Notes From The Show

Last night I went to see my friend perform in his band, B1g T1me. I wasn't initially going to go, I had already had four martinis, two jack on the rocks, and two beers. I got into a mini-van taxi and headed for the show, in the rain. The cab driver wore a camouflage headband and we talked about the Chicago White Sox the whole trip over to the Abbey Pub. I gave the driver 20 on a 15 dollar trip. I had a few shots of Jack and a few beers before I realized that I was drunk. I sat at a table in the back of the room. Before my friend's band played the crowd was treated to a burlesque show. About 30 minutes of eh, not-so attractive women, by conventional means, took their clothes off.
I felt a bit perverted being the guy, the alone guy sitting at a table, with a few drinks in front of him. I pulled out some paper and started writing.
Here are my notes:
Dick fingers
Pulling at them
Cracking knuckles
Cunts
Notes
Make it look
Like I'm not drunk

It took me awhile to decode my drunk handwriting.
Three songs into listening to my friend's band play, I had to leave. I was wasted. I stood on five different corners while trying to call a cab or find one driving by.
I caught a cab and headed home where I continued to drink myself into hell.
But I remember writing those notes and how hard I was trying to not look drunk.
I am an asshole. Finishing a second bottle of wine tonight.
I was sitting in an Italian restaurant, having some crazy panic attack. I couldn't eat my food and I could barely drink my wine but I choked the wine down and the buzz calmed the panic.
But the panic and the fear and the paranoia and the depression and hatred mix together every once in a while and my system crashes. And I think that I'm going to die.
But again, another drink keeps me alive and I wonder, just how long can I live like this?
Then I see old, old men, drunk, wasted, fucked walking up and down Chicago avenue and I take comfort in knowing that if they can survive like roaches, drunk, drugged up fuckless roaches, then I can live and survive too.
I guess we'll see. Or, see you at my funeral. Don't wear a suit. Don't even come. Or bukakke my ashes. I don't know.