know your limits

After all the crunchy meditation and anti-consumerism talk, it comes down to me being a total hypocrite. After Killa B’s gardening gig came to an abrupt end (without payment for the work he’d already done), I took on the responsibility of funding most of our entertainment. It was nothing too fancy: movies, meals out, a dance club here and there and lots of booze and billiards. I let the cost of these excursions get away from me for a bit. I suppose I just got lost in the shuffle and excitement of it all. Now that I have to keep an eye on just about every dollar I spend, my tune has changed from party girl (or rather, half of a party couple) to more of a “where is this going” kind of melody. I’m even considering buying a home before the market starts recovering here in the East Bay. I’ve been sending listings to my favorite realtor (I guess I should give him a plug here: jeffrey_surratt@comcast.net).

There are tons of houses and condos in Richmond and Oakland for under $100K that appear to be move-in ready and will likely be worth three times their current price in just a few years. I’d have to be nuts not to take advantage of the opportunity. My worries about sacrificing travel and partying are really not very logical or practical.

During this whirlwind of new romance, I’ve also let my training slide. The Nike Marathon is only a few weeks away. This is going to be interesting (in that way that anal probes are interesting). I’ve gained five pounds over the past two months, and I seriously doubt that it’s muscle.

The wake-up call came a couple of weeks ago when I was boozing at Killa B’s place with his two roomies and a female friend of mine, who will from now on be referred to as Twin Peaks (since her boobs are huge and that nickname is funny as hell). This was our second consecutive night with a second 1.7 liter bottle of Smirnoff. Everything seemed to be going fine, with most of us cheerfully tipsy and ready to hit the street. Killa B was taking it easy since I’d already determined that he would be the driver.

We headed into downtown Oakland, about a mile away. The clubs were open and appeared to be pretty hopping but the entry fees were outrageous. We decided to go to Berkeley and check out the White Horse, since Killa B’s gay ballet dancer roomie (herein referred to as Pebbles) required a queer-friendly establishment. Once we got moving in the car, the other roomie (a.k.a. NDB) started getting really agitated. I thought maybe he was feeling a little hot in the pants and just needed t be somewhere. I figured he’d be fine once we landed and I was able to buy some smokes to shut up his constant pleading for a cigarette. As soon as the vehicle came to a halt, I practically flew to the liquor store and bought a pack. When I got out of the store, Killa B was there with NDB was stumbling across the parking lot behind him. NDB said he had to take a piss, so he proceeded to try to do it on the FRONT of the store… Killa B snatched him by the collar and relocated him to the side of the store. At this time, I removed myself from the equation and headed across the street to the club, where Pebbles and Twin Peaks had already gone inside.

Pebbles came out of the club door and we stood on the corner watching Killa B and NDB. NDB was being a complete drunken idiot, and Killa B was trying not to kick his ass. He was trying to get NDB back into the car so he could take him home. Pebbles and I looked at each other. “Someone should stay out here with them”, he said.
“I’ll stay. You go inside and dance.”
“No, he’s my roommate; I should stay.” At this time, Twin Peaks emerged from the club door, checking in to see what the delay was.
“Okay.” I said. Then, I grabbed Twin Peaks by the arm and we headed to the dance floor. The music wasn’t great, but it was a damn sight better than dealing with a wasted asshole outside.

A few minutes later, Pebbles joined us. About ten minutes after that, Killa B came in as well. Twin Peaks and I looked at each other when he came in and shared a raucous laugh. Killa B asked me to buy him a drink, which I obliged without hesitation. He drank a few sips and then handed it to me. I shrugged and enjoyed the rest of it while dancing to a few more songs. My knee was killing me, but I wasn’t willing to give up the dance. KB came out on the dance floor and said, “We should go soon.” The four of us passed a glance at each other and quietly exited like we were on our way to a funeral.

NDB made the car ride home a fiasco. He harassed Twin Peaks incessantly. I hate it when I have to treat adults like children, but I turned around and yelled, “Knock it off!” The last thing I said to him before retiring to KB’s room was, “You’re a pain in the ass.” I haven’t spoken to him since. When I do speak to him again, that will likely be the next thing I say to him as well. However, next time he will remember that I said it.