Friday, October 28, 2011

Trikes and being drunk

I made the bold claim to have conquered anxiety with the use of never-ending music. Just don't let the music stop. A few hours later, I was proven wrong. My chest hollowed out, and the expression on the inside of my face went blank and serious. Time stood still, and I hung in the balance. Only a light breeze. Only light external cues could float me around.

I bought a jug of wine. I stayed after work with my buddy and I replaced both of the chains on my trike. I changed the seatpost to one that is long enough, and I put a milk crate on the back. Chug, chug, chug. Calm, calm, calm.

We locked the doors and headed toward West Philly. My buddy tried the trike, and promptly smashed into the back of a parked van. Maybe wine after work isn't such a great idea. Nevermind. Of course it is.

He wasn't looking so hot. He really smashed his foot good on that parked van. We got back to my buddy's place, and I watched as he carefully slid off his shoe. Blood. I watched as he peeled off his sock. The nail was fucked, and that much I can say confidently and for certain. He thought it was broken, but my expert opinion was that it probably wasn't.

I left him to his various devices. I went to a sorta rowdy hardcore show next door. After more wine and beer and beer, I recognized that it was definitely time to trike home. I don't remember getting a huge scrape on my arm, but I do remember sliding down the steps from my room at 2am. I lost a lens from my glasses, and assumed it came out after a forgotten date with some pavement. I was quite elated to find the lens on my floor when I got up for work the next morning.

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