Don't adjust your opinion

The not so sad end of a booze hound

From the desk of Quintana “Quinto” Haberno (pt 4 – Decatur, or, This Joke is getting boring)

“Every night turns out to be a little more like Bukowski, I know it’s a pretty good read but God, who would want to be such an asshole?”- Isaac Brock.

It’s not a good Friday to be me. To be honest, it’s never a good DAY at all to be me. Bills pilling up, internal organs decaying, music starting to sound all the same, no real direction in life.

The smelly, dank night, how I loathe it. I’ve should’ve been there earlier, but I couldn’t manage to get the courage to get out of my room on time. Consequence?

I miss the gig I had to attend. If I were a writer for the site, I would call in an apologise. I’m the fucking co-editor, for Krist Novoselic’s sake. I’m supposed to be responsible.

Still, sausage roll, right? Not so. It’s raining.

Just crossing the street and that horrible joint Jocosa has a banner boasting real “Mexican/Italian” food. Fuckers got it wrong, Chimichangas are Tex Mex. So is chilli con carne. So are burritos.  It’s like saying BBQ sauce started in Chicester or that Chop Suey is proper Chinese food.

Ah, fuck the place, it’s horrible and I sure as hell won’t go into a bar to take salsa lessons. Too many bands to listen to, too many gigs to attend, too many cups of coffee. Fuck salsa and fuck salsa dancers, I’ve got better things to do.

I walk past ‘The wick at both ends’, where I saw Bromheads rock my arse off last October. As I walk, I turn my head, looking at the people inside without slowing pace. A woman talking with some of co-workers is chatting and smiling and looks at me for a second, peering into my soul. She goes serious for a moment, knowing what’s going inside, but continues talking. She’s having a good time.

I skip over a few puddles forming in the sidewalk. The stench of Subway is awful and will linger inside my lungs for the rest of the night. Could be worse. I could be at Embrace.

In nights like this, when I roam around aimlessly, I wonder why I’m like this. It’s not exactly antisocial, but I’ll never be the life of the party.  I don’t worry that I’m becoming a bitter old man, but at the same time, I’m not happy with this role life has given me.

Tried going to socials. Nay. Tried to join societies. Too easy to lose your  identity. Tried charity work. To o many smug snobs thinking they are above everyone else. Man, I like living in this world, I just don’t like the rest of humanity.

“There must be something else”, as The Dawn Chorus said. I look at the picture in my wallet, take it out while the rain continues to make West Street a proper bog (not as smelly as the one in Corporation, though) and the stone in my back is not as heavy as the pain she caused. The picture, those 10 grams of glossy paper, as heavy as a stone in my pocket, “a reminder of a thing I can’t forget”.

Takeaway places smelling of grease, clogged arteries and fun times. I walk past them. The last of them is Aslan’s and I didn’t like it the only time I was drunk enough to end up there. A long walk back home to Fulwood is my only company now.

I scroll through the Zune. Maybe something good will help me go up the hill? I press “random” and Unaesta’s ‘La vida es una lenteja’ plays, soiling my ears. How did that ended up in my Zune?

A couple of idiots with bottles start talking shit. I refute back in kind. Smart move, ex lax. The first punch lands me on the floor and I go for all the dirty tricks I learnt from my Mexican dad and my Liverpudlian cousins. It escalates and we all get nicked by Old Bill.

That’s alright. I’ll plea insanity again.

Big Love and f.t.w.

Quintana “Quinto” Haberno.

About the author: Don’t judge him, he comes from a broken home. The roof split in half, y’see?

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