Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

Nugget of wisdom for the day: If your pot dealer has a gun he’s a coke dealer.

Today was the official “welcome back to school” Flying Tomato Christmas party. I volunteered our house because I was anxious to have our first balls to the wall, get shit-faced party. The Tomato provided us with the beer and some food, but once the keg got in the door that party was ours. My boss, Ski, didn’t really have any idea about the enormity of this brouhaha we planned to host. In the past they have always thrown quiet subdued parties where everyone from work gets mellow drunk sitting around listening to classic rock and half of the keg is usually leftover the next morning. When Ski showed up before dark with his kids and some videotapes to watch I almost laughed. For one night it didn’t matter if I got fired. If I had my way, all the magical parties I ever envisioned in my youth, sort of a combination “Animal House”, “Sixteen Candles” (Long Duck Dong!) and “House Party”, were going to be a reality. We invited everybody and I mean EVERYBODY, from random people in the street to cute girls on campus, and anyone who’s ever been to our house. Even Andy, the freaky albino-looking guy who lives in our garage out back, got an invite.

The furniture was moved to secure locations, leaving just a basic empty house and a lot of beer to drink. A lot of pot was smoked and a lot of drugs were done in my back bedroom because it was just off the kitchen and shut off from the party. After the first 30 unrecognizable people came through the door, my boss gave up his effort to guard the keg for the employees and went home in disgust. His wife Becky stayed though and we got her to do a bong hit later that night in front of everyone, which brought cheers from all her workers that were still conscious. We even got enough cash together later to get a late-night keg of crappy beer from Griggs, the dickhead who runs The Corkscrew across from the Delta Lodge.

Dan got laid with somebody from work, but he always pulls the ladies. The house was totally trashed. Moving the furniture out was a good play because the floors and walls got covered in spilled beer, ashes and other shit. I was almost ashamed we still had leftover beer in the keg today but it got to the point where I couldn’t drink any more and I was walking around in a smoked out haze trying to jam nothing but loud Beastie Boys songs on the sound system. If we owned a lampshade I would have been wearing it. Our good friend Jack Valentino passed out early in the morning but fortunately he had his usual doting concubines to take him home. Thankfully Kirk came back over this morning to help clean up and we systematically killed the rest of the warm keg over the course of the day.

All in all it was a successful mission: only one window got broken. I took lots of pictures, nobody got hurt, the cops didn’t show up, I shot at the mailbox with my BB gun, everyone in the southern half of North America got fucked up (seemingly) and I still have my girlfriend despite making quite a fool of myself on several occasions.

Yes, my name is Sam and I am a hung-over fool, fear me…passively. Party antics are pretty universal across the globe I guess, but it felt so good to cut loose for one night in the familiarity and safety of our own home. I doubt any of us will get fired; I still have a picture of Becky taking a bong hit.

Note to self: If we throw a party in the summertime the spilled beer is going to stink very badly. The sun unmercifully amplifies that sick smell of ash and beer. I’m still feeling pretty nauseous.

The whole house spent the morning in an early round of drinking in preparation for the big game. Because of this we just happened to be in the bar (college tip: when you work on Fry St. and give out free pizza, you can drink underage!) when one of the regulars came around looking for another sucker to fill in the last square on his betting grid. I didn’t have hardly any money but Kirk and I scrounged together $2.50 each and bought the very last square. It actually turned out to be a great game and Dallas rallied from behind to win 30-13 and turn our (Dallas 0, Buffalo 3) number into a winner for the last two quarters! We each won an easy $125 just for being in the right place at the right time but since we didn’t watch the game at the bar the ‘regulars’ were pissed when I came back to the bar just to get our cash because the other winners had been buying drinks for their buddies during the game. I guess they really didn’t expect the last minute filler money Kirk and I put down to actually pay-off any outsiders. Fuck them and their bar, fuck them and their fragility. In this case fragility is my euphemism for them being asshole jerks. It doesn’t take a Holden Caulfield to know they’re all phonies.

But I was happy despite the curmudgeons, it’s a human condition and I love it in all its falseness. I felt so strong, so invincible, so good and drunk on spirits and hedonistic luck. My mind actually cringed because I badly wanted to take Jenifer forcibly—that came later and of course I was gentle and honorable.

I maliciously plied Dan and Jim and myself with so many shots it should have been illegal. I guess technically it was illegal in my respect. Of course Dan was hardly affected due to his high alcohol tolerance and I had adrenaline to counteract my poison, but Jim, the reluctant drinker of the evening, was my prime target. I love him so much as a good friend that I must have wanted him to have a really good time. He had been drinking all through the Bowl and I pushed him too far because the last time I saw him he was hanging out the passenger window of Simone’s new car and vomiting as she drove down the road.

Today I’m feeling the sins of my incapacitation, confronted with the reality of my own hangover. Aaaaawwwwwcccchhhhhhhhhhh. That long lingering headache that comes with too much celebration is such a shitty feeling. I could dunk my head in a metal bucket of ice water and not feel any worse than I do right now. The throbbing is incessant. Tylenol helps a little but I’m allergic to aspirin. It makes the voices too loud for a morning like this.

I don’t remember much more than what I’ve already written. I spent most of the money I won last night somewhere along the line and Jenifer got pulled over for driving drunk across campus without her lights on. Fortunately we had just pulled into my driveway before the cop turned on his lights and since we were already home he let us just walk into the house without any sobriety tests. She hadn’t had too much to drink but she’s a lightweight. I remember some of the great sex we had and I remember going to bed happy before sleep finally claimed me.

The new semester is going all right, days are flying by since I’m managing to juggle school while working and slacking off. We still occasionally go tripping in Jim’s car and drive 100 MPH down the dark back roads of Texas. There’s lots of good quality marijuana around. The people that I know who are more connected tell me this has been a great harvest season due to the climate in the Western Hemisphere. That could all be hooey for all I know, but whatever the reason, I do appreciate good bud. The air is even getting warmer again though it’s barely February. I’m already looking forward to summer so that I can relax and go on a warm vacation. Speaking of which, Jenifer and I are going to drive down to Mardi Gras in New Orleans this year. It’s coming up in a few weeks. Jen and I have both been several times already but this could be another weekend of romantic debauchery that seals our fates in an enticing soul bond. It should be fun and Jim’s going too, which will work out famously for him because there is much alcohol to be consumed.

Oh to see God’s bounty spring from the Earth, defying gravity and oppression the way the shoes of a fat man struggle to support his girth.