Sabrina – Hopeful

Poor girls and their substance abuse.

So the dust has settled and Jill is back tanning her ass at the salon and all is forgiven. She shows up with hot Sabrina the other night and I totally want to date her. I’ve actually been texting her that we should go out and do some sober fun things.

I figured it would be good for the blog. Drunk dude takes drinkie girl out for sober date and ice cream.

I have been talking to this old guy that comes in and tans and he works at the Walnut Street Theater. He wants to get me tickets because I helped him with a problem he had with his new phone and I’m the only one that listens to him complain. (He’s said this to me!)

He has access to tickets to shows at the theater and I want to take Jill’s hot friend Sabrina to them.

Thing is, Sabrina lives in a halfway house with Jill and is an addict like her. I talk to Sabrina and Jill clears the way with the coolness factor. But all drug addicts are liars and so is Sabrina. It’s ok. She says that her last boyfriend got her into drinking and it just took her like Jill. I get that. It’s okay. It happens, you have the gene and that shit takes you. I’ve met dozens of addicts.

But one day Jill is tanning and she tells me that with Sabrina her thing is heroin. Holy fuck. She’s super hot. She doesn’t look like a former junkie.

What do I do?

I go out with her. She’s been clean for over seven months. So could she have a drink or will the high of alcohol make her want to go up to Kensington and score some smack? I need to find this out before I go out with her. Maybe I’ll just stick to a show and some ice cream.

I’ll write more when and if the date happens.

 

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Sun Sories: Trish – Trail of Destruction

I come home from work the other day, and Trish is in my living room chatting with my daughter Lorelei.

I’ve cooled to Trish since her arrest, but my daughter likes her and they hang out sometimes at the house. Trish lives in the apartment below us, so I need to be civil.

Trish is telling the story of her cocaine arrest to Lorelei. How she got a small fine, has to attend some classes and has to do community service. I guess its because it was her first offense and she doesn’t have a record.

“Yea, it’s been a wake up call for me.”

“Well that’s good.”

“My community service is over at the senior center helping the old folks. I really like them!”

“Maybe you’ve found your calling.”

“How is Jill making out at the salon?”

“We fired her.”

“What happened?”

“One day she was supposed to work and she didn’t show up.”

“Wow. I just saw her earlier in the week. I was upset about my arrest and I went to the salon and then we went out together.”

“What did you guys end up doing?”

“Just went out for a few drinks. I wanted to go home after a couple but she said she was heading for another bar.”

“What? When was that?”

“Monday night. Why?”

“Oh my God. No….”

“What?”

“You were with Jill when she got blackout drunk and was subsequently kicked out of her sober halfway house!”

“What?”

“She didn’t show up for work at the salon the next day because she was looking for a place to live!”

“But she wasn’t drunk when she was with me.”

“But you said she left you and was headed to another bar. You were there that Saturday before when she was sitting in the salon and said, “I can’t just have one drink. I have to keep going and then I want to go out. I can’t stop.”

“Oh fuck. So I’m the catalyst that made her relapse?”

“Looks that way.”

“Shit.”

“Anyway, I’m going to go to my room and watch my show. I’ll be through for some ice periodically. Night girls.”

 

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Dating and Relationship Advice – The Four Types of Love Addiction

“Romantic love is heavily associated with the same regions of the brain as drug addiction.”

I feel like this is one of my most personal and powerful reveals. I’ve done extensive research on this subject over the past three years and here’s what I’ve discovered.

Romantic love is heavily associated with the same regions of the brain as drug addiction. Those who have it experience the same intensely pleasurable feelings, while those who are deprived of it experience the same crashing emotional lows and cravings. Consequently, it’s fair to say that love is an addiction. Whether it is positive or negative, though, depends on whether the love is reciprocated, appropriate and nontoxic.

Still, because everyone’s different, there are different types of negative love addiction. Humans can be loosely categorized into four major types, based on their overall patterns of thoughts and behaviors. Each of the four types tends to experience negative love addiction in a different way.

Romance Junkies

Romance junkies fall into the category of explorers, ruled largely by the dopamine system of the brain. Explorers are adrenaline junkies, hooked on thrills, adventures, and above all, novelty. In romance, this translates into an ongoing search for the dopamine rush affiliated with new relationships. When the infatuation phase gives way to the inevitable crash and burn, romance junkies are likely to go elsewhere seeking a new infatuation. (Totally me.)

Attachment Junkies

Builders, who are largely ruled by serotonin, are cautious, conventional, rigid rule-followers. They like to stick to plans and schedules, and take responsibility very seriously. Consequently, they tend to revere attachment above all other elements of a serious relationship. Their love addiction keeps them holding on long after a relationship has run its course.

Violence Junkies

People who fall into the directors category are largely ruled by testosterone. Although many directors never escalate into physical violence, they tend to be less empathetic and less socially skilled than their peers. Consequently, they tend to be action-oriented, using their physicality to express their emotions. They are likely to become violence junkies, addicted to chaos and turmoil in their relationships. When they are rejected, violence junkies may turn to stalking, physical attacks, or even impulsive suicide or homicide.

Despair Junkies

Negotiators are ruled primarily by estrogen and oxytocin. They tend to be agreeable, trusting, nurturing, and introspective, the caretakers in their relationships. Their addiction runs toward self-sacrifice, giving more than they should to heavily damaged partners. When they are rejected, despair junkies fall into rumination, obsessive thinking, and clinical depression. They tend to talk endlessly about the trauma, blame themselves, and try fruitlessly to figure out what they did wrong. Despair junkies are at higher risk for suicide in the wake of rejection.

Love addiction is complicated and highly personal, and every situation is different. Most people, regardless of type, manage to successfully navigate the pain associated with a breakup. Still, it is wise to be aware of your own type and those of your closest friends, and to watch out for each other in the weeks and months following a rejection. Taking proactive steps to ease the trauma can help to ensure that you do not fall into a dangerous pattern.

Which one are you? I’d love to hear some feedback from you.

 

 

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Annabelle – Chapter 10 – Girlfriend

Oh great, we’re “In a relationship” on Facebook.

I could feel things were moving forward with Annabelle. We would text and Facebook message each other when we were apart. We would send each other songs and it was nice. I could tell she had thrown the switch and I was the man in her life now.

It’s funny when you read Michelle compared to this odyssey with Annabelle. Here we are in chapter 10 and she’s just becoming sort of my girlfriend. When you live something you feel it immediately. But you’re in the movie and you can’t really see the whole show. Because you’re just one of the actors. Then you think about it later, and talk about it to your friends, it’s another layer. But when you write about it, you really can see it clearly, even if you can’t remember all of the dates and moments. I think that’s why therapists ask their patients to keep a journal. Writing lets you stand back from the events of your life and really see it for what it is or was.

Writing these stories has really helped me break the shell of my understanding and bring a calm clarity to my life and the journey itself.

Annabelle was in her 20’s and trying to make her way. I could see she was bitter that her parents had spent $100k on her education in college to go the School for the Arts here in Philly. She wanted to be an actress. Like millions before her she had the dream of being a successful actress. Her sister is an emergency room doctor. Her other sister is a lawyer. Both of then seem nuts and can’t keep a man. Her brother flies helicopters for NATO and lives in Texas. Annabelle’s parents had the money to send her to a good school and do whatever their “weird, artsy daughter” wanted to do. I’ve never met her family, because she said she didn’t want me to meet them because she kind of didn’t like them.

I know… Here it comes. Deep water.

This family is a product of dysfunction. Her father has an amazing job and makes a fortune each year. He’s fat and unhealthy and seems like a miserable person that hates his life. They’re from the south so there is some racism and homophobia in that family as well.

Annabelle has an uncle that she loves who’s gay and the family have basically disowned him because “being a faggot” is against God. What the fuck? I’ve met him and he’s a wonderful man.

Annabelle’s dad was always distant so that makes the daughters over achievers to please dad and never really understand men, and have fucked up relationships, because they were never raised by a man who led by example to send his daughters into tomorrow on a solid straight line.

The son usually ends up moving away and barely talking to the family, because dad’s a dick and mom’s tuned out.

Annabelle’s mother was I assume a trophy wife who lives the rich life. She blows money on all kind of stuff and even shoplifts sometimes for the thrill of it. This is a woman who is profoundly unhappy and thinks the rules don’t apply to rich people. Annabelle actually told me that she said that. She never cooked meals for the kids and all they did was eat take out so they’re sort of like wealthy white trash.

I guess this is where Annabelle learned her eating habits. You know how I feel about this. I’m an elegant dude with killer manners and I was appalled to watch Annabelle wolf her meals down when I was with her. She ate like my buddy Church when he’s stressed out and instead of drinking he stuffs his feeling with chow.

But here we have is this very tall somewhat average girl who just isn’t right for New York or Hollywood. They want a type and she just isn’t it.

A million people go to Hollywood and NYC each year thinking they are going to “make it.” Do you know how hard that is to do? It’s just mostly luck and being in the right place at the right time. I lived in LA and wanted to be a metal god in a rock band. It never happened. I’d probably be dead or a complete asshole had it happened.

Matt Leblanc had $17 in his checking account when he landed the role of Joey Tribbiani on the hit sitcom, Friends. He was broke. By the final season he was being paid $1 million an episode. That is lightning striking.

All of these dancers, writers, actors think their going to make it in these cities and maybe about 9 make it a year. Those are less than Powerball lottery odds.

So all of these failed “artists” are bitter when I tell them I’d like another round of drinks, or that I’m going to need these shirts back from the dry cleaners by Wednesday instead of Thursday.

So they huddle together with all of the other failures in their little circle of people and just do whatever they can. It’s really sad. You have to accept the inevitable and go do something else. I have an outgoing personality, so I went into sales and financial services. I was fine. I can comfortably wrap myself in my memories that I gave it a shot and it just didn’t happen. My father used to say, “if you don’t get something in life, you didn’t want it bad enough.”

Okay that’s total bullshit and something he read somewhere. His brother had a great creative mind but my dad just didn’t. No fault no foul. He was just that guy. But he educated himself with books his whole life. But the problem with that is you become the sum of other people’s experiences and thoughts. Not your own. It makes you sound smart and helps you get ahead in life, but there is no creativity in it. He once gave me the greatest compliment he would ever give me when he saw me play guitar. He said. “I love music but you can actually MAKE music.” That was huge to me. I’ll get into that whole thing in another post series that will publish in 2018.

But what I’m saying is, these failed artist types just aren’t very talent so they all cling together for support. That’s a normal reaction. Showbiz is the only vocation that devours its young. It’s sad, but if you choose that life be prepared to work as a waitress a lot.

When they’re with their failed brethren working on some shitty project or stage play that just suck Royal Canadian moose cock and is painful to watch you feel sorry for them as to how silly it is. It’s a shame. They always use words like “Amazing” to describe the performances of the people around them, and it just isn’t true.

I have been and artist (pen and ink) a musician and a writer. There is nothing AMAZING about any of it. They will say things like, Our musical director and pianist is so AMAZING. No. He’s not. He’s just a bitter asshole who is mean to everyone around him as he plinks away at his piano playing the shitty soundtrack to your play that makes no fucking sense.

He’s not at Carnegie Hall, he’s not selling out the Wells Fargo Center. That’s what he wanted, but it never happened, so he’s stuck with your shitty little troupe to just keep going.

People use the word, AMAZING and AWESOME all of the time now. Everyone is misusing it.

There once was a little boy who at 6 years old his teachers said. “I think something is wrong with your son. He hardly speaks. He is unreachable and unteachable. He’s lost in his world of dreams. That little boy was Albert Einstein. Now that motherfucker was AMAZING.

Little myopic, chubby, homosexual Reginald Dwight struggled in his life. That little boy became Sir Elton John. That man is AWESOME.

See the difference? I know it seems like I’m digressing into something else. My last girlfriend Michelle had her challenges in life but on the ground floor and pound for pound she’s a solid lady.

Annabelle is a handful. I feel love and lust for her, but now she’s picked up a camera and like a thousand other swinging dicks in this city calls herself a photographer. She’s struggling to figure out what she’s going to do with the rest of her life or at leat the next 5 years.

She’s a very juvenile 27-year-old. Michelle had worked in business since college. She’s worked for corporations and been in offices and worked with people in real commerce. Annabelle is a failed actress who is trying to make her way as a photographer taking other shitty actors headshots and shooting people’s weddings. It’s a constant struggle for a person who never worked in a real job and spent her childhood making art in her bedroom. If it was good and she got discover it would be a totally different story, but it’s not. It’s the other side of the coin.

This is what I have gotten myself into. I think I’m in love with her. I feel it. But there is a euphoria that is connected to it that isn’t real. It’s not good. I’ve felt this before but the drug of falling in love is so strong with this one that it’s doing things to me.

I had it with Michelle in the beginning as we all do, but with her it settled down into domesticity. That cools the addiction.

I’m older now and I have turned the clock back once again on a young girl. I’m older now and here I go with another 27-year-old who doesn’t know who she is, what she wants and where she is going. This is the problem dating younger women. It’s a vicious circle that I have repeated many times. Michelle was stable. This one is all over the place. Lost.

A leaf blowing in the wind.

But the drug of love takes me and I’m in it now. We don’t make love, we fuck. Annabelle has sex like she does everything else in her life. Like a fool. We have sex like she eats her food. There isn’t a mutual celebration of us sharing our most intimate vessels in union.

Because if the only tool you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail.

It’s good. It’s hot. Come on. Even mediocre sex that isn’t what you want is still sex. The fury. The release. Sex is like free beer and pizza but if the pizza is tough and the beer is warm it’s just not the same.

She always had to be working on her photography, because her mind and calendar were unmanageable. But I get it. We’re in different places in our lives. She’s trying to make something. I’m cruising at 51.

There were times she would get so wrapped up in her work that she would come over. I was cooking her a romantic dinner in front of the fireplace. (I’m a deadly cook) She would show up sometimes and say tonight was a work party. That meant that at some point she would be working on her photography stuff. Do that shit at home. Manage your schedule and your work load and be able to turn it off when you’re with a loved one. I can always separate the two. That’s a person. Focus on them tonight.

I quit smoking and it was really easy. I literally stopped buying them. No withdrawal, because I had replaced that addiction with Annabelle. I know I loved her more than she loved me so it was easy. I went from a 36 waist to a 32 waist in 3 months. Yea. I did that for Annabelle.

When somebody really loves you, they love you for you. Period. They dig the person you are right now. But me being in love with the idea of love and not even knowing it was happening to me is a crazy addiction. That was me then.

I am no longer that man. (But still sporting the 32 inch waist, baby!)

I thought this post would be different. My notes said how when she came over and we watched Jurassic Park together. Or how the first time we had sex, I remember looking in her eyes with a sense of teenage nervousness as I slowly slipped her black lace panties down her long slender thighs and having sex with her for the first time. It was great. I was happy to be with her. I was lit the fuck up from being in love with someone.

So the relationship is hot and cold. I’m feeling a little crazy being with Annabelle. That should have been a string of red flags, but like when I started this tome you just can’t see it.

She’d be isolated from me for 10 days at a clip because she was so wrapped up in her stuff. Shoots, working on two plays at a time that were both garbage, and just being a scatter brain. She doesn’t have a good relationship with her dad, but it seems she is very much like him. Just an isolated person that is consumed by whatever she’s working on and to hell with the real people in her life.

She started talking about moving to Belgium out of nowhere and studying animation. (No idea) The next time I saw her (Which was like 3 days later) She said she was going to become a company member of a drag cabaret.  It’s just this one guy that loves to run around in public in a dress, and a few other losers that put on the most godawful shitty musical comedy plays that absolutely blow.

So here I am in love with the idea of love with a girl half my age and I am only feeling three things outside of the sex and dinners.

Frustration, aggravation, and grinding disappointment.

Oh great, we’re “In a relationship” on Facebook.

Fuck. What am I doing?

 

Google the lyrics to this song….

 

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Tales of Rock – Marianne Faithfull Ends Up Homeless

You’ve got to feel for Marianne Faithfull. At the age of 17, she was snapped up by the Rolling Stones’ manager Andrew Loog Oldham merely for being “an angel with big tits” and shoved at the Stones. She churned out some blandly alluring pop records but was most famously Mick Jagger’s girlfriend and muse. When the police raided Keith Richards’ Redlands mansion in 1967 as its occupants concluded an epic acid trip, they claimed they found Faithfull wrapped in nothing but a rug with a candy bar inserted in her vagina (Richards debunked this myth in his 2010 book Life).

She co-wrote the tellingly titled “Sister Morphine,” only to see the Stones wrest control of the song and release it, without crediting her, on their 1971 album Sticky Fingers. By the end of the ’70s she was homeless, living in an abandoned building in London. It was a fate once unthinkable for a woman so beautiful and sexual that still images of her alone created a media sensation and who directly influenced one of the most significant bands of her generation and place.

But Faithfull got the last laugh.

Given the opportunity to cut another album, she turned in the raw, confessional Broken English; an unflinching narrative of what it was like for a glamour model and pop star to find herself an addict living on the street, all backed by understated yet fashionable musical accompaniment. The Stones of this era were singing about “Some Girls,” and this was first person reporting from one they’d cast off.

 

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Johnny R – 2009 to Present – Dive Bar Blues

Johnny came into town recently. I hadn’t heard from him the entire day, and was concerned he would bail. I had just come off an exhausting evening with a lady, and was pretty tired. I had to work at the salon all day and then go meet with him. I wasn’t burned out because I hadn’t drank or smoked anything the night before. She simply wore me out. “Junior achiever, had the old bull by the horns.”(As Steven Tyler would say)

I kind of was hoping he’d bail, but thought it better to text him. It was the end of my shift and he told me he had just arrived at Mcglinchey’s. Being Sunday afternoon, I knew even if we hung out neither of us would last long.

I lock up the salon and headed over. When I get there some seats had opened up at the end of the bar and I beckon him down. I love this place. The staff is surly, the jukebox is good, and the drinks are cheap and you can smoke in this bar.

Perfect.

Johnny’s not happy. So what else is new? He’s always a little disgruntled about something. Currently, he’s pissed that the bartender is hanging all the way at the other end of the bar chatting with her boyfriend.

The bar has somewhat emptied out. There are just small clusters of drinkers at the bar. The jukebox is blasting country music. Which just adds to Johnny’s rage. I don’t care for country music either, but that shit was relentless. He blames the guy that he assumes is the bartender’s boyfriend. She’s not our usual girl, but I can tell she knows us. Johnny is making his faces and doing his hand gestures of disbelief about the poor service.

“Dude, It’s McGlinchey’s!” I tell him. But it does seem way off tonight. It’s not busy enough for us not to be getting the attention that Johnny thinks we so richly deserve. The country hits keep coming and it is getting on my nerves too. I should go over to the jukebox and play a block of Lamb of God, but I don’t know if we’re going to be around long enough to hear any of it.

We have a few rounds and catch up. I tell him what’s going on with work, life and this blog. I even show him in my phone his first chapter. He becomes suddenly giddy and loves that I’ve included him in my story. But, he’s still sore about the poor service and shitty music. “I have an idea. I’m going to hit the head. Be right back.” He says.

I’m still feeling a bit worn out from the previous nights nocturnal exploits. But this always happens. I’ll just go to bed early tonight and be as good as new tomorrow.

Johnny returns from the bathroom with a twinkle in his steel-blue eyes, and a spring in his step.

“Well this is a change in attitude. Did you meet a guy in there?”

“Ha ha. I just did a little bump of coke.”

“Oh nice. Maybe you’ll be in a better fucking mood now.”

“You look a little tired. Want some?”

“I’m good, Johnny, but thanks.”

I like Johnny on either adderall or coke. Stimulants help him focus and actually sober him up a bit. He’s Irish and he loves his Bud bottles. If he has a little something extra, it sustains him at the bar longer. However, things aren’t improving at our beloved McGlinchey’s tonight. I’ve had a couple of $2.60 glasses of wine with ice and he’s throwing back the beer and coke, but the vibe is off due to the music and poor service. Normally this is a bar we’re happy to camp out in for hours on end, but it’s just not happening.

I tell him we should leave and go to one of my favorite spots. He’s fed up as well and agrees. We cash out and hit the trail. The better bar is only about four blocks away. He’s complaining about the cold and doesn’t want to be out in it too long. I assure him he won’t die of frostbite. Plus his nose must already be frozen from the blow.

We get there and take a seat at the bar. Totally different vibe. Warm and happy. The bartender comes over to greet us with an open hand. Roman is one of my favorite bartenders in the city. There are better mixologists with more knowledge in the city, but Roman brings personality and creativity to his bar. He’s part of the experience and makes everyone feel welcome.

Johnny is happy when Roman hands him an ice-cold Bud bottle. It’s a nice upscale place, but there is something for everyone. Roman is letting me test out some new cocktails, and Johnny is feeling much better. After a while I no longer feel as tired as I did earlier. Just good energy flowing from all around.

Johnny’s girlfriend calls him. He thought maybe she’d be picking him up but she says that she’s not. He’s usually in two different places with Rachel. Aggravated or frustrated. They’ve been together for over eight years and that seems to be the way they love. Who am I to judge? Johnny talks about writing a blog again. I tell him, I’m not going to bring it up again. He says he has all of the information in his head. He just needs to let it out. It’s easier than ever to release your thoughts onto the page. The trick is to actually do it. Thinking a lot of great and wild thoughts is cool, but actually bringing them forth is quite another, and no easy task.  I think if Johnny would make the time, and could be on the right cocktail of drugs and alcohol, he would write some fucking great shit. But the only way to do that is to sit down and write.

Write everyday if you can.

After a while, we’re both feeling good, but Johnny needs to get home and feed his cats. He says that maybe the coke will put him in the mood to write. I don’t mind if he never writes a word. I just enjoy having him in my life as a friend. I know you were hoping we’d get into some vice this time, but again, we have behaved ourselves.

Maybe we’re both just getting older.

 

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Church – 2013 to Present -Seizure Salad

I’m sitting in my go to bar with Church. It’s our spot and it’s what we do. He’s sipping a Sailor Jerry and Coke, and I’m having my usual Chardonnay with a side of ice. He orders a salad and I go with the sliders. There is a couple a few seats down from me to my right. I know the guy, his name is Brian, but I don’t know the lady he’s with so I wave but don’t approach. He could be working.

On the left of Church, is a brunette in her thirties and an older gentleman. Looks like a lawyer. We don’t really pay any attention. We’re chatting and doing our thing.

Daphne rolls behind the bar and says hello. She tells me it’s a slow night. Not much happening. She goes back to her hostess stand and it’s just another night in paradise.

Suddenly, the woman who was sitting to Church’s left, goes off the bar stool and hits the floor. Normally, I’d call that Thursday night.  We see so many banged up people around the city losing their shit. But this woman was having a seizure. People within visual range are shocked and the bar goes quiet.

I point to the phone on the wall, because the bartender on duty didn’t see one of her patrons suddenly vanish from the bar. “Liz, call 911.”

She starts dialing. Church, with his cat-like reflexes, springs into action and goes from sitting next to me sipping a drink to all the way around the other side of her on the floor holding her head to keep her steady. I get down there and untangle her leg from the lower rail of his bar stool. I have the legs. Church is focuses on the poor woman’s head. She’s thrashing about, and Church is barking commands to those around him. He’s literally single-handedly coordinating the effort to help save this poor woman, and keeping her from injuring herself further.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but Church was formerly a Corpsmen in the United States Navy.

A Corpsman works in a wide variety of capacities and locations, including shore establishments such as naval hospitals and clinics, aboard ships, and as the primary medical caregivers for sailors while underway. Hospital corpsmen are frequently the only medical caregiver available in many fleet or Marine units on extended deployment. In addition, hospital corpsmen perform duties as assistants in the prevention and treatment of disease and injury and assist health care professionals in providing medical care to sailors and their families.

They may function as clinical or specialty technicians, medical administrative personnel and health care providers at medical treatment facilities. They also serve as battlefield corpsmen with the Marine Corps, rendering emergency medical treatment to include initial treatment in a combat environment. Qualified hospital corpsmen may be assigned the responsibility of independent duty aboard ships and submarines; Fleet Marine Service, SEAL and Seabee units, and at isolated duty stations where no medical officer is available.

Yea, pretty bad ass. That’s the guy you want next to you when somebody takes a header at your favorite bar.

She’s making what almost sounds like barking sounds, and staring wildly about. He’s got a good hold on her. He’s talking to her. But mostly he’s trying to keep her from bashing her face into the wooden wall of the bar. The bartender comes around, and some others have gathered. I grab a cloth napkin and ask if we need to put it in her mouth. I always heard that epileptics could bite or swallow their own tongues. Church says, no. He knows what he’s doing and has the situation well under control.

She seems to be calming down. I look over at the guy who was with her. He’s just standing there staring, and looking uncomfortable. The paramedics come and stabilize her. I feel so bad for her. It’s the holidays, and she’s out for a drinks and this horror befalls her. They get her onto the gurney and roll her out. The police are there and also ask some questions. Church is on point, he gives law enforcement the full report.

They also speak to the guy she came in with. He says he doesn’t know her very well. He met her over at DelFrisco’s steakhouse, and then brought her over here for a drink. That’s a big lawyer hang out. Not my scene. This guy didn’t do anything to help or comfort her when she had the seizure, and he didn’t go to the hospital with her. I don’t care if you just picked up the chick in a bar. Lady falls down, you go to the damn hospital with her. I’m thinking that weasel was married and didn’t want any problems. How would he explain to his wife that he was at the hospital with some other woman? I may be wrong, but I got the vibe something was definitely shady about that guy.

We go back to our seats at the bar and have another drink. Church is pissed because somebody was telling him to turn her head when she was foaming at the mouth and that’s not what you’re supposed to do. Me, I was just glad the lady was okay.

Daphne came over to chat and get a recap. I tell her what I know, and tease her.”You had to say it was a slow night and that nothing was happening, and look what you did, Daph…”

“I know, right? Me and my big mouth.”

Indeed…

 

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