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The Derby

The Derby 2017

Shit, this thirty-dollar glass of wine is A) making me full and B) putting me to sleep. I’ll do more frank in the bathroom before I leave. I’m hoping Cookie works out. A regular client who gets it who lives within twenty miles and likes to party in motels. Hell to the yes. I’m sick to death of writing about The Texan. I’d love a new storyline. It’s a trip to have your life wide open for all to read about. One tip toe at a time. How can I be so close to quitting the life and yet so deeply entrenched at the same time? Weird. Weird deceptive life.

I’m pretty buzzed. Not sure I’m making much sense. This feels how I imagine ‘ludes in the sixties felt like. Sound has slowed down around me. If only I could keep my handwriting to match. I’m forty-seven. Just ate half of a steak dinner at an old school joint. I feel bubbles in my ___ something. (that’s exactly how it’s written in my comp pad. I have no idea what the fuck I was talking about).

I did some drugs in the bathroom. I’m wearing mini Christmas tree bulb earrings from my probably-worked-here-twenty-years waitress. More wine. I just ordered an Irish coffee. I wish I was wearing leggings and not jeans. The top button is already undone and I’m still uncomfortable. Ah, mid-life.

So…that did not go down well. Too many different types of booze. I ended up vomiting a whole bunch. I was trashed. Had to chill in my car parked on the main street outside the restaurant. When I felt just fine enough, I drove to a side street in the closest neighborhood to empty my stomach on the street with my door open. Classy. Expensive meal to up-chuck. Hey, bright side, less calories! I think that frank might have been the crazy stash from The Texan’s chick that fucked us up in Houston a couple weeks back. That or I’m out of practice. Or my menopause herbs are not mixing well. Either way, it was awful. Thankfully, I have no issue with sleeping/waiting it out in my car. Or vomiting outside of an apartment complex off the 210, apparently. I felt okay after the puking, my vision was singular. But still. Not smart. I honestly did not expect that to happen. I didn’t even drink that much. I never drink coffee, I think it tipped the scales. Christ, get it together, girl.

I need to write about my mom’s visit but I haven’t been in the right headspace to dig in. I was looking forward to seeing her and getting some good Gloria-isms but that got smashed to hell. I should have put it to paper immediately after I got (home earlier than expected), however, the fires and life got in the way. Now it’s foggy and I don’t want to think about it. The perils of being a memoirist. I suspect a part of my getting ham-dogged last night was to get in the headspace to be cutting/witty. None of that happened. I miss writing at the club. I should go to the Bare. I could tip every girl a twenty and sit and write in a corner like I used to. Maybe I’ll go on Christmas eve…seems appropriate. I’ll call to see if they’ll be open. Hell, maybe I’ll call Beemer or Cargo Pants to see if one of them wants to join me.

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