Pearl Jam Birthday Weekend.

I imagine giving birth is like taking a real hard pee.

(You talk way too much, you talk way too much)

I'm physically nauseated right now. Walking the dog just a minute ago, I had to do that quick-swallowing thing to keep myself from puking all over someone's yard.

Let's see how well you know your Steve Trivia. Take this short quiz on:

Why Is Steve Nauseated?

a) - Steve got to meet and greet his lobster at Red Lobster before it got boiled alive, dying a screaming death, and eaten.
b) - Steve just found out the Renton water supply has some kind of virus in it.
c) - The three fucking days of drinking has finally caught up with Steve, forcing him to re-think his whole position on alcohol.
d) - Steve hasn't written in his journal since his birthday and the lack of writing has gotten him all tied up in knots inside.
e) - Steve made a drunk phone call, of which he remembers no detail or even that the call existed; and all he knows now is that it's REALLY not worth repeating.

Now, as you all know, I'm a sick, vindictive fuck. I hope that lobster burns in hell because he was fucking delicious. And, I'll tell you all right now, Red Lobster is my favorite fucking restaurant in the history of food; that place could NEVER make me feel this sick.

I kinda already knew that the Renton water was causing this fucking ruckus in my bowels. Oh, and believe me, for those of you who are fans of my bowel movements, I've got some doozies for you later in this telecast.

You should REALLY know better than to pick C. I mean, I could probably drink every day of my alcohol-shortened life and not miss a beat. On a really weird note, it looks like my aunt and uncle on my mom's side have quit drinking/smoking. These two could handle their shit, and they probably took down more alcohol in their day than I could ever imagine consuming.

While it bothers me when I miss days in my journal, I like the stockpiling over the weekend to become a nice flood for Monday morning, so it's cool.

Yeah, so it's E. Steve and Cell Phones are just bad fucking news. I'm gonna try to work this post backwards and see how it goes.

I woke up this morning on the ground in the guest bedroom at my dad's house at around 9 or 10am. My first instinct, whenever I wake up from a night I don't remember the ending to, is to think, nay PRAY, "Please tell me I didn't call anyone. Please Dear Lord who art in Heaven, tell me I sat on my phone and broke the shit out of it. Anything but making another drunken call." And then I check my outgoing calls list, and sure enough, this is me, "Jesus Harold Christ, I fucking did it again." No good can EVER come of these calls. I don't want to know what I said, I really don't even want to remember that it happened. Nothing mortifies me more than either not remembering what I've said to someone, or worse, offending someone I really don't want to offend. And here, we're probably both. Nice work.

I never should've agreed to that last pitcher. Two pitchers and a pint of Mac & Jack's would've been plenty. The Irish Car Bomb I bought for me and my dad might've been overkill; but that third pitcher sent me right into the tailspin. My dad fully kicked my ass at pool too. Of the probably 18 games we played, I MIGHT'VE won six. And there were these two DOUCHEY guys next to us, and the one kept talking to us constantly. He's like, "God, I suck so much. I've lost three times already and I won twice . . . no wait I only won once, and that was because he hit the 8-ball in early, and I hit the 8-ball in early twice, so of the four games we played, that means three ended . . ." I mean, FUCK, STOP TALKING TO ME. After a while we just fucking ignored him and stopped making eye contact, and he was STILL trying to talk to us. Seriously, I thought he was gonna turn out to be the worst pool hustler in history. I mean, he wasn't drinking, he was shooting pool like a moron, not even aiming or anything; he was trying to be friendly but was just really annoying. I thought he was gonna be, "We should play a game together, it'll save us quarters . . . you wanna put some money on it?" And then we would've been run and that would've been that. Either way, I was pretty damn close to socking him in the face had he looked at me cross-eyed.

Of course, this was the day after the Pearl Jam concert. Fuck me running, that was God-damned amazing. Second song out the box they pull out "Porch." I don't want to speak for Caitlin, but I bet we were both close to crapping our pants. Only one of us literally, of course. I was good through Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart (they played the Battle of Evermore from the Singles soundtrack, that was pretty bonus). I LOVED the Presidents, they always pull off fucking great live shows. But, as soon as Pearl Jam got on stage, I needed to use the potty. No, I didn't have to pee; didn't even have to poop really. I just had the WORST fucking gas you'd ever believe. I was in constant misery all through the set, and I HATE that because I was so looking forward to this. So, right after the show, I go to the men's room and it was like cannons were going off. All the pee-ers were laughing at me, cheering me on. It fucking sucked. I look in the toilet, there's like a little tiny brown splotch. So, you know, it wasn't something I could let pass quietly during Pearl Jam and blame on the dog or the older lady next to me. That was ALMOST as miserable as the shit I took in Red Lobster tonight, though. I thought I was never going to leave the bathroom; and I fucking hate using these public toilets too, but what can you do?

Preceeding Pearl Jam, I had my day of drinking. Started 'round noon and had 10 beers up until the time Caitlin and Melody picked me up. That was a great fucking day too; Devin showed up and we all played Monopoly (I kicked their asses - Josh, Jake and Devin), the Cheers board game (I was Carla and kicked all their asses), and finally Spades (Jake and I got run pretty good, I think Devin was a silent ringer, pretending he didn't know how to play the game, man fuck that shit). You'll never see a prouder cat than me for being so good about my drinking on Friday. I had to be nearly sober for the concert otherwise I would've been fucking pissed at myself. I mean, I already fucked up the Ryan Stiles show to the point where I really don't remember much beyond the fact that it was hilarious. I didn't want to miss out on my first PJ experience.

And, of course, all of this craziness started Thursday night, which I already covered last time. So, besides my drunk call and some random acts of idiocy, I think it was a success. The only thing that's gonna get me over this nausea, though, is more cowbell . . . er alcohol. You know, I do obsess about these things constantly, and it'll probably keep me up fucking LATE tonight, but if there's a silver lining (oh yeah, cliché time. I write the words people want to read, okay?) to this whole being an alcoholic thing, it's the fact that my diminishing brain cells seem to be dissolving fastest in my memory department. Hopefully, in a week or so, I'll forget about it and be able to go on with my life.

But, for the moment, I just gotta keep from throwing up all over myself