backyard crowing


perdita's margaritas

This is a journal entry I wrote from Chipotle last semester. I was drunk and writing with a highlighter for most of the entry. Anyway, I tried to edit the thing a bit and turn it in a short story assignment, but it never worked out. Chipotle is renamed "Perdita's," as it stems from a spanish word meaning "lost," which is what the speaker is during this entry.

I wonder how badly I'm damaging my body with alcohol. This is my third drink this week; it's becoming a habit to have a drink after a long day of anything.

Today: Margaritas
Yesterday: Champagne
The day before: A Smirnoff

I'm not becoming my grandmother or uncle, at least I hope not. How did they start? What are the makings of an alcoholic? I'd like to read their journals, if they have any. But as Tallulah Bankhead said, "Only good girls keep diaries. Bad girls don't have time."

Go Ask Alice hasn't gotten dangerous yet, I'm only on page 30. Glad I bought that book, I have a feeling it will tell me a cautionary tale.

I'm at Perdita's again, their margaritas are simply the best. Way to knock yourself out.

I just caught some tiny girl (college student) at the table across from me, looking over. It's not the first time I've caught someone looking at me queerly while writing here, and I certainly hope it's not the last. The girl has a gold and maroon letter jacket on, and I'm wearing an Old Navy long-sleeved shirt, so we have fashion in common...unfortunately. She's sitting with three other people--they're what appears to be her parents and sister. I can't hear what they're saying from here, so I think I'll listen to the couple next to me, instead. Nothing like a good eavesdropping.

The boy has just returned with a refill. Damnit. Despite their proximity, I still can't hear them. Where did my hearing go?

They seem to be on a date. Ok, now she's running to the bathroom, and he's looking at his cell phone. She has returned and is straightening her shirt.

"What do you think of Popeye's?" the boy says. And later, "You know what I saw on the West Mall?"

"What?" She answers, her butt at the edge of her seat.

"A Girl Scout Cookie stand."

Wow. A Girl Scout Cookie stand, how original! Now he's touching her leg under the table, and they're talking about the Cookie Monster.

"My mom gave me some cookies, I have a whole stash," the frat boy tells her. She's grooming him, and I'm thinking of that song Narcissus Boy and how much I need it to play right about now, but Perdita's wouldn't play that sort of song.

My damn pen is running out. I need my damn pen to record eavesdropping. I'm about to resort to highlighters.

"I think I've felt better since I cut back the sugar," he explains. I keep sipping that margarita. Damnit, I just spilt it. I was planning on buying another one after this, but now I'm not sure the patrons would think me a sugar-free non-drunk after a second.

I'm a regular here, and one of the ladies knows me. We made small talk for the first time tonight; she seems like a nice girl, and I pulled it off, but I'm no fan of talk that isn't "big," or necessary, or meaningful. Bless her heart. I too attempt small talk at crap jobs like hers, and usually in an English accent, just to make it interesting. Schmoozing makes you look promotion-worthy...or at least worth keeping around.

I'm pretty sure my jacket smells like a margarita now. Oh, well. Oh, sweet pen. If only you would work. A trivial problem to some, but not if you're a writer, and I've been scribbling ever since I finished my burrito. I'm waiting for the line to re-diminish so I can get that second drink. I love drinking. It's hella fun to be in an altered state like this. Maybe I should do some hookah after this? It would be my second time smoking. I actually do want to meet this 23-year-old online and fall in love with him and lose my virginity to him. It's about time for love, I've decided. I'm tired of just observing it. Okie doke, I'm now on margarita number two. This is where the fun begins.

If I go for a third, I'll be totally sloshed. Never tried that before. I did drink a whole bottle of wine once, though. For some reason, it seems the general public's eyes believe drinking alone implies alcoholism.

Now the couple is kissing, right in front of me, and I do admit, I feel left out. I got nothing today or yesterday.

I so much want to fall in love.

Oh, crap. There's now a guy sitting at the table opposite mine, alone. I do wish he would come talk to me. Maybe I need to talk to him. Maybe I need to make my own fun. Then again, that'd be making the first move--something I've been told never to do.

Now the man is dangerously close to me, refilling his drink, and...leaving.

I wasn't always lonely by myself. When I drink, I feel like everyone's watching me, saying, "She doesn't look 21." I want so much to lie in the arms of this Copperas Cove boy--man--Twenty-three-year-old bearded hunk journalist. Why not? I have my suspicions, but I do want to meet him. I'm sick of letdowns and men who lead me on. I want him to come through, even if we don't become a thing. It's nice to know I'm worthy of a date.

People, people, come and go,
But I remain at the Perdita's show.

That's terrible.

For some reason, my headache went away when I added alcohol.

"His blood pressure went BOOM and his brain got an owie."

I don't think that's a good sign.

Will I always wish, in vain, that a man will want to fuck me? I think this is the alcohol kicking in again. It's an aphrodisiac, you know. That is, if you believe in aphrodisiacs. I believe in them, and that the power of suggestion is surprisingly potent.

I probably shouldn't be drinking in the midst of such loneliness.

I want to be beautiful and surrounded by men who want to fuck me. And more tipsy than I am right now.

Ouch. The tequila burns my nose, and my clit is pulsing.

I want to be hunted, admired. Why will that never happen? Probably because I desire it so much. I keep sipping back and forth:

Water, booze
Water, booze
Water, booze...

I want to be as drunk as possible without throwing up. I want to feel vulnerable with someone I trust, and who deserves that trust.

I want to die a "little death" with him, as the French say. I want us to drive each other to orgasm.

I want to take a moment to recognize the word "clit." A moment of silence, if you will, to remember the delicate, demading, delicious rush of release it provides me.

Thank God for vibrators and sex stores. Thank him 100 times over!

I want an astounding orgasm--right here, right now, in Perdita's. I deserve that much, right?


I wonder how many women haven't experienced "the rush." Bless their hearts. I can't believe sometimes how long I lived without one. It is a sort of need for both men and women, whether we want to believe it or not.

Nothing does me in like a Perdita margarita. They are a sort of drinking heaven. I'm afraid to say I want a third, but I'm terrified of embarrassing myself like a drunk. I want the sweet juice to take over my body like a hungry rapist, sliding my clothes off, taking my body in with his devilish eyes.

Ironic, that my greatest fear is my most decadent turn on.

Ah, if the outsiders only knew. I wonder how many other girls are in this delightful, covert predicament. It's a strange and beautiful thing to lose control.

I want to be strung out, alcoholic drunk. I want to kill my brain and just feel the drunk daze of temporary confusion taking my life away, making my feet stumble and my head spin in an uncontrollable, insurmountable loop of delight.

I should have been this age in the seventies. To be alive at all then must have been a glorious maze of pleasure and freedom! Nobody around me seems to "get" why being drunk is so miraculous. It's a drug. It goes into your veins. It intoxicates you like sex, or a movie, or a book that beckons you to come for more. "Fuck me," is says, "And fuck me again."

There's truly nothing like a drunk confusion to turn a shy woman on. It makes her there for the taking, and it's one of the most sexual situations of all.

I just caught another patron looking at me. That's the third patron of all! He must think I'm strange for writing with a highlighter. We writers do what we can, you adorable douche.


If I ever lose my virginity in college, I don't think I'll tell Abby. Some things you just keep to yourself, no matter how amazing your best friend is.

Maybe people look at me because they hate writing and they don't see how I could be doing such a thing for fun. Or they think I'm doing an assignment on a Friday night, and they feel guilty. Or, they think I'm writing about them. Perceptive, these underaged chumps!

- tuesday, May. 6, 2008


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