"You think any girl likes that? You stumbling around drunk? Why can't you just go out and have a few beers? Why do you have to get so fucking drunk?"
I sat at a bar on the highway last night, taking back shots of Jameson and bottles of Coors Light with my old friend who was in the Army. He's on crutches now, because he's as dumb a drunk as me, and somehow broke his leg wrestling.
I don't remember a lot about the end of the night. My nose hurts like hell, so I believe I got clocked, but my right hand is fine, which means I didn't get into a fight (as soon as I hit the air too hard, it swells up because of all the busted bones, so it's a good indicator). I am chalking it up to being drunk and fucking around.
"You remind me of Leonardo Di Caprio, you know, in the Departed? You've got that brooding thing..."
"Nah... I'm not as violent.."
The ugly truth is, don't expect anything worthwhile from me this week. This Saturday is the three year anniversary of my best friend dying. Although I am over it on the day to day basis, I am not over it in the greater sense. I get depressed in the winter consistently, and this only adds to it. I am tired of it. I am tired of doing all the shots for him, all of the stupid toasts with shots of Jagermeister. I am tired of seeing that blackened metal plaque in my head, the one that says his name, the reminder that he is dead.
I sat at the bar last night, a place that was crowded with people after a pretty decent show. I sat at the end of the bar for at least a half hour, alone, stewing over my whiskey and beer. There was an overwhelming sense of sadness that pervades me, where I don't wish to talk to anyone, and more or less want to be left alone. It's very unlike me, the social creature that I am. These days when I go out, all I want to do is fucking hit someone. I want to beat someone to the point where they lay bloody on the sidewalk, dripping a red puddle from their face. I want people to look at me and cringe, to wish that they didn't fucking know me.
"You fit the model of drug seeking behavior"
"Why don't you just give me a bottle of scotch and a handgun to blow my fucking head off ..."
She saw that movie with her boyfriend, and thought of me...
I don't know what to do anymore. People are angry when I come home furiously drunk. It's not a good thing when I'm just happy I didn't wake up in a jail cell.