2005-03-29 - 10:15 a.m.

Inner monologue for morning of Tuesday, March 29, 2005.

Wha…Wher…

Ugh, head feels like it’s filled with a hundred angry bees. What time is it? The phone is so far away, I should really fix that goddamn clock. Don’t remember hearing the alarm go off so maybe it’s still early… 8:58!?!? Oh shit. Not again. When is this gonna stop David? When, you silly fuck?

Alright, alright, come on now. Pull it together; let’s do this one step at a time. A quick sprint out of bed to the shower, just be sure not to slam head first into any door frames or protruding furniture.

Oh crap, not the silly hop. (Author’s note: “Silly Hop” refers to the dance I find myself doing when I try to remove pants or shorts too quick and they become stuck on one leg, forcing me to “hop” to try and get them off) I hate the silly hop. I’m gonna crack my face on the toilet, I’m sure of it. I’ll have to wake up Stephen and ask him to take me to the hospital so they can reattach my jaw and then I’ll have to get fake teeth and a new Michael Jackson nose. Haha, Schamonnn!

Concentrate! Alright water on, feels warm enough, just gotta shower quickly and… and… oh that’s nice. Hmmmm. Can I call in sick to work? I have so much sick time. It’s not like they absolutely need me today. And besides, what happens to those sick hours I don’t use? They go to some sick day repository in the sky. It’s really not fair. There should be a reward or some payoff for unused sick days…Maybe I’ll take a vacation or two and use my sick days. Yeah, that’ll show em. Wonder if they would catch on…

Wake up fool! Enough shower! Holy shit, it feels like my hand weighs a hundred pounds. I can barely lift it to turn the shower off. This is seriously a struggle. I feel like I’m Superman and the water is some liquidy form of kryptonite, sapping my will to live… Damn you shower of kryptonite!

Alright, it’s over. The shower is off, the clock is still ticking, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.

Why am I backwards sliding? I’m eating right, working out, practicing guitar, doing all these healthy, lovely things, and yet I’ll be damned if there isn’t a drink in my hand 4 nights out of 7. I am better than this. I beat this once. I fucking beat this. God, I don’t even want to check my messages. I know I made some silly calls/texts. Some downright stupid ones. I hate that. Oh man I hate that. When I wake up the next morning, and my mind stumbles across a stupid memory of the night before and I physically cringe in remberence/regret. Oh I fucking hate that.

So why David? P.S. you put your undershirt on backwards dumbass. Let’s go with the suit coat and the button up shirt. Mask the hangover with a business casual wardrobe. They’ll never see through that. Plan B: Hide in cubicle all day.

Back to the problem at hand. C’mon man, we’ve had this discussion before. When the drinking affects your ability to get to work on time, then we need to re-analyze the situation. No fucking excuses. No comparisons, no “I don’t drink nearly as much as (insert name here), no shifting of the blame…but yes cranberry juice. That would hit the spot. Fuck. I just brushed my teeth. I’ll take it in the car. When did I brush my teeth? My mouth feels minty, but I don’t recall brushing my teeth. Oh wait, yeah I did. Fucking inner monologue. Hmm, socks might be a good idea. Alright, checklist time. Oh wait. Shit. Gotta do something with the hair.

Praise Allah I got it cut short. Longer hair would be a nightmare right now. Alright a little fiber, spike it up and bring it forward. C’mon eyes, focus. I’m a little blurry looking this morning. Seriously eyes, lets go. The rest of the body is coping, you need to do your part. Thank you. Alright hair, mercifully, complete.

Ok checklist. Watch, wallet, keys, phone…

9:12?!? Should be able to make it into the parking lot by 9:20. Christ. Please let me sneak in unnoticed… Please let me crawl up the stairwell like I’m invading my own workplace… please let me tiptoe across the front of the clinic and safely into my office/cubicle…

Cranberry juice. I should grab some to go. Ice cold. Delicious. Alright, not too much or it’ll slosh over the top when I’m driving.

Pedro the Lion. Quietly. Perfect driving music. Rants about corporate takeovers, infidelity, etc… Terrific soundtrack for my hungover drive time commute. Oh fuck you old lady! The speed limit is 30, not 15. Seriously, please die and swerve off the road. No that’s terrible. Aw Christ! Drive! And turn your fucking blinker off!!! Is there a farmer’s market nearby or something?

Should I feel bad about giving grandma the finger? I mean that’s somebody’s grandma. Has anyone given my grandma the finger? Haha, that’s kind of funny. I wonder how she’d react. Bamn! Here’s the finger grandma! Haha.

Alright, parking spot, parking spot, parking spot… bingo.

Last chance to check out the hair in the rearview… ugh, gotta work on the uni-brow. I should go back to plucking or something… I don’t need the ole Cyclops eye on top of all my other woes. Alright, here we go, cars are mysteriously absent which is nice, giving me a straight shot across the road.

Stupid sliding doors. Why can’t they open to match my stride? Why do I have to come to an almost dead stop and wait for them. Alright, 66 steps straight up. No way am I putting myself in that steel box of death they call an elevator. Crap, legs not functioning due to lovely combination of soccer match and single barrel jack. Seriously man, there’s gotta be a solution for this. I need to bear down and quit giving in so easily. And quit trying to drink the damn cranberry juice while hiking the stairs moron. You know it’s just gonna end up as a stain on your shirt.

Alright, coast appears to be clear, I’m just 15 paces from the safety of the cube. 10, 5, … Oh man, somehow I’ve once again skirted responsibility, score one for the poor and underpaid working men of America! I’m so punk rock. No, I’m punker than punk rock. I’m…

Hmm, I don’t remember leaving a blank piece of paper on my keyboard last night. Oh wait, it’s not blank, there’s a note on the other side.

“David – You either need to be here by 9:00 or call me that you’re running late. I’m not joking, and am serious about this. Ann, 9:15.”

Sigh. Barring the poor grammar, and unless the Ann 9:15 is some forgotten verse in the New Testament, I think this is a reprimand. And now reality has smacked me clean in the face. I need to do something about this. It’s becoming embarrassing. Alright enough. The problem is right there in front of me. I just need to grasp it, give it a name, and then wrestle with it.

First things, first. I should document this. And tell it just like it happened.

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