Since about day 4, I’ve been getting questions and concerns about where this will all end. Because, it had to have an ending, right? On day one-hundred when I magically pick the girl of my dreams and we live happily ever after into the sunset. But this isn’t that ending. This isn’t that story. I spent half the day reading in my apartment. I spent the other half chain-smoking and walking around the Village with Kevin Devine on an infinite loop. I went to a diner and jotted some notes down with a Denver Omelet, and a bottomless cup of coffee and my flask of Jameson I’ve had in my bag for about a week, finally polishing it off. Before I knew it was dark and I was in front of a liquor store, an all too familiar scenario.
I perused the aisles for something to bite my fancy. I got a bottle of twelve-year Ballantine’s because I felt like springing for a nice drunk. The female clerk looked at me with pity and wished me a happy Valentine’s, before putting it in the brown paper bag. I didn’t even wait til the Subway to crack it open. And when I got on the subway and off at her stop.
77 Days ago I was in this position, in the exact opposite of circumstances. I was sober, earnest, and really wanted to make a go for it. But when I got up to her apartment, and she looked at me through chain-locked door gap. And three words were the magical phrase to get the door open.
I brought scotch.
She took it out of the bag.
You opened it?
Sorry. Happy Valentines.
What happened to your perfect girl?
I don’t want perfect, I want you.
She immediately punched me and smacked me upside the head, telling me that was the cheesiest thing she ever heard. I told her I was still drunk, and I’d have fresher material if she let me take her to dinner. She told me no, and that wasn’t ever gonna happen. And then she kissed me. And I kissed back. She bit my lip and drew blood, I took a sip from the bottle. We stood there drinking and kissing for minutes before we took it to her couch, all the while drinking and kissing our way over.
Three hours later the scotch was gone and I was staring at her ceiling while she snored on my chest. I was picking the the new scab on my lip, when she woke up from it, and started kissing me and reopening the wound. We fooled around again, and I got that look in my eye, when she repeated her no.
On day 100, I had another night of drunk sex that we pretended meant a whole lot less. More times than not you wind up having drunk sex with your friend because your both confused, lonely, misguided people, who happen to enjoy the finer points of both scotch & sex. I don’t think I’m gonna wind up with Kara, and I don’t pretend to think it’s nothing more than a constant conscious mistake I keep letting myself make while better things come around, but maybe in the next 100 days or another 100 dates, I’ll find something that works.
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