Drink in the New Year

I rang in the new year with the usual traditions. After work, I went to a friends house, drank beer, made some jokes nobody got, drank beer, ate shrimp and Velveeta, drank beer, drank grape schnapps, drank champagne, watched the peach drop, and drank beer. Then somebody brought out the oregano.

My pizza has been without oregano for about five years, partially because my pepperoni has been perpetually looking for a better job, but mostly because it makes my cheese slide off the slice. After a few pinches of oregano, my memory span drops to about five seconds (I’m not exaggerating). The last time my pizza had oregano, we sat around a hotel room watching Jet Li’s Black Mask (sort of a poor man’s Batman), and I had trouble following the plot. My friend insists we actually had the following conversation.

Me: Do you remember that guy we used to hang out with?
Him: Yeah.
Me: …
Him: What about him?
Me: Who?

So, why spice up my life last night? Two reasons: I’m no longer under the strain of looking for my next position and, more importantly, I was drunk, which excuses everything. When the oregano took hold, the night turned into a never ending series of snapshots – somebody leaving, watching the space heater heat a space, trying to eat the pest strip, and propping myself up against the washing machine. When I sobered a little, I found myself admiring all the tools lining the garage wall and wondering which I would like to use in a random killing spree. I was leaning towards a combination of tree saw and garden spade, but I had to use all my concentration at that point to remain upright. Oh, well. Tomorrow’s another day.

Back home again, feeling my usual after party feelings: strange emptiness, hollow with a side order of guilt. Gatherings always leave me feeling as though I’ve just robbed an orphanage. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have more of a social life. I’d have to kill myself.