Writings of a Drunken Stone - 1. June 9th, 2023

Holy shit, this bubble bath feels orgasmic. Like, it compares to a thousand lava angels gracing me with their smoldering kisses across my… well, you know. My chest and face are being blasted with the breath of the icy product of my ever-working air conditioner. Is this a divine serenity that I’ve been blessed with?

The delicate task of balancing this notepad on my bathtub’s ledge is unfortunately sobering. It reminds me of the arduous day of work. One more vater will calm my nerves. But then again, so will a movement of my leg in this water. It ripples, blessing unsoaked skin and relieving the cells of any mental anguish. Fuck. Almost dropped my pen. Would I have become Paul Giamatti from “Big Fat Liar” or no? I hope not. I love French Bulldogs but I don’t want to look like one.

Let me vent for a while as I revel in my luscious environment… Who am I kidding? I’m sitting in an apartment bathtub with a Dollar General apple-scented candle. After a long day of sweating in an un-air-conditioned liquor store, piecing together and stocking two giant shelving units, I deserved to drink on the job a bit. Just three vaters, and I quickly realized I’m a lightweight. I work with the stuff. The more I handle it, the less I desire it. But tonight, I needed it.

Looking back on my scribbled words, I want to laugh aloud but Noah is trying to sleep. I’m grateful for him; taking me to and from work, only to wake in six hours to go himself. He’s a real soul, and I’m glad to know every bit of him.

The bubbles are waning, yet the water remains warm. A prune I shall be! I deserve it. Showcasing a store’s inventory to patrons whilst they revel in the comfort of their cars… How exhausting. Naming every Cabernet, Bud Light size and quantity, and seltzer we carry takes its toll. Then they ask about variety packs. “What flavors come in each pack?” I should throw my shoe at them. Like, damn! The thought of my footwear slapping their faces would be worth the cost of stepping on the cold and damp pavement to retrieve my Sketcher.

Noah just brew his nose. Poor thing. You would think he’d come in here to get a Benadryl from the closet, but no. After nearly three years of marriage, he still respects my desire to soak in peace. He’s a better man than me. I’d barge right in and raid the medicine bucket. Yes, we have a medicine bucket.

I love the word-art in my bathroom. “My aim is to keep this bathroom clean. Your aim will help.” Right above the throne. A true call to my redneck roots. Such a chuckle-worthy note that, I’m sure, many have in their own homes. Such a hunky-dory thing that gets a comical rise out of people. Kind of a “As for me and my home,” moment, like those Mayberry motherfuckers that have a vertical, “WELCOME!” sign on their front porch. I can’t complain too much. I have a couple of these signs, but they’re so much funnier. Such as, “As for me and my house, we will serve tacos. Salsa 24:7.” Oh, my God, I’m basic! AAAUUUGHH!

Eew. My feet are pruning. Time to get out.