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Self-Portrait 3
... I punch out of the slave, oh, 40 minutes ago. I figure since I've got everything I need in my notebook, and I've been cooped up inside all day anyway, I'll walk down to Alabama Power and pay my light bill before I go home. So I walk down there, drop the bill and the check in one of the little envelopes they leave out for you, and walk back up to the apartment. I go across the street in front of the Jupiter and cut in between Tut's and the Houndstooth. I'm walking behind the 'Tooth, and guess what I see? At twenty minutes after nine on a Thursday night. Up on my left there's an SUV with the motor running and the lights on, he's pulling out so I better keep an eye on him... glance over to the right and theres some fred standing at the corner of the Houndstooth taking a piss.

Jesus Christ.

The words "Fuck, is it even nine thirty yet?" have not even left my lips when I glance back to the left... and standing next to (slumping against, really) the running SUV, as what I assume was her boyfriend looks on, is a skinny little blonde puking her guts up. There's already a nice chunky yellow puddle about the size of a dinner plate at her feet, and as I watch she leans over and pulls the trigger again. I don't mean retching drunkly and spitting up a little bit either, this bitch was flat out horking. Solid projectile stream with full splatter.

I stopped there, between them. I looked to my right; dudeman's still pissing away. I looked to my left; susie's still splatting away, and a voice comes out of the SUV, "You okay?" I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time, just to make sure I hadn't somehow lost an hour or six between work and here. Nine twenty in the PM.

Now, I'm not saying I don't sympathize. I could sit here and tell you I've never gotten so drunk that I whipped it out and popped a squirt in public; I could tell you I've never gotten so drunk that I powerspewed. But I'd be fuckin' lying, so I won't. But nine-twenty? On a Thursday fucking night? God's balls, have some self-respect. At least pretend that you have half a ruttin' ounce of something that even vaguely resembles self-respect. God damn.

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I certainly will not "pretend that (I) have half a ruttin' ounce of something that even vaguely resembles self-respect."

I'm so glad you're not a girl.

Damn it, I really gotta be better about logging out of Shane's computer.

But the statement holds for me, too.

Shane should get better about checking to see that you're logged out of his computer. You're an American, dammit; stop trying to take responsibility for your actions.

And my response of course holds, seeing as it was meant for you.

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