Friday Night Drinks

I wrote this on Friday night on the way back from work so excuse the "I"'s as they're from Friday.

Tonight, we had drinks after work.

Justyn, Sarah, Nat, Tim, Jake as well as our usual drinking buddy of Nat's friend Laura.

And I would be writing about it while smelling the smoky cotton smell on my wrist if this bus wasn't so god damned bumpy.

I mean fuck, you should see this writing.

Right now, I'm sitting in the bus on the way home with some dickhead guys who are chilling in seats and looking around at the bus as if they owned the place.

I dare not fall asleep lest I wake up without my nice hat.

I'll be home soon anyway.

Home where my brain will linger on the same topic while I turn on my computer, feed the cat, take off my shoes, take off my socks. My brain will analyse the night and catalogue every word I spoke at drinks.

Frankly, it's all very relative and yet it's not at the same time. 


Click on this murky inner-city landscape if you want to see it bigger!

The bus goes up Oxford St. and speeds on by happy people, smart people, sexy people, fragrant people, dumb people, drunk people, and then all manner of white, black, red, yellow, blue, green purple, ultraviolet, sad, glad, bitchy, snitchy, simple dimpled motherfucking people who can all go through life without their brain needing to replay everything you just did in exciting Technicolor while giving you a blow-by-blow summary of everything else you did wrong.


I don't think I did anything wrong today. But I do know what I didn't get.

And it's that simple thing that I didn't get which continues to haunt my disillusioned self every time I come back from "a night out".

It's not about the sex, though I can see why many would think it is: I'm male, a Scorpio, and a frequent masturbator.

It's not about the hook-up: I wouldn't even know how to flirt or how to interpret flirting if I tried.

It's about the kiss: it's like a toy I never got to play with in high school. I still don't experience it now. The concept of random thoughtless tongue-literally-in-cheek is still mostly foreign to me and I never wanted it to be.

And while it may sound childish, man-beating-his-chest, and overall pointless behaviour to you, my brain seems to force it on me in a manner not dissimilar from Bart of Lisa Simpson talking to their brain as if it's another entity altogether.

I'm not quite sure where I was headed with this tangent so I'll just try and reconstruct myself…

Friday Night Drinks

The office had drinks and while most people – you, them, anyone else – can have the drinks and go home happy, fulfilled, and at least in the early stages of intoxication, my brain operates on a slightly different frequency.

It might have been because I was tired and was beginning to see things as blurry, but I just didn't care much at the end for sitting in a pub or a club pretending to give a damn.

I am not a pretender.

I am not part of The Pretenders either. As a result, I will not walk five hundred miles.

Still, I am not a pretender. I gave up mostly on that aspect of my life long ago when I felt too much lying was a little pointless and tedious.

So in the beginning of the night, at the beginning of the drinks, when I was just socialising with work colleagues about work, TV, music, and random dickheads, I was being myself.

But as the night wore on and our group became 3 plus me, I began to care less. There was less for me to talk about and more in exchanged to drink, and while you might argue that "more to drink means more possibilities for that random kiss you just mentioned a few paragraphs ago," I of all people know that that's a load of crap and that combined with my tiredness from the duration of the week, I should probably go home.

So after the four of us had a carb-filling Macca's meal, the others walked to a pub while I meekly said "later" with no one hearing me.

I stood there outside of this McDonald's Restaurant knowing I'd said "goodbye' while the rest of the group walked away. I wondered if any of them had realised it. 

A minute or two later, one did and they turned around and waved. I waved and walked off.

As my pen begins to run out of ink and I recant the night in some randomly poetry nonsense that can only be joined together with a reasonable apprehension of everything & nothing and a bourbon on the rocks, I realise that more than anything, I've left something out.

Tim – who can be found here attempting to add his own injection of celebrity gossip to the greater orifice that is the world wide web – seems to have taken it upon himself to get me laid, and in doing so, has arrived at a pick-up line for me to use when I'm out.

Are you ready?

*ahem*

Hi. My name is Leigh and would you like to touch my Wii?

Oh yeah. Tim's da man.  I am so getting action nowww.

Posted in ...and Everything, Life, Random Nights OutTags:
1 Comment
  • Anonymous

    Leigh dearest!!! I worry sometimes???

    11:44 pm April 14, 2008 Reply
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