Intervention in the key of Amputation

The whirlwind that was a few weekends ago was a defining moment of "this is your life...." Friday afternoon I was biking back from the liquor store with a 15 pack of beer, a back pack full of flippy cups and eggs, and high expectations. The superhero/villains party went of without a hitch, Unless you consider a naked man, the whore who stole Christmas and a costume flashback a hitch. After spending twenty-five minutes hanging lights in the tree that is growing through the middle of my porch, and gluing my eye shut while applying fake eyelashes, falling down the stairs looking like I was running late for a Kabbalah luncheon with Ashton, Demi and Madonna I realized that I should have probably not smoked that Louisville slugger-sized joint.

Madness kicked off quite late in the evening. In a matter of minutes the familiar scent of marijuana and campfire was filling the air, and I found myself surrounded by both the most important people in my life and some of the most brilliant fillers in the world. Within a few hours, flippy cup had been the activity of the night and Chris came around with Chief Hardbody's vest followed by belt and pants-there was now an instance of indecent exposure at the party. Hilarity had arrived, and debauchery ensued.

Thankfully the cops did not arrive to this house party, it would have been terribly difficult trying to explain to officers why these drunkards were all decked out in superhero/villain costumes.

There have a been all too many foggy flashback nights of tippy train wreck lately, a fact that is sometimes terrifying. There have been several instances in which I have had to not only reminded, but actually informed of things I said or done on the eve before. Most recently was my latest appearance at the gay bar. Apparently after having a "loud conversation" with the kid I suggested that nothing I felt in regards to him mattered anymore because "Oatmeal returns in six weeks and then I am back to part-time." After collecting my jacket from coat-check I participated in a very awkward and inappropriate dialogue with coat-check-girl.
Ryan: "Thank-you lesbian"
Coat Check Girl:"I'm not a lesbian"
Ryan:"Yeah.... yes you are."

Twenty seconds later I had apparently stumbled across someone using words I thought were too big for him to be using in a conversation that I had decided to eavesdrop on. After asking buddy to spell the word to me, the kid quickly (read thankfully), hailed a cab and had us whisked away from what I am sure was a hot mess moment courtesy of a very drunk, stoned, emotionally exhausted text book passive aggressive.

I wrote a letter on Sunday. It was basically my side of a conversation that I had been trying to have for several months now. I admit that I was quite nervous about delivering it, but it felt right. Things between the kid and I had me a nervous wreck, and I had to learn to be objective about myself in order to step back and dissect the situation as is.
I was wrong about one thing though, I thought I had anticipated his reaction, I was wrong.
I thought he would take the chance and run for the hills, I figured he would then have the excuse he was waiting for, I assumed that he was selfish enough to believe that I was destroyed and he had finally won the tug-of-war over control.
Instead, he made several very strong arguments, one very great excuse and charmingly albeit conceited informed me that people usually give him a second chance. Something about him seemed so innocent again, and I remembered the very first time I saw him. I was feeling really good about hearing him out, then I had to go and fuck it up.

6 hours later and I had already downed several hand grenade shooters (consisting of an ounce of mandarin vodka, and ounce of jagermiester and a third of a can of redbull), eight 20 oz pints of beer, a 'warehouse' sized Caesar and half of a joint. Everything was completely fine, I was convinced that I had been over-reacting, I wasn't all that mad at him anymore and I was having a blast. But one by one the bricks of that wall came crashing down, and at the eleventh hour self-control checked out on me. I slammed the cab door, pissed off to have been leaving alone and begin the textually active shock and awe campaign. I said things that I didn't even actually feel and called him nothing but a tease and an illusion.

These are not times for the weak of heart. I find that whenever I feel most vulnerable I turn for the bottle or pipe and try to distract myself with the illusion of being high n drunkin'. It had kept me upright for years, so it must in fact be my crutch. Aside from the financial impact, headaches and hang-overs there are so many things that go wrong when I am on the sauce and herbs.

1) Making contact.
It used to be just a drunk-dialing. Everyone has done it at least once. After a few glasses of courage you get the nerve to call the unlucky and usually sleeping son of a bitch that you feel you have unfinished business with. Liquid courage even gives you the ability to speak 'truths' as you see them, with beer goggles and blood-shot eyes. But now it's so much easier to be a complete jackass, you don't even have to worry about who is going to be answering the phone. Drunk-text, drunk-email and the ever popular drunk-Facebook. Things hit an all time high (or low) for me when I wrote a letter and mailed it while still drunk... hopefully when it arrives to that person in a week they have prepared for the insanity packed envelope. Come to think of it, I should have included a joint to soften the blow.

2) Confrontation.
I am infamous for my love of confrontation, and sometimes I can even come across as sane and intelligent while in the process of debating and stripping down someone in font of an audience-think of the modern day Roman Coliseum. But add several glasses of wine and tact is so far gone that even my echo would not reach it. It has been said that I lack a filter between brain and mouth, at this point in the night it would prove that the vital part missing between my brain and razor sharp tongue is a connection all together.
For instance, the other day I was en route to Steak Palace for a night of steak slinging when out of nowhere I come across another pedestrian in the above ground network of walkways. At this point a normal person would have smiled a hello and continued on their way without affecting either of their days. I, on the other hand, was for some reason immediately distracted by what could have put any fabric encased appendage to shame.
"Lady, I understand that lulu lemon produces really comfortable garments, and it's great that you are obviously leading a very healthy and active lifestyle, but you are packing a wicked camel toe." REALLY? What the fuck was that? Come to think of it, I am surprised that her reaction was along the lines of a 'thanks for the heads-up', that could have ended with me getting my ass kicked by a very athletic looking, pre midlife crisis woman of the recession.

3) Confessions.
What is it about getting hammered that induces truth to spew from my mouth like it's going out of style? Everyone feels really great after they have confessed their sins in the booth at church, but no Catholic mourns their religion has as much as I have had become a complete martyr in many cases by deciding to tell the world a little secret.
When it comes to confessing shit to people, I tend to just open my mouth and let crazy fall out. I have not only taken ownership for evil plans that I have executed against people, but have gone the extra mile and explained them step-by-step to the alleged victim.

I took some time to review the journals, and I think that this is something that I finally understand. Jumping is easy, falling feels like freedom, but eventually you have to land and more likely than not it is going to hurt. Tonight while I was cashing out a friend told me that I need to stop wearing my heart on my sleeve, I pulled out my phone and re-listened to Lisa screeching "Amputaaaaaaaaation".

The full moon had ended again, and finally things are starting to be a little less fuzzy.