Coming Home Quietly

It turns out that the more you drink on the weekends--the more money you are bound to find in your pockets before laundering.

The sober me waivers between tidying, organizing the coming days and daydreaming about nothing and anything in particular. (What will the weather be like tomorrow? Will the work week resemble an almost carbon copy of the previous? Where's that roommate been for the past few days? The sun never hit that part of the backyard before. Hmm, that grass needs cut.)

The drunk me enters the house "quietly" as to not disturb the sleeping beauties upstairs.
In this sense "quietly" means trying to tip toe but sounding more and more suspicious and loud. Usually followed by a stumble into a lamp, slam of the cupboard, fridge, freezer and microwave door or a combination of the four.

The climb up the stairs can seem like the Vietnam of balance games, I've succeeded this task hundreds of times in the dark before. Now, however, it's about the angle of the incline, the speed of your jaunt and length of my feet.
Slam bathroom door, run sink really loud, wash face, stare at myself in the mirror, wink, laugh and mutter whatever words of the English language I can string together to myself before entering my bedroom.
I then "Quietly" close my bedroom door. Unbuckle belt, take off shirt, drop pants with pockets full, look in mirror, wink, smirk do some drunk math in my head and take the next coma nap until morning.

A funny thing happens when I drink. The drunker I am the more I try to deny it. I've got it together a few times, but there has been many a time where I got carried away. Imagine it as that drunk friend of yours who swears they are not too drunk to drive and proves it by showing off their brick breaker score. Thankfully I am usually too tired from the 11 hour workday to bother staying up much later to cause any trouble.

Lucky for me my intoxicated actions tend to result in the finding of money, unwrapped chewing gum, my passport, the ipod and a pocket mirror (REALLY?) No.