It’s been a while since I sat here, with you, at some dark, cool hour. Here under the lamppost in your concrete embrace I am taking some much-needed me-time. Me-and-Jesus-and-the-night time.
I’m tired. Last night I just gave & gave & gave and I am just so tired.
What is it about me that I always end up being the responsible one–the most-sober one who stays to the end to make sure all inebriated parties will survive the night without trashing the place?
Is my biggest physical practical skill gained in college going to be taking care of drunk people?
I was prompted tonight to actually go back & count how many times I’ve done this. It’s been once last year, ramped up to seven this year, three of which have been 4’s on the 5-scale I just made up:
1: had something to drink
2: buzzed/tipsy/feelin it
4 threshold: vomit.
5: pass out.
& I’m gonna put emergency room visits & life/death situations off the chart at 6.
It’s kind of a little heartbreaking, & more than a little exhausting, but I do it. Because I will.
I’m tired beyond tired, & this blogpost is getting depressing.
Just a thought, though: I feel like I’m winging it every time, but I seem to be getting better at this.
[cue bitter irony]: hah.