Go to work wasted, go to work bombed.

The sweatshirt I'm wearing smells deliciously like stale smoke and boy's cologne. Manufactured synthetic ions that seep through the cotton and into my skin, provoking desire and a shadowed recollection of last night. Half a bottle of wine and six beer made me all the more willing to venture to the bar on a work night, and so I did, with a cluster of boys and a comfortable air of inebriation. Acoustic night. Syrupy voices backed with guitars and piano, the music pushing between my ears and setting me off-balance on the sticky bar stool. My eyes perched at half-mast as I peered around the room, looking for familiar faces, an old highschool friend to accost with lies and memories made merrier with the passing of time. I can barely remember the cab ride home, squashed in the middle, your fingers gently touching mine. I traced lines into your palm with one finger, keeping the rest curled around the soft side of my hand. Housing the vulnerable bits, hiding the warm spots, the parts of my body that make me human, the taught flesh behind my knees where I know your lips will never rest. Pretending I'm hard as a rock, unable to hurt, coarse and cold and resistant to pressure. Because it's easier, that's why.
I drove home from work today listening to NOFX and heeding the speed limit. I'm careful now, watchful for the white cars with telltale lights poking out of the roof. Blasted authority figures, always out to screw the little guy (girl). Just the other day I saw an SUV, black like a bad lung, riding the ass of a Civic, and I thought "I fucking hate tailgaters," when suddenly, flashes of blue and red spat into the air and the Civic pulled off onto the soft shoulder. Ghost car! GHOST SUV! Sneaky buggers, them.
Oooh, I stumbled across this gem the other night: www.angelfire.com/alt/impetuousyouth/index.html Had a real good gut laugh at that one. Oh, the good ole days. I want a band again so I can love myself pretentiously and make a website about all my personality traits that no one could give two shits about. I rock hard and my favourite food is pasta. You should love me and everything I love because I play guitar, and that's stellar cool.
I quit the herb. Haven't had any desire for it in over a week. I'm cherishing the remaining brain cells that are floating around up there, deciding to hop between heavy drinking and Brain Academy for Nintendo DS. I've noticed an increase in sociability and verbal articulation, and a decrease in stoner friends calling me for a random midnight 'sesh'. Fair trade-off?
Tonight I will retire to my twin bed of Hand Solo lovin' and get some much-needed rest. Tomorrow is the eighty's party, and I am sadly sans costume. How will I ever find something hot enough to stand in beside Don Johnson?