I’m back, kids. Made it back to Austin this evening, about to head out again at five tomorrow morning: from the bottom of Texas to the very top in two days. I almost decided to go for it all in one day, but my princess (a.k.a. my good judgment) talked me out of it. Something about falling asleep at the wheel and killing us that she didn’t think was a good idea.
So I’ll be back in Canadian, TX for a few days, which—among other things—means that I more than likely won’t have any internet access. Like I’ve been posting with any kind of regularity lately anyways. I don’t actually know when I’ll be coming back, but hopefully I’ll have lots of exciting things to tell you after the holidays.
But probably not.
Anyways, let’s move on. I saw Carey’s last post, and saw that she mentioned her discontent about not being included in my last drunken rambling. Carey, Carey, Carey. Do you ever just sit back and think about how pathetic your life is when you’re even momentarily upset about not being included with this bunch of misfits? Poor little thing—you need some friends.
That being said, Carey is definitely one of this misguided crew, and yes—I do know her. Let me tell you a few things about this girl: she acts like she’s the normal one, like maybe she doesn’t have those spiders in her head like the rest of us. But you get a few drinks in her, she’ll projectile vomit with the best of ‘em. And crazy? You bet!
I used to say that Carey and Trey were the broken home I never had. I had several broken homes when I was a child, but I never got the full effect. I never got the screaming, yelling, cursing, over-the-top arguments in the middle of the night, the door-slamming, glass-throwing, computer-crashing insanity that makes a child cringe in the corner and wet the bed for years after that kind of thing is considered even remotely healthy.
And Carey, she’s the unstable, abusive stepmother that every healthy broken home needs. I mean, what’s a weekend without having some half-naked chick stumble through your bedroom at three in the morning, reeking of rum and cigarettes, crashing into shit and turning on the lights so that she can get a drink of water? What’s a week day without that, for that matter? Nothing, that’s what. How can you claim to have an unstable childhood home life if you’ve never heard anyone swear for twenty-six consecutive minutes with neither a pause for breath, nor a word that could ever be used in polite society? You can’t, you pansy.
Carey wasn’t abusive to me—not that I can remember, anyways—but she can be plenty scary, even when she’s unloading on someone else. I have to be honest here, though—there’s almost nothing funnier in the world than seeing a drunk guy scalded with half-cooked scrambled eggs. It’s even better when he has no idea why that just happened.
Don’t get me wrong—Carey isn’t all about cursing and egg-assisted violence. She’s pretty funny, too. As a generally rule, I don’t talk to people that don’t make me laugh, unless I’m calling them hurtful names or talking about the horrid acts I just got finished performing with their mothers. And although I’m sure I’ve christened Carey with a hurtful name or two over the years, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have her shining moments.
So there you have it, Carey—your inclusion.