Thursday, May 31, 2007

LIquor Before Beer...'re "in the clear," beer before liquor, never sicker.

Is that right? Something to that effect, I think.

I stutter when I type whilst intoxicated. It's funny. I'll misspell the first or second word of the sentence and I'll keep trying to spell the word, key-key-key-backspace-backspace, over and over again, and then once I get it right I go sailing right around.

I hate spell check. I never use it.

I'm asking myself how that rhyme goes because I used my last shot of vodka for my screwdriver and I still need more to drink and I found a beer. I'm drinking because I got into a car accident tonight. At around 8:58 EST I was pulling out of Wendy's with a Chicken Salad Frescata and a Frosty for Tom (neither of which are on his diet, but he's been bitching for six days, I couldn't stand it anymore). The intersection is no more than 500 feet from the drive, I'm not going fast, and as I approach the intersection I look to my left and right, even though my light's green. I have a kid. Call me granny. And then suddenly, in the middle of the intersection, just below the light (which was still very green!) there is a black truck, one of those big suckers that's raised up a little bit, turning left in front of me. I slam on my brakes, he slows down, and the nose of my cars stops just a little bit beneath the truck's undercarriage. He then proceeds to RUN OVER MY HOOD with his right front wheel, then both his left and right rear wheels. The right rear wheel gets stuck in the corner of the windshield on the passenger side, and starts spinning. At this point, I remember screaming, because glass started to spew out all over the car (the song playing on my mix CD? Lost Without You by Robin Thicke -- my flavor of the month tainted before it's even been two weeks). Incidentally, I later found a tiny piece of funky windshield glass inside my shirt, on top of the little shelf of cleavage created by my Victoria Secret full support demi that they no longer produce.


As soon as I got done screaming, I drive slowly through the rest of the intersection yelling Fucking Asshole about 10 times before I burst into tears. And after that, I started laughing, because there were four people surrouding my car, asking me with these really worried faces, "Are you okay?!" I realized they were all pretty freaked out, and I stopped laughing and told everyone I was okay, so they'd just go away. I found it very unsettling to be the object of such scrutiny and concern, mingled with a little bit of that rubbernecker curiosity about accidents. Was it me, or were they disappointed there weren't any spurters, or bones showing? I remember my ex brother in law telling a story about seeing a guy on a bike spin out and his femur was sticking out. He had a look of both horror and pleasure on his face as he gave the gruesome details.

Then again, I have Slither on my DVR, and I fell asleep every night my husband was in the hospital (27 nights) to that bitch. It was like being rocked to sleep on a hammock in a breezy field of wildflowers, by Mother Earth herself. Who needs Calgon when you've got the mirth-inducing delivery of the universe's least-used resource: the underrated actor? He's got epic comedic timing. Nathan Fillion (I so want my own wikipedia page!) is the next Greg Kinnear.

No. No, no. He's the bionic Greg Kinnear. Stronger, better, faster....

Yadda yadda yadda, I'm okay. The truck dude has up to date State Farm, a clean driving record, and he admitted it was his fault. Suh-weet! I feel very lucky and blessed right now, but I am also getting blotto! I have a xanax I've been saving for months. I hoard pharumaceuticals. I consume them like ice cream; I deny myself for extremely long periods of time, and then I buy Ben and Jerry's Mint Chocolate Cookie. I only need to eat 1/4 of the pint, and I can put it away now, and save it until my next crises. Controlling emotional eating. Yeah, right.

Anyway, tonight, I deserve a downer. My whole body feels tight, all the muscles ache. Even my ribs hurt. And it was only me, slamming on my brakes. There was no real "impact." Crazy. I betcha the people watching at the cross street, which was packed, were just sitting at their red light thinking, "Holy shit!"

Is this what it's like to be a basketcase? My heart just breaks for people who have been in accidents that have not gone well.

Sometimes the world just seems so random it's cruel.

And in other news....have you always wanted to marry Scott Baio? You can tell him why here.

I never got into him. I always liked Potsie, and then when I was into the Tiger Beat posters, I was Matt Dillon and John Schneider all the way, baby. Cheesecake.

I really need more alcohol.


At 1:25 AM, Blogger Johnny D said...


At 1:31 AM, Blogger cadydidwhat said...

Thanks Johnny d...hug gratefully and sleepily returned. :)

At 12:02 AM, Blogger brokenpoetrygirl said...

you do know you're freakin adorable, sis, right? mmk. good.

i wish i could write my life like you do. with hyperlinks all ovah da place.

you're so a pro it's scary. berea scary *wink*

i love you! i'm so glad you're ok! i couldn't wait to hug you today once you got off the damn phone with tommy!

At 12:06 AM, Blogger brokenpoetrygirl said...

how bout i just left you this supah long comment only to realize i wasn't logged in and it disappeared once i did.

grrr. arghhh. i can't reconstruct spontaneity. it'll sound so forced.

i hate that. basically, i'm glad you're ok, you're so adorable and i love how you write, blah blah blah gretel.

see? so disingenuine. grrrr.

At 12:08 AM, Blogger brokenpoetrygirl said...

oh wait, maybe it will be there. i'm drunk myself and well, yeah. drunk moderation.

you have comment moderation thingy deal. me, too. cuz i'm smert.


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