On Hang-Ups and Fourth Meals

I hung out with a bunch of friends last night. We hadn’t shot the breeze since before the holidays so it was great to chat it up with them whilst enjoying an adult beverage or six. Our conversations, as usual, flew somewhere between inane and heated. I found myself refereeing several times between a Democrat friend and a Republican friend when talks steered toward the political, and both believed their thoughts about current and future states of U.S. government were more sound than the other’s. Luckily, I had some surefire tangents to draw from that allowed the conversation to be about “Obama/Hillary” one second to “McLovin” the next.

R. had just broken up with his girlfriend of eight months, and he’s somewhat heartbroken. Of course, before he came to this realization, he spent an hour talking trash about her, with the requisite “But she was a nice lady” comment interspersed among one reputation-marring statement after the another. S., his ex-girlfriend, is “whacked” according to his parlance, but she apparently provided him with a sort of normalcy that he’s now troubled about being without. He then spent a good amount of time in self-deprecation, believing himself to be directionless and “middle-aged at forty.” He said that he’s not where he thought he would be by this time. We threw a bunch of reassurances his way but I’m afraid only he could get himself out of his funk. I simply told him not to get too hung up on things outside of his immediate control or it would really drive him bonkers. He nodded, took a sip of his double-vodka-soda, and resumed the discussion of Superbad.

I excused myself around midnight and drove to the nearest Taco Bell for Combo #6. I devoured two beef chalupas and a beef taco while at the parking lot, allowing the greasy food to ease my stomach lining. When I got home, I popped two Tylenols and downed two bottled waters before slipping under the covers. Nothing like a border run to ease me to a deep slumber.

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