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The morning after

Marta almost didn’t have a party at her house last night, on account of the paint fumes that were making everyone nauseous and Marta almost lose her mind. Her asshole landlady is painting the house to up the market value without waiting for the current tenants to vacate, which must be a violation of tenant laws. I’m advising her to seek legal counsel, but Marta’s an old-fashioned girl; she just plans on doing as much damage to the house as possible between getting her deposit back and actually moving out. If I were that woman, I’d be very, very afraid. Marta might be small, but she’s feisty.

The party did happen, much to everyone’s great joy. Marta’s goal for the entire night was to play spoons, and I sat in on a couple hands before deciding I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to participate and left to correct the problem. Spoons is a fairly chaotic game even among sober people, and the players last night fell into that category only if you expand the definition of sobriety to include the entire range of human consciousness. This resulted in the least functional game of spoons of which I’ve ever been a part. Confusion and yelling were the only rules I could make out, and several times we had to remind bystanders that only people actually playing can grab spoons.

One such bystander was Kelly, who successfully defended her title of Loudest Drunk Girl in the Whole World. On the several occasions that I told her that she was single-handedly going to cause the cops to bust the party, she grew playfully sullen and cowered in the corner until I apologized and encouraged her to be as loud as she wanted. It’s not like Kelly was the only person in the house shouting – nearly everyone was. I myself challenged Chris Baker to a fight loudly enough for people who didn’t know me to think I was serious. I think the essential problem is that Kelly hails from a long line of lumberjacks, and when she’s had a few drinks her throaty elocutions take on the nature of roaring chainsaws or the thud of mighty felled trees slamming into the earth. Marta can scream as loud as she wants and not rouse anyone farther than one house away, but Kelly’s bellow echoes the hearty “timber!” warnings of her ancestors, cries designed to split the air and carry their message throughout the entire forest. But her gusto came in handy for the faithful observation of tradition, the singing of “Cowboy Dan,” much like we’ve done at every party Kelly goes to since time out of mind.

Marta and I were both hung-over this morning, but I didn’t mind so much. On some base, evolutionary level, hangovers are useful: they remind me that I was stupid the night before and exact a painful toll on my body as punishment. If only I would learn…

This is bad. I dropped a porcelain bowl on my kitchen floor a few mornings ago and it exploded like a bomb, sending thousands of glistening shards to every corner of my apartment. I spent a while with a broom and dustpan methodically sweeping all the places I thought they might have flown, but I guess I missed a few; I just found a jagged piece on my couch, of all places, the telltale floral pattern verifying its origin. Who knows how many others I missed in obscure spots and corners? As I write this they’re lying in wait like ceramic vipers, anticipating the moment they’ll get to sink themselves deep in my bare feet. This is why calluses are a good thing.

Posted in Musings.

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