Trippin’

Today I took a little tumble in the liquor store. Literally. You know, I’ve spent enough time rambling about my stupid life on the internet that I just about had myself convinced that I couldn’t really be embarrassed anymore. Ha. Nothing like a good old-fashioned falling down to pour a nice little cocktail of humility and shame over your head.

Still, it made me laugh. Once you recover and move far, far away from the epicenter of the ordeal, you can’t help but imagine how you must have looked to everyone else. First, to your shopping companion, who’s turning to say something to you, only to realize you’re not there anymore; you’re splayed on the floor with your knees spread jutting in opposite directions, your torso hovering awkwardly above the linoleum as you grasp for something, anything, near you, a look of pure terror on your face. Then there’s the people behind the counter, who, just a split second earlier had been nodding to greet you upon your arrival to their fine shoppe and suddenly see you drop out of view, as if plummeting through a trap door, thoughts of lawsuits flashing through their heads.

Of course, no fall would be complete without The Save.

“Wow, that’s REALLY slippery!” you might announce as you try to right yourself and carry on with your shopping, which hadn’t even really begun because you had just, JUST stepped into the store before gravity and the rainslicked floor joined forces to suckerpunch you. But everyone just gives you that wincing look of pity, the one that barely masks their desire to laugh. I know that look because I can never get it quite right when I witness someone fall. I usually guffaw before thinking. It’s nothing personal; I’m just twelve years old and pratfalls greatly amuse me.

So, yuk it up, chumps. I’d laugh at you too.

Good god in heaven, I’ll just go ahead and say it: It’s been one of those weeks. One of those weeks where your brain is a cord of wood and the world is a flock of woodpeckers just fucking going at it, so fast they’re in slow motion, boring holes in your consciousness, rattling your eyeballs, and making you want to scream the loudest scream that has ever existed.

Sounds dramatic but it’s not, because everybody has had a week or two like that. Maybe a month. A year, if you’re real unlucky.

I thought I was going to fucking choke someone Wednesday night. I felt like the Hulk, only not quite as chartreuse and way more passive aggressive. I don’t know where all that bile came from. Some of it carried over from the weekend, which was not altogether bad, but had its moments of anxiety and anger. Some of it came from the phone call I got from Phil early this week telling me that Felix is really going downhill in his old age and we need to think about the near future, when he’s going to either suddenly die or get sick and have to be put down. Sprinkle some guilt for being the deadbeat parent who only sees him every other week or so. Add some frustrating requests at work that will, of course, get worked out in due time but that still stress me out. Fold in the sight of two failing/ailing long-term relationships in my friend group/family, both of which came to a head very recently. Toss in, for good measure, a hunk of anxiety about the year being officially half over and my twenties eclipsing fast and my general uneasiness about exactly what any of that means and why I feel so compelled to worry about it incessantly. Garnish with a filthy apartment and an empty cupboard. And what do you get? A pissy-ass bitch pie.

What is that sound? Is it the wahmbulance? Good, because I called it three frigging days ago.