work.
I worked 8 of 9 hours I was scheduled for, smiled at my coworkers like I gave a damn if they lived or died, then hit the liquor store on the way home. Two more missed calls on my cell, but the whore didn't leave any more messages. I decided to only drink enough to get to sleep, then finish the rest tomorrow after work. I wrote a story about a young boy that killed his school bully with a broken bottle, then slept like a baby.