Let’s just go ahead and get this out of the way:
Yeah, it’s bad. I know it’s bad. People have seen me at work today, stopped dead in their tracks, started laughing and then walked away more times than I can count. More than once today, I’ve been asked if I drive a big white van that has “Free Candy” spray-painted on the side—by my employees. Obviously, I command with fear and demand respect in the maintenance shop. My hope for the end of the month was to look like Ron Burgundy, so that I could keep it with the rest of my goatee for a year, shave the bottom off for Halloween, and then go as the greatest newscaster to ever not-live. Or hell, maybe even go as Charlie Bronson. Instead, I’m thinking that if I grow out and dye my hair, I might be able to go as Adam Morrison—and that’s not a good thing. So, suffice it to say, I have one more reason to look forward to December 1st.
Here’s the problem I have with sobriety thus far: I’ve based my weekends on going out to bars for so long, that I have no freaking clue what else I’m supposed to do on a Friday or Saturday night. We went to a bar called Ground Kontrol Saturday night, which is the nerdiest bar in the city: good beer, and tons and tons of classic arcade games. Ross and I got to level 73 of Bubble Bobble before we ran out of quarters—that’s right ladies, level 73. You can form a line to my left. He’s being a good friend and not really drinking around me—but I can tell he’s not too happy about it. The only beer he drank was at Spyce Gentlemen’s Club, where there’s a drink minimum. Let me tell you how this bet as ruined me:
A hot, big-chested, nigh-topless waitress came up to me at the strip club and asked what I wanted to drink. I asked for a Coke. She said I looked too sober, and I then had to inform her that I don’t fucking drink. Never, ever in my life did I think that would happen to me. As a matter of fact, I think at one point I swore to myself that I would never go to a strip club and not do my damnedest to put away a bottle of Ketel One. I almost cried. By the way, going to the strip club shall from here out be referred to as “Playing Bubble Bobble,” as we told Ross’s girlfriend on the phone.
Let me ask you something: why is it that now, after I’ve moved away from Indiana and started a new life, do chicks back there suddenly want me? I have three—count them, THREE—girls who have made more than obvious overtures at me in the last week. When I lived there I was lucky if I had that many girls interested in me in a year. What. The. Fuck. This just ain’t right.
Sorry for the lack of an update yesterday. My day was occupied by doing absolutely nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be.