Was it good when I slapped a friend across the face? And then started crying?
Was it good when I touched a friend's leg, got accused of publicly groping them, and then started crying?
Was it good when I tried my best to make a dramatic exit, stormed off only to run into a fence, and then started crying?
Was it good when I read a text message, and then started crying?
Was it good when a friend was telling me a story, and I started crying?
Was it good when I dropped my cell phone? And then started crying?
Was it good when a friend played me a song, which made me start crying?
Was it good when I was sitting in a chair, and started crying?
Was it good when I pissed my pants?
NO, BEER, IT WAS NOT GOOD. They say (who is "they" I don't really know, but they sure do say it.) that once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern. So what about eight times? Eight times is an embarrassment, that's what it is. Eight times is when someone should tell you to get your shit together. (I did not include the last one, because it has nothing to do with crying. You'd think, of all the events mentioned above, peeing on myself would be the most worthy of tears, but since it only happened once; I am going to repeat that: ONCE; it is an accident. Did you get that? Accident. Not a coincidence, not a pattern, an embarrassment, yes, but an accident. AccidentaccidenthumiliatingACCIDENT.
Damn you. Listen up, I never wet my pants when I was kid; I never even wet the bed, so I think that peeing myself ONE TIME when I'm...nineteenyearsoldwhichreallydoesn'tmatter...equals the countless number of times YOU wet your bed throughout your elementary school years and had to have Mommy change your sheets, while Little Natasha was warm, dry, and bladder-controlled. I'm extremely thankful for my bladder, and so really, I had just decided to do it a favor, and let it relieve itself when it felt like it. Bladder-freedom. Freedom to blad. Babies have it, why can't I? I'm reliving my adolescence, that's really all it is. Maybe I missed out on the Mother-Daughter bondage by never getting to work up the courage to tell her my white sheets somehow changed colors in the middle of the night. Why am I even defending myself? Shit happens. And so does piss.
The point is the crying thing. What is with that? I mean, really? I'm baffled. Bewildered. Bumbuzzled. See? I'm so flabbergasted I had to make up a word for my feeling toward it. Watch out, Dr. Suess, Dr. Natasha is in the house and her bumbuzzlement beats your pathetic star-bellied sneeches! Sneech this, asshole: I'm never drinking beer AGAIN. I mean, what's the point? Do you think I enjoy crying while everyone else is laughing and touching each other and dropping the L-word to people they just met? Scenario time.
"Hey I'm Juju!"
(I'm running out of fake names.)
"Juju AHHHHH you are soooo COOOLLLSIESS!"
(I'm also running out adjectives.)
"So are YOU, Marva!"
"GEORGE! I LOVE YOU!"
"I love YOU, Juice!"
"Not JUICE, we love BEER!"
"YEAH, BEER! YAYYY! Woah, what's up with the girl over there?"
"Is she CRYING?"
"And SLAPPING people?"
"She needs some beer!"
"She HAS a beer!"
"HOW CAN SHE BE CRYING WHEN SHE HAS A BEER?!"
"BEER IS AWESOMEEEEE!"
"NO; YOU'RE AWESOME YAMACA!"
"It's still George..."
"I LOVE YOU NO MATTER WHAT YOUR NAME IS!"
"No one has ever said that to me before! I LOVE YOU, TOO!"
"You guys are so sweet..."
This is me.
"It makes me want to cry..."
"YOU ARE CRYING!"
This is Killroy. Or whatever the hell that guy's name is.
That's me, now leaving. And yes, crying.
The worst part is that I don't even realize how ridiculous I'm being at the time. Beer just makes me sad, and not like, "I'm sad because I'm drinking beer," just sad like, "Hey. I'm sad." hence the crying. Then the next day, I wake up, only to think, "FUCK BEER." swearing it off for all eternity. But I'm serious this time. No. More. It doesn't need me, so I don't need it. I can be jolly and gregarious and I can stumble into things and touch people inappropriately without one drop of alcohol in me. I'd rather have piss-free pants than a beer-filled stomach.
Beer, it's over. I'm sorry. It just wasn't working out. I'll see you from time to time, I know; we do have the same group of friends, since all of my friends just love you, but this relationship just wasn't meant to last. You could never make me happy. Or laugh like you made other people laugh. I just never felt included. And honestly, you're kind of an asshole. All you brought was pain, to myself as well as to other people's cheeks. And tears. And not to mention, piss. Goodbye, Beer. Call me in two years.