Uhm, excuse me; I am a Rock Star.

I'm trying not to be morose.

I mean, it seems that the majority of my entries are, well, sad. Is it my job? Is my job truly that depressing and I just haven't noticed it? Or is it just that rhythm in life where things don't seem so good, for me or anyone else. I'm not an unhappy person. And if you ask anyone I work with, I'm pretty sure they would say I'm fun to be around.

So, due to the nature of the above mindset, and even though there is a "story" that has been bothering me and that I intend on relaying to you soon; I thought I'd write about something amusing. (I'm beginning to incorporate the use of semicolons; Stephen King would be proud)

10:00 o'clock in the a.m. No, make it 9:30.

He sat in that alley behind the grease dumpster of a fairly historical bar. His hair disheveled. And trapped, like a fly in a web, was one brown leaf tangled in the greasy mats of his hair. His teeth, snarling spit and leaking remnants of vomit as he attempted to speak clearly. He was still on the cold ground, because if he were to stand, contrary to what he believed, he would collapse like a house made of cards. His boots tell tales from previous nights. There are scars on the toes of the leather boots that could tell stories that would make mine pale in comparison.

And vomit, did I mention vomit? Glued to his shoelaces, in his sock, on his black-studded leather belt that was 3 sizes too big, on the hood of his coat, and lastly, on his face. Vomit, everywhere. That, being one of two things I can't stand. Vomit and poop.

And lastly, as if someone in the group was going on a first date, the smell of mouthwash. Wintergreen, I believe. Emanating from him as if it were a Glade freshener plugged into the outlet at my house, was that sweet smell of cleanliness. Reminding me of early mornings with friends with wet hair, clean skin, pressed clothes, and fresh, sweet, minty breath. It's a world of contradictions, and this one assaulted my senses like an ant at a picnic.

What do we do? Well, we commence, quickly, to save his life. That's what we do, right? He forcefully tells us he's alright and that he intends on leaving. In his mind, this conversation, and his cleverly planned escape attempt are processing at remarkable speeds. But, moving from cognitive reasoning to physical functioning is much, much.....much slower. He stands without bending his knees (a feat not even a sober person could do) , grabs that invisible rail in front to steady his slurred balance, and attempts to put it all together. Like a child first learning to walk, his synapses sparking, it culminates into one awkward move and he makes that first, ever-important escape step to freedom; "One small step for man, One giant leap for mankind".

He falls.

We pick him up. Shuffle him to the ambulance. We remove the shaving razor, even though he hasn't shaved in weeks, remove the ED discharge papers from last night, his lighter, and his comb. And, as this may come as a surprise to you, the majority of these drunkards ALWAYS carry combs. Sometimes, more than one. Why? I don't know. Can you play music through them, or something?

Lastly, we remove his ID.

"Is this you, dude?", I said in utter amazement.
"Yes, that's me."
"What happened?"
"I'm a rock star."
"Not any more, you're not."
"I'm a rock star, I used to be in a band. Heard of Black Sabbath?"
"Uh-huh."
"I used to be in that band."
"How come you're so f*cked up, now?"

"Because I'm a rock star!"

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