Better Keep A Bottle Opener Next To The Bed

Start tying one on about lunchtime. Throw back a few pints of the pale ale and a pizza, at the brewery and start to think yeah this ain’t so bad. Fuckin hot though, like forty degrees hot, but the rain clouds are building and occasionally bursting. Short slow walk to the bottle shop after, although this Italian grocery has nothing to offer but beer and wine. Really want a bottle of scotch. Yep, unfortunately the closeset thing is wine. Not my style. Look at the bottles, and can’t tell the difference between a cab and a sav, a vino and a pinot. I just want a red. Gotta hold the bottles up to the light to see what’s in em. Don’t want a white, way too thin. Why do they have to fill em all the way? This one has a red lid. And it’s a screw on. Bonus. Nine bucks forty nine. Must be top shelf? Get it, and bottles of random organic German pilsner. I need something for dinner, but my arms are full. Forget it. Pull out the profits from my first book sales, thirty bucks. Home time.

Four thirty and unscrewing the lid. Put on Bad Lieutenant, not the corrupt coke cop movie, but the album featuring Joy Bernand Division Sumner. A couple of the tracks are cool, but it moves into too mellow territory. I need big bold sounds. Put on some Arthur Brown. Covers of classics, and white funk delight. Glasses washed out with steel wool, a stained wine and a short glass. The Pils pops it’s head everywhere on the carpet. Not to worry, another quick grabbed mug catches most of it. On my shirt, that’s cool, still get a couple more wears out of it. Now I’m not gonna get wild tonight, gotta work tomorrow, but I’m already smoking hard and that’s a bad sign. All a man needs is alcohol, airconditioning and freedom.

I Put A Spell On You pops up and it’s time for another wine, beer cause this song brings out the best, worst of whoever performs it, listens. More red drops on the carpet. Damn. It is my resolve not to clean up till I have to move. It’s been two months now, and another month or so to go. The roaches are already up to their necks in junk. But damn them, they can drown! Try to call a number that’s been disconnected. No good. Then an overseas telemarketer calls me. They must sense loneliness. I hang up, slamming repeatedly. Only this morning I was so nice to another one who called me. I have become a monster! Calm down. Breathe and inhale some more of this sacrificial grape juice. Drinking it tastes like a blown lobe headache. Should I put the bottle in the fridge or leave it out, and aren’t you meant to air it or something? Forget that, it’s going in this fridge, just like it’s cousin, Ribena.

There you go.

And after another smoke I remember I’m tying one on.

Ain’t nothing like it.


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