Monday, August 24, 2009
John’s Going Away Party
Steve is doing lines off the table and pulling on my nipples, trying to figure out the gauge of the rings I’ve got in them. I can’t figure him out. Karl is a good guy, but can’t argue to save his life. He has failed to convince me that there is a God or that I should care about football. My wife is enduring everything with remarkable patience. She has stepped into the god debate with Karl and has alleviated me of that burden. John and I are both very drunk and he’s decided to pick up where Karl left off. He doesn’t necessarily want to convince me that any god(s) exist but that it’s at the very least possible. He argues much better than Karl, though I’m still not buying it. Jimmy is an asshole with no reasons or stories, so fuck him. He’s not compelling. There are two other guys here. I don’t know their names but they’re nice. One of them understands Sartre and just explained him to John much better than I did. It’s been a few years since I’ve read Sartre and he’s difficult enough to grasp when he’s fresh in your mind and you’re totally sober. All the whiskey in my belly has rendered me Sartre-proof. We’ve toasted a lot of things here tonight: Hunter Thompson, France, Iron Maiden, John’s fiancé, and my wife. Our conversations have sprawled long and wildly, like a stripper’s legs. We’ve left god, found art and music, semantics, then more booze, then my wife. I thought she might show all our friends her tits, but didn’t. I don’t suspect that she’s drunk enough for that. I think everybody’s a little disappointed. I’m still encouraging her, though. I wish my friend from work was here. I would proposition her again. I’m sure she still wouldn’t sleep with me, but it would be fun to try. It would be fun to make her mildly uncomfortable. It’s not a difficult task but it’s always rewarding. That’s how people grow. She’s a great person, very moral. Tonight, I’m an engine, all internal combustion and torque. I don’t drive. I’m driven.