No More Beer

It’s a vow I keep making to myself of late. I spend a fun evening with The Manflesh and our friends, consume five times more beer than everyone combined, make a drunken-fool out of myself, spill orange juice and vodka on my pants repeatedly, and somehow make it home with all of my possessions in tact and in my hand. The next morning, I wake up five pounds heavier and with a displeased stomach that imitates an active volcano. I spend the rest of the day in bed, drinking orange juice, and moaning to myself. “No more beer,” I vow, meaning that from that day forward, I will only get piss-drunk with hard alcohol.

But because I’m unemployed (without unemployment benefits, I might add) I spend my days bored at home. Not depressed, miraculously—but bored nonetheless. Being unemployed with no money is most definitely the worst punishment one can suffer, because something as simple as getting out of the house and going to a cafe becomes an unattainable expense. After a week of being holed up in my confined apartment, applying to an endless sea of job applications that never lead to an interview, I look forward to the next weekend when The Manflesh and I meet up with friends. As soon as the first pitcher of beer is bought, my vow is broken and my lesson remains unlearned.