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So, I got an email a week ago. An email I expected to get, but really didn't feel like dealing with. So I tagged it as "Important" and ignored it for six-and-a-half days, pondering what I should do about it.
"This post" is what I'm doing about it. The email was from Orble, once again saying if I don't make a post within seven days, Slurred Words goes down the toilet (which is funny, because I'm fairly sure it started, and still resides in, a toilet). Now, considering Iliterally haven't posted anything in almost five months, I was surprised to find some form of nostalgia attached to this place. I couldn't just let it die, after all the fun I've had putting stories up here. So with precious few minutes left until the seven-day deadline was up, I posted this. Talk about cutting it close
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At past jobs, I never had a lot of problem getting horrendously drunk with people I worked with, outside hours. Because when it came down to it, was getting shitfaced and dancing with a 40-year-old woman going to affect my career prospects at McDonalds, or Myer? I highly fucking doubt it. So I would do it with reckless abandon, regardless of my rostered hours the next day or who I was out with.
With this "career" though, it's a vastly different story. Now that my job requires brainpower (and a fair whack of it, might I add) I'm tentative about just what I do the night before a shift. I've been working on quantities and types of booze the night before shifts for nearly three months now, and I'm starting to get it down-pat. I now know I can have a few beers with no trouble, or a good bottle of red wine (even though that leaves me feeling somewhat...dusty...the next morning
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Jesus, it's been a MONTH since I posted last? Since anyone posted last? Where the hell has the year gone?
Anyway, just thought I'd swing by and drop a note to anyone who's actually still reading; I'm still alive (roughly), still gainfully employed (thus far), and am still finding time to do the things that bring you here (getting drunk out of my gourd and making an ass out of myself
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There was a time, not so long ago and before I became so jaded, bitter and twisted, where I thought every little "anniversary" in a relationship was drastically important, and not to be scoffed at. Before all you feminists and Johals get your panties in a twist, I'm talking about "happy three weeks, darling" and shit like that. Now, "happy six months" or "wow, we made it to a week without you finding out I'm a borderline heroin addict, go us!" merely serves as a checkpoint, bringing thoughts to mind such as "Well, we made it THIS far, gotta be doing something right."
Sure, a year or 18 months or two years or whatever is a worthy and valid anniversary. This is the story of how I ruined a couple's one-year anniversary. "Go me
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Ahh, the hell with it. I’ll slap together a post, because instead of being still at work this afternoon, I’m at home in my board shorts drinking beer.
Parts of this job thing are actually great for my writing. I now have a notebook on me anywhere I go (with my car, it sits on the passenger seat) so as soon as I get an idea for a story, I can write it down post-haste. OK, so this has only happened once, but now I have a hard copy of the story idea, I can put it into the computer sometime and post it on Slurred Words
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At some point on Saturday night, I dropped my phone into a urinal and then proceeded to try and piss it down the drain. Guys, you know when you've been holding in your pee for a long time, and you're standing there at the urinal and you try to push the urinal cake thing down the drain with your powerful urine-stream? Yeah, I did that. If you squint, my phone kind-of looks like a urinal cake.
You see, I was quite intoxicated. Partially on the superhuman amount of alcohol and miscellaneous pharmaceuticals coursing through my system, but mainly on my own sense of awesomnity (yes, that's a word, and I lay claim to it). I was enjoying several beverages with some good friends at the Townie Hotel in Sydney
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When I go out drinking, I inevitably end up with a whole bunch of phone numbers in my phone, and no recollection of who these people actually are. Sometimes when I get phone numbers I have a moment of clarity as I enter the name, and add details to help me remember who that person is. A couple of examples are "Kel..wantsarmink", "Jess..hugetitsbutstupid". You get the idea.
So I met this girl on Saturday night, and I want to hook up with her, but I can't for the life of me remember her name. I distinctly remember getting her number, she gave it to me while her friends were dragging her away, classic cockblock style. She's a cool girl too, and probably a 7.5, though she'd go straight to a high 8.5 if she got fake boobs. But fucked if I can remember her name, dammit. Going through my phone doesn't help at all, there's waaaay too many numbers in there to sort through. So I decided to conduct an experiment this morning
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OK, so across the road from work there's this pub called The Queenslander. It's not just any pub, it's a fucking experience. It's the kind of place where people threaten and berate you for looking different before you've even set foot in the door. Ever seen The Blues Brothers? There's a bar in that film, you know the one I'm talking aboot - "We've got both kinds of music, Country AND Western!". The one where there's a chicken-wire fence in front of the stage to catch the broken bottles being thrown at the band. The Queenslander doesn't have the chicken-wire fence, but you get the general idea.
Now, heading down to the Queenslander is something that I'd advise against. But sometimes when you've exhausted all the alcohol in the house, and you're just at the point where you think locking yourself in the car and singing along to the radio, burning yourself with the car keys, or roaming shoeless in a construction site is a good idea, you just get that certain urge. The urge to be a complete idiot and flirt with danger, if you will
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Yeah, it's me, I'm back.
Temporarily. The job is going alright; I can definitely handle 38-hour weeks where I get to start at 6am and finish at 130pm. And the pay kicks ass; I'm rich
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I know I said I'd post the rest of my Sydney story today, but I'm running a little behind. Bear with me. Instead, here's the story of last Saturday night, when I managed to drunkenly piss off two convicted murderers. Good times!
Sat 18/3
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104 Posts dating from October 2006
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