04-20-2008, 03:17 PM
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ZU Angels... back in black.
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Re: Damned Drunks (Altamira)
I wasn't planning to end up here today. I guess that's the whole thing with alcoholism, right? You don't plan for this crap to happen, really, but you can't help yourself. It's a crutch. You reach for the bottle.
The bloody headache just wouldn't go away. I tried aspirin, tried resting, tried the massaging your temples deal. Every sound was still like a rusty saw across the surface of my brain. Then an idea sprouted--or rather, it was something more like an impulse. I remembered this bar. My feet walked down the hall to this place all on their own; they were steps long remembered. I'd come by this way after a long day of teaching, fed up with students and the Dome in general, and forget my problems over a couple dozen shots of tequila.
It was somewhere where no one gave a damn who you were. Teacher, woman, whoever--they'd serve you all the same if you had some bills in your pocket. Once in a while, some idiot would waltz in, but more or less, you could sit back and insult people all you'd like, and all anyone would ask for was another coin for the lamp you'd broke.
Today, I was on another rambling rant, this time about boots--the tequila and I had decided that something about them didn't make sense, the way they could never decide on one way to look, like they had someone they were trying to hide from.
"Some go 'round bein', bein', bein' tall," I announced to the world in general, " 'n some not tall, and they squeak, like theys whisperin'... see-crets."
I whirled around in my stool to some poor unsuspecting sap who had a look as friendly as a bear-trap. It clearly said; don't talk to me. But in the mood I was in, I didn't need any encouragement. " 'N then, then, then there's botas pretas, y botas marrónes, always in diff'rnt shades like they don't want you to, to...know their identi-whatsit. Identity."
I slapped the guy companionably on the back and held up my glass for another shot of tequila. He grumbled, and tried to turn away from me, but before either of us knew it I was putting an arm around him and busting out into the chorus of "These Boots Were Made for Walking".
When he didn't join in like everyone else had, I mumbled some curse and my elbow flew up and caught him in the gut, knocking him off his seat. "Don't be a, a, a arse, alright?"
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