Monday, January 28, 2013

Romantic barf

Romantic Barf:
We went to Stacy's 4th of July party. There were good times and drinks to be had. Many drinks for you to have apparently. I didn't think you had that many until we reached my parent's house. You and I basically lived together there, which was great that we could but, um, parents lived there too. I parked in the carport outside and opened the gate gently as not to alert loud and friendly dogs. I imagined my dog Luna's sharp bark fogging up the window and Harlow's fat blonde tail thumping against the gate and her short snout snorting in delight. Creak. No barks or tail thumping. Success! I started walking briskly down the stone pebble stairs to the front door. I'm used to this descend, but to a drunk person it may seem like a long and dangerous path.
"Whoa, baby you're going too fast for me!" I heard you calling behind me. Oops, oh yeah, here let me help you. I walk back up some stairs and you throw your big arm around my shoulders. Okay, there we go. Now we are steadily stumbling down. I open the front door carefully. No barks or tail thumping. You stagger into my bedroom and crash onto my bed like a fallen tree, limbs sprawled out. Your shoes aren't even off. If you were still at the party I believe you would have been the victim of sharpie assault to the face. Who knows what sort of penises (peni?) and swear words you could have woken up to.
Your face is smushed in my pillows and then you roll over and groan. Oh my beer infused lover. I smooth my palm over your forehead and say, "I think you should eat something. I'm gonna make you some food."
At the mention of food, a look of sweaty desperation crosses your face and it looks as though everything in your stomach is curdling in disgust and is ready to leap right out of you. You make some kind of awful garble sound and slap your hand over your mouth and spring up from the bed. Oh god. You almost look like your skiing towards the bathroom, but you don't quite make it there...
In the true spirit of Independence day you barf out fireworks onto the hallway walls. Stars and stripes all over the floor, the door, the bathroom rug, the side of the tub. You barf pretty much everywhere BUT the toilet. The bathroom, by the way, is right beside my dad's bedroom.
and oh my god as horrendously repulsive as this all seems, I am laughing, laughing, laughing. I am holding back squeals because you are this fine gigantic specimen of a man and you are uncontrollably bursting from your face like some foul pinata. Finally you reach the toilet and unleash some more of your stomach's rejected 4th of July BBQ. You make the most gutteral and violent sounds from deep within your throat and the side of your cheek is pressed against cold, white bowl of everything you've eaten and drank in the past few hours. Poor baby. I rub your back and keep laughing. I think of girls who might shriek in these situations or just let the alcohol poisoned suffer alone. It smells fucking terrible, but I love you and in its own strange way this is a special moment. You are vulnerable and slurring your words and hacking up an awful mess but I'm there for you because I know you would be for me. Let it all out to let someone all in, right?
Post a Comment