Friday, June 22, 2012

Sexy Plexi

There comes a time (or multiple) in your life when everything turns to shit. We've all been there. We've all wanted to paper-cut the eyelids of the person that muttered "when it rains, it pours" to you for the thousandth time. Fortunately, it only takes one event to turn your shit storm back around.

Now, I like to mix booze with any situation no matter the emotional severity. I understand this behavior is not encouraged, but you enjoy your yoga and quiet reflection while I chase these Jameson shots with equally regrettable hook ups. Although I am often able to control my emotions whilst thoroughly intoxicated, there have existed unfavorable instances involving drunken tears. To be honest, I wish I was heavily inebriated every time I cried. I think it would be better, not necessarily for all involved parties, but undoubtedly better for me. There are many an ugly cry that I wouldn't mind forgetting completely. But that is neither here nor there.

In the midst of a recent overly dramatic existential crisis, I turned to the bottle (what can I say - I'm a creature of habit). Fortunately, this time around, I turned to the bottle in the presence of friends. Real friends, too - not the "hi, we've shared enough shots and drunken rambles that if MySpace were still around I'd consider putting you in my Top 8 and regret it over my morning hangover" kind of friends. We were drinking at a college freshman pace, and stumbling around the bar - a bar that was used to this kind of haphazard maturity. The conversation had forgotten to take its Adderall, and jumped from bystanders' outfits to the body hair of recent conquests and back again. Soon we were joined by a mutual friend who was sacrificing all freedom and happiness getting married in a few months' time.

Mark was an all-around great guy and was genuinely concerned for my predicament. He offered slurred words of encouragement, reminding me that "when it rains, it pours" and "it will all turn around soon." Fortunately, I was hammered enough that his bits of assurance failed to negate my pessimism. He joined us in a few more shots, and the next time we made eye contact, I was the only one aware of it. He was in full blackout - what a rookie. I had never seen him like this before, and, knowing what I know now, hope to never see him like that again.

Here was a man that kept me hopeful. Mark was proof that the great guys existed. However, that night he proved that he concealed his real thought-processor behind the fly of his Vineyard Vines khakis just like every other man on the island. His optimistic garbles were now uttered within inches of my mouth while he held me in a tight embrace. If he had been anyone else, I would have thanked him for assisting me with the chore of standing - my four-inch heels were beginning to fight back from hours of sloppiness that I had, quite literally, thrust upon them.

Before the hugs and near kisses got any more threatening, I decided to get out of the situation the only way I knew how - tears. I embellished my depressed feelings in liquid form until one of my friends concluded it was best to get me home.  To no surprise, Mark volunteered to help her (he started by "accidentally" grazing her boob). The three of us stumbled down two blocks, and turned west. He kept insisting to my friend that he could handle it from there and that she should get herself home because it was so late. Once we were all inside my studio, it took but one quick glance to my friend to convey my "get him the fuck out of here" request.  While he was relieving himself (which happened to be in and around the toilet bowl as I lamentably found out early the next morning), she approached me with her plan - fake sleep. She encouraged me to hop in bed and pretend I had passed out, too overcome by my emotions.  I figured it couldn't hurt and hopped in my ever-welcoming bed.

It worked! He exited the bathroom to find sleeping beauty (more for me than you) nestled in her bed. They eventually decided, due to the aggressive coaxing of my friend, that they would head home. Once I could be sure they were out of the building, I got up to get ready for bed (read: remove all clothing, turn on the TV, and cut the lights). As soon as one of my feet touched the floor, my phone started buzzing. It was Mark. Didn't he see me sleeping upon his exit? I let it ring and continued preparing for actual sleep. The vibrations stopped and then returned just as quickly (under any other circumstances, these kind of vibrations would typically be welcome). I went to check my phone assuming to find "Mark" populating the screen, but instead watched as my friend's name scrolled across the frame. I picked up and we discussed how awkward the night had become, recounted our newly exacerbated cynicism in regard to men, and analyzed Mark's evening of descent. We ended our call with the typical "sweet dreams" and "love yous" and I got back to my routine.

I cut the lights, allowing the soft glow of the TV to illuminate my studio.  Soon my Netflix decisions were interrupted by the phone - Mark was at it again. I threw my phone onto my bed, removed the last bits of my clothing, and turned to hop into bed. Just as I was full frontal for the TV's viewing pleasure, I heard it. "Lily!" **bang bang bang** "Hey, Lily!" **bang bang bang** To my horror, I was not only giving the TV set a show, but Mark as well! He was pounding on the 4"x12" piece of plexiglass that was installed between my air conditioning unit and the existing window edge. It was the only space the blinds failed to reach. Standing on the street outside my building, peering through my first floor apartment window, his eyes locked on mine. I had no other choice - I jumped back in bed, turned to face the wall, and slammed my eyes shut all while Mark watched. I was lulled to sleep by Mark's incessant knocking and shouting...the amount of the night's alcohol consumption helped too.

It wasn't the worst thing I had done. Surely faking sleep isn't worse than faking orgasms.

Remarkably, things did get better after that.

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