Kiss Me, I'm [BLANK]

As I was walking back from CVS today with a toothbrush in one hand and some deodorant in the other, a group of girls and guys dressed in green passed me by. Well, stumbled by. Tripped-over-themselves-and-fell-on-the-sidewalked by.

One of the guys, wearing a shirt that said "Kiss me, I'm Irish-ish" made eye contact with me, pointed in my direction and shouted "HEY. You. Nice... Nice..."

Then he paused. You could see his neurons firing, his brain struggling to bridge the gaps between synapses in an effort to think of a witticism that would make his group laugh at my expense.

"Nice... face."

I nodded and kept walking.

It's St. Patrick's Day in Chicago. I spent the day lounging around my apartment. I read some books. Took a nap. Did some Rosetta Stone. Had a glass of wine. Made dinner. Salmon and a baked potato, for those who are curious.

I like to drink as much as the next Irishman, but St. Patty's is on some next level ish. Things get out of hand. I don't like that. I like having things under control, in my fingers, nestled between my palms like a parakeet that I'm trying to keep calm.

That was my attempt at poetry. I'm trying to be poetic. Is it working? I hope so. Fake it till you make it. Am I right, ladies?

A few years ago, Delma and I went out with some friends for St. Patrick's Day. It was a fun time. We went to a few bars, drank a few beers, ate a few tacos (traditional Irish fare). Then we walked home and fell asleep in our queen-sized bed. At 3AM, we woke up to the sound of grunting and moaning.

For a second, I thought our place was haunted. Then I remembered that Delma's brother was staying with us so I thought he was watching videos online. The moaning intensified.

"Don't stop. Don't stop!"

Then I thought Delma's brother was watching porn online.

But the moaning got even louder and then I heard something kick our window. We lived in a garden unit back then. 'Garden unit' is a fancy term that realtors use to refer to basements. But because we lived in a basement, we had an excellent view of the sidewalk outside.

I took a peek out the window and saw a pair of jeans around a dude's ankles. I looked up and got an excellent view of his firm buttocks, clenching and thrusting forward. In front of him was a young lady with a green skirt hiked over her back, her arms pressed up against the wooden fence that surrounded our building. I had never seen that guy before. Or maybe I had and I just didn't recognize him from that angle.

"Keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing," she shouted.

I turned to Delma. Delma shrugged. I went out into the living room and looked at Delma's brother. Delma's brother shrugged. The moaning and grunting stopped after a few minutes and we all went back to sleep.

The following morning, I found a plastic green hat, some beads and a $20 bill outside by the wooden fence. Ghostly remnants of our nocturnal visitors. The only reminder of a night of decadence and indulgence. Hangovers dissipate. Memories fade. But beads and a plastic green hat? Those are forever.

St. Patrick's Day, y'all.

/drəNGk/

Wine is delicious. Wine is... All of the positive adjectives. I can't think of them right now. I'm typing coherently, but if you asked me to spell it out for you, I'd say "Wineisdelishur." Because it's true. And because I'm drunk.

Yes. I am drunk. Yes, I had half a I had 3/4ths a bottle of wine with my salmon and tuna sushi rolls. I filled my glass to the brim because I thought one glass meant one full glass and I was all like "If most wine bottles contain 4-5 glasses of wine, why is this bottle nearly empty after one?"

This is probably a bad idea. Blogging while drunk, I mean. But so far, hey, zero typos!

I once did drunk improv. In college. It was one of the most fun improv experiences I've ever had, but apparently, it wasn't as much fun for the audience. My pants came off. My boxers did not. But they almost did. Had I had one more Jagerbomb, they most certainly would have. Delma was in the front row and she freaked out.

I don't drink Jager anymore because I once finished an entire handle of Jager by myself while playing Pokémon cards withs my cousins. I played Mewtwo and then woke up curled around the toilet with the wastebasket filled with vomit.

I want more of that malbec I bought. Is malbec a type of wine? I don't know. It says malbec on the bottle. It's red.

I'm not much for wine tasting. Or palettes in general. People will be all like "I taste hints of earthy cinnamon and singed oak with just a hint of truffle oil smothered with vanilla" and I'll be all like "I TASTE RED."

I just laughed for a minute straight at "I TASTE RED." I hope you did too.

Guys. Guys guys guys. These are the drunks ramblings of Alfonso Zapata. Alf Zap.

I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art today and I thought WHat is this shit? Honestly, I don't "get" it. But when I go to the art institute, I can appreciate the art, you know? I like it. Most of the stuff that's contemporary kinda sucks.

Except for this film of a dude riding the railroad through Alaska. That was sick. I wish I could travel likethat, but I'd freak out too much about my morning anxiety.

Morning anxiety? More like MOURNING anxiety, am I right, ladies?

ALSO, if it's CONTEMPORARY, why is it DONE?

I was thinking of using that as a stand-up joke, but it's kinda stupid. So I won't. But I wanted to share it. So I'm sharing it with you. Boom.

I don't know how long I'm going to make this post. I think I've been writing for half an hour. The laundry is being done. I put my boxers in there. I never realized how many boxers I got, but I gots lots.

I hope this is as enjoyable to read as it is to write.

Who was is that said "Write drunk, edit sober?" Was it Hemingway? Maybe. Maybe not. I DON'T KNOW, STOP PESTERING ME, JESUS.

I think about Delma a lot. I love her. A lot. This isn't just the malbec talking (seriously, is malbec a type of wine? I need to know). These past few months have been rough. I've been keeping myself super busy with work and reading and writing and stand-up, but it's not the same. Every night, when I go to bed, I think about her. I miss holding her. Every night, when she was here, I'd wrap my arms around her and kiss her neck. Then we'd just lay there until we fall asleep. And, every night, without fail, I'd have to wake up and move my arms because they'd be numb, but it was ok.

I know what you're thinking.

But whatever. I'm drunk off that malbec. Purple drank. Cus a malbec is a wine made frim purple grapes. Am I right, ladies?

ANYWAYS, I miss her. And I want to be with her.

But things (that originally said "butt things") are going great here in Chi-town. The job is better than I could have imagined. We're already pitching TV spots! What the hell?! We're in a great position to make shit happen. You know? In fact, we've already sold some radio. Here. Check it.

The stuff I do now will help me in the future. Also, I never thought I'd enjoy a job this much. It's ridiculous. We get paid to make people laugh. Seriously. It's awesome.

So there's that.

I will porbably be hungover tomorrow. But tonight, I am fine. I am more than fine.

I don't know. I'm tired of blogging. I just want to play Zelda while drinking more wine. It's Saturday night and I am already too much.

Airing out dirty laundry while doing real laundry. Blogging about shit I shouldn't be blogging about. I might regret this tomorrow.

Have a good Saturday night. Read this wile you can cus I'll probably take it down tommorrow morning.