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I Gotta Get Out More Often

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I Gotta Get Out More Often

Hola, amigos. What do you hear? I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I been dragging my ass through the routine. The winter always gets me down. Don't tell me how it's spring. I know it's spring, but that makes it worse. It gets warm for a few days, I think I finally broke on through to the other side, and then it snows and I feel like shit again. Plus, my alternator belt is squeaking. I got a new one, but I haven't changed it yet because who wants to do car repairs when it's nice out?

It seems like all I do lately is go to work and then come home and watch TV—which is fine by me. It's exactly what I was up for last Friday. I was planning to kick my weekend off by packing a bowl and watching Dude, Where's My Car? again. I was already walking out to my car when Ron came up and asked me to get a beer. It was kind of a big deal, since we really haven't really hung out since he started being my boss, so I told him I was going home to get high and watch Dude, Where's My Car?, but he was welcome to stop by.

Ron said that would be cool, but he had to go meet Rob first. It was only 5:30, so I told him I'd watch some TV and hang, and we could start the movie when he got over. I picked up a case of beer and kicked back with Eight Simple Rules, JAG, and a 20/20 episode about some guy that killed his wife for the insurance money.

But so, it's 10:00 p.m. by now, and I'm sitting at my house with no Ron. I was a little pissed off and a lot baked. Here I was, making an effort to not watch Dude, Where's My Car?, and Ron was taking his own sweet. I wouldn't have minded so much if he'd showed up at 9:00 or something, or if he'd let me know he was going to be late when we made plans. But I was six beers in and two bowls out, and there was no way I was going to watch the news. I watched Everybody Loves Raymond until I couldn't take it anymore, and then I put in the tape.

Before Chester even said "Where's your car, dude?" Ron came in. He didn't knock, which would have been fine if I wasn't already irked and if he hadn't brought some other people over with him. It was Ron, his friend Rob, and two chicks. Now, I'm a hospitable guy, but I like to know when company is coming—especially women—so I can pick the paper plates up off the floor and stuff.

Ron didn't seem to notice I was pissed—partly because he's that way and partly because he was half pickled. He told me the two ladies were Debbie and Helen from The Gamey Doe, and that they wanted to watch the movie, too. I told Ron it was fine, which I suppose it was, considering everything else.

In my house, the rule is that people can help themselves to beer, but since these girls were strangers, I decide to be a good host and ask if anyone wanted a beer while I was getting myself another one. Everyone did—surprise—so I got up from the couch. I told them they could pack the bowl and start it around if they wanted, which, of course, they did.

When I got back, they'd taken up my whole couch, with the chicks in the middle and Ron and Rob on either end. I handed everybody a beer and pulled up a footstool to enjoy the movie, but it was hard to do that, because I didn't have anything to lean back on and the women were gabbing through some of the best parts. I didn't say anything about it, since they were guests and all, but those two really liked to talk.

Finally, the women quit talking. Me and Rob were laughing at the movie, but I didn't hear anything from Ron or the girls for awhile. I finally looked over and saw that one was quiet because she was passed out. The other one was quiet because Ron was making out with her. That's another thing right there. I don't begrudge Ron getting himself some, but if he was going to do it at my house, he should've brought a friend for me.

I tried to pay attention to the movie, but that got harder to do when I started hearing what could only be the sound of Ron getting the stinky pinky. Talk about no class! If you're going to finger-bang a girl, you should at least take her to the bathroom. I guess it's a good thing he didn't, though, because the other one suddenly came to and started to ask where the bathroom was—but she didn't get it all out before she started puking.

Fortunately, Rob steered her into the bathroom before the worst of it. That didn't mean I was free and clear, though. She managed to get a pile on my carpet, and from the looks of it, she'd had a few dozen "quarter wings" at The Gamey Doe. I threw some old shopping circulars down on the puke to soak up the worst of it, and Ron and the girl stopped doing what they were doing long enough for the girl to check on her friend. When the girls came out of the bathroom, they said they'd better go home. Ron was saying the sick one, who I finally figured out was Debbie, could just crash on my bed, but Helen, the finger-banged one, said they should go. She promised to meet up with Ron again some other night.

Once the girls left, the night was all right. Ron and Rob weren't going anywhere so long as there was still cold beer, which there was. Plus, Ron had Freddy Vs. Jason in his car, so we watched that after Dude, Where's My Car? The next day, the puke was dried up enough so I could just sweep it up. Just because the night wound up all right don't mean I'm looking to repeat it anytime soon. I should keep people out of my apartment unless I know they're cool. I don't much like cleaning up the puke of someone I don't even know. But I guess I need to get out of the house unless I want to sit here alone. I definitely will as soon as it warms up more. This "being a shut-in" stuff sorta sucks.

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