Writing while tipsy: An experiment for the disastrously unemployed
I cannot sttabliieze my head…and obviously can’t spell. I didn’t even finish my frink (amaretto sour). It is father’s day and the kiddies have gone home, the few lingering family members are out back talking about me and my joblessness….here and trhere. Or something like that. Everytime I walk outside: DEAD frickin SILENCE. “Oh honey we were just taling about you hehehe” (Yeah for real they were). My eyeballs feel fat and my nose is itchy. My face feels slightly numb and tingly. I feel all fuzzy and warm inside. I want to go for a bike ride but I think that counts as DUI. Right?
Sip, sippy sip, sip, sip, stop, stop! No, Don’t stop. Yes, Stop. Sip. Not stopping.
mmmmmmmm. lip smacking, pucker and amarreto. Outside they’re tlakning about all the jobs they’ve held. Yeahwell in my previous life I wasn’t a jobless looser, okeay? I had a job I just can’t remember what it was at this moment. If I had a JOB to look forward to going to tomowwor, I’d be sober as a goose. Sober, as, a, goose? IS that making cents? I’d be sober, and perhaps getting ready for bed. Oh sweet liquor. You don’t wash my worries and sorrows away, you just make me really incoherent. One more sip, if I can find my glass, my hand is fumbling around dmy desk, its dark. I can t get up to open the light or I’ll trip. Then everyone will know that I had a drink and why I drank. Cause I’m jobless, and I’m a loser babyyy.
There are maraschino cherry stems allover the place.
someone give me a pension fund.
and a company car?
