Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Drunk Blogging

When Drunk texting is not regrettable enough, there’s always this step. I shall start this blog with a hearty apology for all the misspelling and grammar errors that will fill this dark foray.  I’m sitting outside of Snug Harbor, blogging from my Galaxy II.  It’s been a hard week, for so many reasons and now I have this view.


Drinking alone is horrible, so I did not.  I went out with a friend who apparently had started drinking earlier, with his boss.  The life of a salesman, I assume.    Before I ventured to the bar and ordered a vodka cran I asked if he was staying.  if he would be leaving and I would be stuck drunk and sobering up somewhere unfamiliar.  He assured me he would not and I believed him.  I think that would have been his truth if not for how tired he was.  There were plans in his future.  A 6am date with a pretty girl and cars. He however did not see the call that interrupted a vodka soda.  the one telling him his grandfather is on his last days and his mother is on the road to modesto.  He had no choice but to leave me there.

Drinking alone is sad, and a sad drunk is a pathetic drunk so I went to my car and here I sit. I’m listening to Jeff Buckley.  He is crooning, not letting me forget that he has been dead for years, a midnight swim’s tragedy.  Right now he is singing “Dancing in the Moonlight”,

It’s three o’clock in the morning 
I’m on the streets again 
Disobeyed another warning 
Shoulda been home by ten 

How does he know.  I have no one to talk to right now, and I tremor after drinking. Weirdly, only when I am alone, like somehow my body knows I need comfort.  i bet Buckley tremored that night in Memphis.  When he jumped in the lake his body convulsed, but he dismissed it as the chill of the water making it through his pores, when it was an omen of death. Yeah, now would be a great time to turn the heat on in the car.

Ahh Mr. Buckley is making this a difficult night,

I wish I was your $5 dollar bill
Spend all your money, pay all your thrills
I wish I could be your walking shoes, step all over me
and take away my blues

I keep pausing here, I am attempting to call “friends”.  One after the other.  Amazing how few people are available once the sun goes down.  I have called out to a damn peacock. He only cawed.  Reminded me of my place in the Harem and now I’m back with you Mr. Buckley.  Anything to say?  What about disposability?  I am.  I’m the kind of chick you leave in a parking lot.  Take a scalding hot shower to get the scent of her off of your skin.  I’m what you won’t tell your buddies, at work tomorrow.

Things are only worse now.  How long have I been writing this? It must be at least an hour.  Oh no it is far longer.  ha an  hour and 4 minutes according to my dashboard clock. i should have called this dashboard confessional.  Tee hee.

Poor Jeff Buckley, he swam in the Wolf River fully clothed, and found his ultimate rest.  I will eventually swim in an unmade bed and find tentative rest to try this once again.

Did you say ‘no, this can’t happen to me,’ 
And did you rush to the phone to call 
Was there a voice unkind in the back of your mind 
Saying maybe you didn’t know him at all 
You didn’t know him at all, oh, you didn’t know 

Jeff Buckley

I will edit this eventually. . .

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