drunk idioms

Posted: March 5, 2012 in otiose
Tags: , , , , ,

Come back to it.
Come back to it again and again.

Maybe it’s like an infected puncture wound.
Should I worry that I haven’t had a tetanus shot since childhood
when I’ve stepped on countless nails and caught skin on plenty of jagged rusty edges since then?

The newest scar is still red, although it’s been healed for months.
It will take years to fade from the delicate, translucent skin of my inner arm
on the left side.

Wounds are too cliché for this facsimile of simile.

Similarly, maybe it’s like a distracted page of text
trying to read and listening to the people in the next room instead.
Lacking comprehension of any words regardless of the source.

It’s superficial.

It’s a tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick tick tickticktick.
Not of a clock
but of an engine block cooling in the hot sun
after a hot day
in a hot parking lot
after a long, empty search around the block.

The same block.
All day.

It runs all the way through and bottoms out.

Come back to it.
Back, back, back.
Reach back down inside and turn sideways to the back of an overactive
series of thoughts that are septic at best.

Comforting in their self-destructive familiarity.

“Have you ever been drunk?”

I looked up from what I was doing, taken aback.
Is that a trick question?
You should probably ask me if I’m drunk now.
I’ll drink all of you under the table right now.

I heard one girl: 4 parts cola:1 part whiskey.

That’s not drinking.
That doesn’t even make sense.
How are you going to taste the whiskey?

One likes her “boxed wine.”
I don’t even like “good” wine.

“What kind of drunk are you?”

The kind with active taste buds that wants to kill them.


It depends entirely on my motives and mood beforehand.
I’m a dangerous drunk.
I’m the kind of drunk that will fall over from alcohol poisoning before standard signs of drunkenness emerge.
I’m the kind of drunk that has successfully distilled my own vodka without going blind.
I’m the kind of drunk that’s fermenting inside.

I’m the kind of drunk that decided it’s best not to drink.
For the most part, I abide by that decision.
I’m not a drunk at all. I’m a fucking addict.
Ask the rabbits.
I refuse to drink with people I don’t trust, which includes you.
That doesn’t mean I don’t drink, and it certainly doesn’t imply that I’ve never been drunk.
Some of the trouble I could have dodged.

Go ahead. Ask me what else I’ve done to myself
or have had done to me.
I think, given your odd question, that you’d be genuinely surprised.
Then again, it’s none of your fucking business, is it?

It’s strange to me, but the innocent, virginal guise isn’t an accident.

You’ve done more to help me accept my past than anyone has in a long time, because you’re so much like her.
I don’t know if I should tell you that or not.
Down to disquieting detail.
You’re so similar.
The shape of your lips.
The makeup line at the jaw.
Everything…except you’re a lot smarter.
You’re more beautiful.
You’re not even remotely as trashy.

Thank you for existing.

It’s hard to mute the past.

I keep coming back to it.
I wish I could have meant something to you.
It sits in the back of my mind on good days.
I sit with it knowing
the weight is just going to slide back down.


It always does on the bad days.
Usually it takes two years.
It’s taken ten with the only other person I ever completely trusted.


I’ve got seven and a half more.
You know, this is some kind of neurosis.
That fucking number.
That fucking meaningless number that somehow attached itself
as a toe tag identifier
tow the line – pull weight
Fishing for compliments.
toe the line – follow rules
You are not qualified to quantify a turn of phrase as incorrect.

Crawl back under your rock and die.

Out of sight, out of mind.
Remind me again later.


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