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Post-Modern Drunk: Why I'm Going to Die at a Young Age
I can't keep my damn mouth shut.
I went out for drinks with people after work got out today at 2pm, and by the time 4pm rolled around, I'd had four strong frozen margaritas. After saying goodbye to my co-workers, I went home, barely sobering up on the train ride, and decided to call in an order to Whimpy's, one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall burger joints near my home, so it'd be ready when I got off the train.
At Whimpy's, as I waited for them to grab my order and bring it to me, I apparently attracted the attention of a trio of young thugs, all dressed up in matching 50 Cent gear and do-rags and more muscles in each forearm than I have in my entire body. They apparently took an immediate dislike to me, and one decided to express it as I paid for my burger.
"You a faggot." It wasn't a question. I'm not sure their education had progressed to the point they could handle anything beyond simple statements.
Without thinking, I simply answered, "No, I don't much care for assholes." I hissed the last word, picked up my burger, and walked out the door as they stood up.
I resisted the temptation to look over my shoulder as I walked the three blocks home.
I miss the days when the smartass things that could get me killed would come to me far too late for me to say them.
