Somewhere between Bell's Palsy and death
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
All this for one screw, and it wasn’t even good

Parts 4 & 5: “14 hours of unadulterated Zook. Ain’t that going to be fun!??”

If there was ever a time when I should’ve been blogging things as they happened, it was when she was here because I’m so over it, I’m like, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. And I probably shouldn’t, except I have to get to the part where Mer, on her last night spent with the town clown, got robbed of all but $40 plus all her sleeping medication she takes for Epstein-Barr.

Yes, yes she did.

After various and sundry stops (and after he yelled “Hurry up!” like a fucking fool outside my crib because it was a frillion degrees and I wouldn’t let him inside), they ended up at the bar we were at the first night she got here. During that time:

1) Zook tells her he’s running short, would she mind picking up the tab?
2) One of the guys who hung out with us the first night (who I knew from my days hanging out there but only remember as Scott B.) saw inside Mer’s purse (when she was getting money out to start paying for her and her “date’s” drinks) and asked her about her medication. She tells him their sleeping pills and that she’d give him a couple before they left;
3) Scott B. decides he’s not going to wait and ganks the entire bottle along with all the money;
4) Zook has Mer pay for his dinner at McDonald’s as well as a round of drinks and a six-pack to go before ending up back at the shithole;
5) And then, when they get back to the shithole, he tells her he’s “tired,” so what she came out there for, she wasn’t getting.

She didn’t discover she’d gotten robbed until she got back to my crib—all hysterical because she was so mortified by the whole evening—so we jump into the car at 2 a.m. to go to the Gary Police Department to file a police report. Somewhere around 5 a.m., she and I had a horrendous fight where I almost left her on 7th and Grant Street (that’s square in da HOOD, for those unfamiliar with the G.I.), and by 6:30 a.m. we were back at the crib crying how much we loved each other and so on and so forth.

The last day of the trip saw me working, Mer getting her meds and trying to figure out she was going to get back home with no money, and then this saucy little bit o’ business. She left Thursday morning at 7:30.

After all this, how many times did she get laid? That’s right: Once. And it wasn’t nearly as good as she remembered it.

Posted by Broad2:25 AM
It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

100 things
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Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.

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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].

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This explains that large bit of type at the top.

Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.


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