dankrubis

Glass, gum, filters and vomit cover the black floor. The door opens, letting light and sound escape, screaming at the night sky. It slowly closes, keeping them both held captive. The ants have found my puke. They are distant memories of old civilizations. Almost obsolete in these territories, if it weren?t for assholes like me, spitting out gum, drinking too much, smoking too much, then vomiting all over the parking lot, next to my car. If it weren?t for our trash and death, ants would be extinct. But I doubt either of those will be in short supply. Don?t get me wrong, I?m not bitching and whining about a greener earth. Why should I give a fuck about what happens after I?m gone? This same colony of ants devouring my puke could devour my flesh not 6 hours after I?m underground. And goddamnit I hope they do. It?d be the first time I?d be appreciated by a community.

But those are wonderful thoughts for another time. What should be on my mind right now is that little confusing whore inside at the bar, probably letting another drunk fuck do a body shot from her navel. I have to find that happy medium between ?I?m sober, I fucking love you, I have no way of expressing it without sounding like a loser? and ?I?m trashed and have to puke and think about ants from an anthropological standpoint before passing out on the way home.? I?ve been trying to find this happy medium for over a year now. We?re not together, and we?re still hanging out, so, obviously, I haven?t found that happy medium as of yet.

So I?m usually puking and passing out every time I?m with her. Pukey Paul. My name's not even Paul, but that?s my fucking nickname. Funny. I puke every time I go out with you guys because I?m such an alcoholic. Great. I?m slowing killing myself to gather up the balls to ask out a woman that secretly hates me. Hilarious. I?m going to be dead at 29 because I didn?t want to find out that love doesn?t exist with this one person. Keep the laughs commin?. I do enjoy this state of mind most of the time. Makes me chuckle. Random fucks walk by before going into the bar, spitting out little witty remarks like ?looks like someone had too much to drink!? and ?man, I know what that feels like.? Do you, really? Do you think about the wonderfully adaptive strategies of ants and of killing yourself over the mere idea of love? And don?t start with that shit. ?Oh, don?t be a pussy, ask her out, grow some balls, what?s the worst that can happen?? Let me let you in on a little secret. Guys that go out with their big balls and ask out anyone that breathes and has a cunt? They just don?t care. It?s easy to go up to someone and ask them out or declare your love if you couldn?t give a shit whether they say yes or no. I?ve done it a lot and got laid a lot by chicks that I never called back afterwards. I had fun, too. It?s the guys going for the big fish that deserve the credit, whether they even put the line out there or not. They deserve the praise.

It?s been five minutes since the dry heaves subsided.

I think it's time for another drink.

It's a punch to the stomach, walking back inside. The lights and sounds hit me, questioning my worthiness. They recognize my sad features and allow me to pass.

They've allowed a lot of me in here, it seems. Sad fucks. I stand at the edge of the bar, absorbing all of its poison. There's a group of friends playing darts on my right. They couldn't be over 35, all of them, men and women, laughing, cajoling, heaving metal spikes at the target. They're visiting the glory days of our culture and they don't even know it. I hear the ants laughing. Do you know what they know? They know that little Judy could babysit for that six-year-old they accidentally had, and they couldn't be happier getting away from that fuck for a few hours to go throw sharpened metal at a multi-colored board for hours on end. I swear we do these things to make the ants happy. Well, along with killing ourselves over love.

This is the point in the story where I need another drink. A strong one. Because, from what I gathered from my glimpse to the right, I need it in order to facilitate the vomiting process.

I ask the tender for scotch. Johnny Walker Red, because that's my mood. I usually get Johnny Walker Blue.

The liquid sears my chapped lips, my dry throat and my empty stomach, bringing life. I force my eyes and ears to the right.

Elton John shouldn't be on a girl's favorite list. He should be kept to gays and overweight women. But he's not. He's good for all occasions.

My friend is singing karaoke, attempting to be as melodic as possible, and doing a surprisingly good job. The asshole is pretty attractive, sporting his own style. He's got a wife beater, followed by cargo pants and dirty, white tennis shoes. He sings:

"I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down the words... How wonderful life is, while you're in the world..."

This is directed straight at one of my two vices as of late... Stephanie.

He screams into the microphone and he blares out of the speakers. Stephanie leans against the stage, right next to the vibration. Like a river, his words pass through ever crevice, every corner, welcome, then gone. The walls shake, the drinks tremble. The air itself is hard to breath. Her long, black dress shakes with the lyrics on the screen, as well as her heart. Her nipples erect, her lips wet, her body screams.

I order another glass of scotch.

Then, everything disappears. A round of applause breaks the silence, as my friend jumps off the stage, hugging, embracing my vice. He walks over to the other end of the bar, with her in tow. Stephanie follows him, step by step, the hem of her dress lightly caressing the floor. Her body stops, next to me. Slowly her face turns, her gaze meeting mine.

This is it, I think. My chance. For the millionth time. I vomit my inhibited mind onto her.

"He's got a good voice, huh? I think he likes you."

Her lips rise into what I think is a smile. Her eyes dart around my feet. Suddenly the angel speaks, her words, her voice, her energy, penetrating my entire body.

"Well, any man with a microphone can tell you what he loves the most."

Our eyes meet. I can feel the blood rushing to all the places my body doesn't need it.

"Danny?"

"Yes?" I say.

She gently strokes my cheek.

"You've got an ant on your face."