Where is My Mind?

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I have a way of cutting short a drinking binge.

By sharing it. My brother comes to meet me in Starbucks and I offer him a few drinks from my bottle. He takes up the offer happily, and drinks half of what I have. That's very good. Less for me. We sit and talk and I get an email. It makes me stop whatever the fuck it is that I'm doing to read and reply.

So, I tune my brother out. But that's quite fine, because he knows about these emails and how I react when I get them. He gets to reading and eating. I get to pounding on the keys. Simple. We have that non-vocal communication. I guess that's because he's my brother for years. He's my street brother, my home brother, my life brother. We've been with each other a long time.

My head is returning to Earth. Well, not to Earth like some would guess, but rather numb. I'm already feeling nice, my hearing is clearer, my mind is open and my brain has gone out to lunch. I'm open to experiences, new ideas, new ways of thinking. My thoughts race about in my head. I am lit like a candle. But the buck stops here. To get any higher up Jacob's Ladder, I'd have to change to rocket fuel. I'd have to change to the Liquid Oxygen of alcohol. Jack fucking Daniels.

This shit will put me into fucking orbit. It will send me circling the Earth holding my cock with both hands. This shit is no joke. And to think that I used to live on that shit. Yes, that's right. I used to live on that shit. And to give you a good picture of Hobobob on Liquid Oxygen aka Jack Daniels: years ago I had a four day vacation from work. From Thursday to Sunday. Or some such. But to continue with my story: the first thing that I did on Thursday when I got off work was go straight to the liquor store and buy bottles of Jack Daniels. Liter bottles. Now this is a TRUE STORY. I took those bottles home and sat down on my couch, raised a stack of porn DVD's on my coffee table and started shooting them into my DVD player. As people began fucking on screen, I started to drink the Jack straight from the bottle. I lined up the rest on the coffee table. This would be a knock them down night. There must have been four or five one liter bottles.

I awoke on Sunday afternoon. I'll repeat that. I went from Thursday morning with a stack of porn and a line of bottles before me, to Sunday afternoon, stretched out on my floor, naked as the day I was born. Spent bottles of Jack Daniels and porn DVD's all over my apartment, and to add insult to injury, miles of CAT 5 computer networking cabling was ran all over the apartment, and I do mean ALL THE FUCK OVER my apartment. I looked like I was caught in the midst of a spider's web.

I have other horror stories, but needless to say, this was one of the strangest. And that's why I realize one thing: I don't know what it is I'm fucking doing when I'm soaking my head in Jack Daniels. That's why I avoid that shit. It's the only alcohol that should come with bail money. In moderation it is an enjoyable drink, but outside of that, it's dangerous.

So the buck stops at Starbucks. A friend of my brother arrives, and I leave the two of them together and return to the Box of Nuts. Now I know, as I walk up the stairs to the dorm, that I will fail a breathalyzer as sure as sugar, so I'm careful right? I walk straight, sneak past Mr. Franklin and sit on the side of my bed, setting up my laptop and blogging. Everything is going cool right? Until someone's cellphone two way goes off. It beeps and beeps and beeps loudly. I put on my headphones and try to ignore it but it is gawdawful annoying. Now to make an announcement, Mr. Franklin walks into the dorm and Igor, who has been moved to Angels' bed, and Angel has been moved to the back, for reasons unknown, pipes up. But for some reason he is not heard by Mr. Franklin. I mumble: Can you take the damn phone out of here and put it in the tech office at least? Mr. Franklin stops right over my bed with his towering form.

"Mr Hobo- bob..." he begins. But Igor continues, this time clearly heard. "Yeah, why don't you take the cellphone out of here." By some neuron flashes along his limbic system, Mr. Franklin turns on Igor with the heated malice that he had reserved for me. "How would you like it if I took your cellphone, Igor?! You wouldn't like that too much, now would you?!" Igor pipes down, and I grow silent. It just dawns on me that all Mr. Franklin has to do is call me into the Tech office and have me blow into that fucking tube and shit's on. I bite my tongue even harder and begin to sweat. My shit is now cooked. I am out of character. A clear indicator of some exposure to contraband. Mr. Franklin wavers on two legs, I can smell the wood of his block head burning.

He turns his ponderous bulk around slowly to make certain that everyone got his point, and then leaves the dorm. I breathe a sigh of relief but I do not rest. Because I know that he can call me in at any time.

I spend the rest of the night on pins and needles while I blog.

It's my fault. I'll rest when I fall asleep.

Hobobob



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