bottle 8 or drunk in public

finally it happened. we emerged from our hibernation and left the confines of our home to risk arrest and awkward interactions in the real world. the awkward interactions actually wasn’t a risk, but more an inevitable fact. fighting cock and legs are a strange combination, each providing the ideas and means for movement.

its like your own little world. in public no one understands you. sometimes they get your jokes and sometimes they don’t. since beginning the fighting cock summer i’ve seen the number of playful death threats i usually make towards friends and strangers alike slowly decline. you just never know how someone is going to take a death threat and while it should be obvious that i’m joking, you just never can tell in this type of political climate.

it’s apparent that some motherfuckers need to grow a sense of humor. i mean my god, what is life? a 24/7 snooze fest of a funeral for a corpse that we shouldn’t give a shit about anyways? no sir. not for me. there’s the lesson.

also of note: in the real world last night i saw my friend flick in the midst of the haze and he mentioned that he was a follower of this report and i told him i would fit him in somehow. i swear to god that i had this really clever fucking way that i was going to do it but lost the idea or drank it away rather. actually all i remember is that he was covered in coal dust and that i kept coaching him as he approached the bar to order saying “remember three words flick, wild turkey 101″. it should be noted that the bar doesn’t carry fighting cock or my suggestion (and night for that matter) would have been very different.

another point is that at bottle 7 i called myself out on being full of shit in thinking that i shouldn’t and wouldn’t drink fighting cock during the week and i would just like to tell myself that i was completely right. that didn’t take long at all.