@@@ --Exceptance-- @@@

Last night started off innocent enough. I had ordered a movie - The Secretary - off of Netflixs and was going to get drunk. It’s your basic love story: a masochistic and a sadist get together and then the sadist breaks off the relationship so the masochist goes looking for a new sadist but discovers she’s really loves the first sadist. They get married but not before you get to see her naked which I thought was a nice touch.

After the movie was over it was only about 7 and, since the wife was gone, I could drink all the alcohol in the apartment without having to share. So I did that. I also read from a book I’ve been reading. The book’s pretty damn good, but also pretty depressing. The combination of the book and the half bottle of Campari caused me to contemplate two distinct directions the evening could take. The first involved a classy suicide with a nice grammatically correct suicide note explaining how lame everything is and how I’m cashing out, blah blah blah. The second option was to pack a bag full of underwear and socks and not look back. I decided to go with suicide.

I was all set to take my handful of Vitamin C tablets and close my eyes forever when Heather called and said to meet her at the ice cream shop. I decided ice cream was a fitting last meal so I met her up on Polk and Racine. That ice cream saved my life. I don’t know what it was, I took that first bite of the sweet sweet candy and then, like magic, my head was hurting like hell - the ultimate brain-freeze. I fell to the ground outside the ice cream shop and began moaning and cradling my skull. I could not continue with the suicide until this headache went away. My nose began bleeding.

So Heather took me home and mumbled all the way about how she hates our marriage because she can not take me anywhere. Since I was in no condition to rebuttle I just let her get some things off her chest. When we got home, the headache was so bad I couldn’t open my eyes to make sure I was taking death inducing Vitamin C instead of life affirming multi-vitamins. So I gave up for the evening, chalked it up to bad luck, and had Heather put me to bed.

Once I was nice and comfortable, Heather went out to the kitchen to mix her sleepy-time Sex on the Beach. I was just about asleep when she came tearing into the room:

The Wife: You son of bitch. I leave for one damn night and you drink all the Kahlua and Grenadine. You’ll pay for this you will.
W.B.: I’m already paying for it, I drank all that Kahlua and Grenadine. Also, why is our apartment full of mixers?
The Wife: Because you wanted to make “fancy drinks” last Tuesday and we need “supplies.”
W.B.: Oh yeah. How’d that turn out?
The Wife: Pretty much like everything else. You made one Flannel Shirt Tied in the Wind declared it “rubbish” and then decided to invent your own “wicked good” drink.
W.B.: Oh yeah. And how’d that turn out?
The Wife: It didn’t. You took 10 shots of Vodka to celebrate your
impending wild success as a cocktail genius and passed out in the stairwell.
W.B.: I love you.
The Wife: Go to hell.
W.B: I’m already there. Hey have you read this book? I was going to kill myself tonight, but this headache made it impossible. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow.
The Wife: Maybe. Listen, I’m going to the liquor store. Want anything?
W.B.: lottery tickets.