Holes

I tried all week to sit down and write something worthwhile, but it wasn't happening. I've got a piece about some conservative piece of shit who told me that I should leave the country because I'm as liberal as I am, but I don't know when that's going to be up. My story of St. Patrick's Day is mired in sloppy drunken memories that I can't piece together in a way that makes it seem any less foggy then it does in my head. Fucking drinking...

The parents get back today, which should be interesting. I dig when they go away; it's like my little vacation from everything when they're not here, and I don't mind. Four days of drunken debauchery is enough for me though, and I'm ready to calm myself down and start working out again. Trying get my shit straight from being blitzed for a week is like climbing out of a big hole in the sand....you think you're almost out, then the shit slides right back in on you, and you're back where you started.

Although I do have a story on the subject of holes that I thought was pretty humorous. The other day, I had to dig holes in the back yard for the coming addition to the house, and they were about 12'' wide by 3' deep. Of course, this quickly reminded me of why I want to graduate college and get a decent job: I fucking hate digging holes. Anyway, of course, I they're about 2 feet apart from each other, and they effectively close off one side of my yard, being as I didn't want to take the chance of falling into them when I wasn't paying attention (which can be quite frequent). This works fine when I'm sober. When I'm drunk, it fails miserably.

I don't know why I was over on that side of the yard, but then I don't know why an open beer was in my center console of my truck on the morning either, so I guess it was just that kind of night. But, sure enough, I'm drunk, bullshitting around the yard because we started a chiminea fire, and I looked away from my steps at the wrong time. *WHAM* Right into one of those fucking holes. When I hit the ground, the bottle in my hand shattered, I slammed my elbow onto a rock, and I just lay there for a second, incredulous not only at my shit luck but also by own incredible stupidity.

In my mind, I just kept saying to myself, "You asshole. You dug these holes. You knew where they were. And yet, no one falls into them but you." I'm sure that's saying some kind of metaphorical bullshit about my own life in general, but I'm going to ignore that idea because I just thought of it.

My elbow is still sore, but the cuts are healing on it. My jeans got fucked up pretty bad, my shoulder was bruised, and I was sore in my ribs for a bit. It was worth it either way; this weekend was fun, and I've got yet another drunk story to tell. It'll be good to have people in the house again though, because I don't like when things are so quiet all the time.

But when the contractors start that addition, I'm going to shake my head and smile when they fill those holes up with concrete for the footings. Ohhh, the drinking life. What a trip.