I'm A Desperate, Horny, Forgetful Goddamn Lush

So I'm starting this blog post at a quarter to 4 in the morning.  I'm doing what I want to do over an extended holiday -- staying up, surfing the Internet, listening to music (this time terrestrial radio on my boombox).  But my cellphone is plugged into my power bank.  The fuckin' thing is pissing away energy.  I juiced it up to 80% last nigh, then unplugged it like you're supposed to, but then within, oh, half an hour of active doomscrolling, it couldn't even hold its charge for that long.  When it dipped to 76%, I plugged it in again, hoping I would unplug it once it reached 80% again.  But I knew there was a chance I'd be distracted by looking at my laptop, and of course I did.  It soared well past 80%, which I hear is bad for my phone (even though it's already in not-great shape).  At this point, if it's already past 80%, I might as well charge it all the way so I can delay when I need to charge it up again.

That's the forgetfulness I hate about me that reared its ugly head over the past 24 hours.  This past evening I made myself a cocktail, a margarita featuring juice from a lime that I bought over a week ago that may or may not have spoiled.  I drink too much already, so I'm trying to hew to the "1-2-3" rule Dr. Vivek Murthy recommended in his last days as President Biden's Surgeon General.  The problem, I realized while drinking the margarita, is that that was my fourth drink of the day.  I started off with a bloody mary in the morning while watching the English Championship Play-Up Match (won by Hull over Middlesbrough in a 95the Minute Goal), then had a cider at the United FC Match, then had a beer with a Farina Rossa pizza after the Match at a craft brewery.  And this is on the heels of drinking three drinks Friday ... and two drinks Thursday ... and two (or was it three?) drinks Wednesday.  All I can say is, I drink a lot.

Oh, MNUFC has a program where you can drop off pop tops at their waste receptacles.  I have a pile of them, and I was going to bring them with to drop them off, but I forgot to put them into my cargo pants.  I didn't leave them in my cargo pants because, unlike my denim jeans, my cargo pants don't have that fifth "watch pocket," and I didn't like the feeling of those pop tops jangling around inside a big pocket on my cargos and potentially falling out if I'm sleeping in my car and put my legs parallel to the ground.  But all day yesterday I reminded myself to put those pop tops in my pants.  But I didn't.  Oh, and then I took out the pop top on my Wild State cider intending to deposit it ... and I fucking forget to do that, too.  I meant to be rid of these pop tops, and I wound up collecting more.  And even though there will be a MNUFC2 Match at Allianz Field in one Month, the Loons are off because of the World Cup for two Months.  Fuckin' great.

And all the while I've been trying to see if I can arrange a fuck session with ****e.  Earlier last week I texted her; no answer.  I texted her again, saying I am free either today or tomorrow; she just said, "ok."  She gets this way sometimes, minimally responsive and vague.  I asked for clarity while eating pizza and eating beer last night, but she has yet to respond.  I'm horny enough that I want to make booty texts to all of my stripper girlfriends (even though a lot of them are out of town this Memorial Weekend, dammit) so I can get some lovin' this long, lonely weekend.  But ... fuckin' A, ****e is the only one who'll let me inside her, so I gotta give her every chance to get back to me.  But what if she's on one of her episodes where she ghosts me?

This weekend is supposed to be fun.  In many ways, it is.  And I am seeking every which way to find the negative in all of this.  Maybe that's a sign that I should fix myself instead of just rationalizing my decadence and inattention as part of enjoying the long holiday.  Or, maybe I should just say fuck it all.