06.17.11

I told myself tonight is a quiet night. The next three days are stacked. I was reading. I considered the similarities between me and other staggering geniuses. I put on a film I had been meaning to see since my brother took me to see Murder by Numbers in theaters when I was underage. Y Tu Mama Tambien. I found the title comical, titillating back then. Five minutes in, the door opens. Shit. He’s drunk. He mentions something about a piecepipe. His reference was to the sixer of Leffe Blonde he picked out just for me.

“This is Hertzberg’s favorite,” he tells the liquor store owner. The owner suggests picking out one of the cold ones in the fridge, a concept that never occurred to my roommate, who’d been eating well and drinking better for the past six hours. He regales of his tales Zellas and then Lottie’s. Having sense enough to go home, he stopped by a liquor store, thought of what little beer we housed in our apartment, thought of me and what I liked. He walked in with this six-pack, one that I’ve been fond of all week, and my first thought was: “shit. I’m not watching this movie tonight.”