you like drinking games, do you?

every year, the president of the united states recites a well-rehearsed script informing us, his beloved citizens, of the state of our blessed union.

every year, as a coping mechanism, i play along. i've developed a little game called, "pick a word of patriotism." each person chooses a word the president is likely to use during the SOTU address (congress, democracy, weapons of mass destruction, etc.) for every time the president utters your word, you get to take a drink of the alcohol of your choice. it's fun, and it fucks you up. . .enough to tolerate the bushisms, anyway.

well. . .look what the new york times did.

they gave us a little interactive tool to analyze exactly how wasted you've gotten yourself during the last 7 speeches.

for example, i chose the word "freedom." according to the NYT, i guzzled from my wine glass seventeen times in 2006, but was only afforded with 3 shots of jagermeister in 2007.
my little brother happened to be in the united states during last years SOTU, and he picked the word "america." for all his trouble, george bush awarded him with 72 chances to sip whiskey. this year, had pat been in the country, he would have drank 42 more times.

so maybe it's "hope" you're into, or "iraq," or "oil" perhaps. but let me warn you, "global warming" is not an advised choice, as the president has only addressed the concept once in the last 7 speeches, and even then referred to it as a "global climate change."

it's too bad they don't have a graphic to show how many monkey faces he makes. maybe next year.

scars are a reminder.

of good things, i'm sure.
the pain was only temporary
and even when the wound was fresh, i barely noticed.
i see this gash across my wrist now, and it makes me smile.
not a sick, twisted, masochistic grin,
but a nostalgic, lingering, satisfied smirk.
maybe if i pick at it enough, it will never go away.
it will become a constant reminder
of one vague and glorious evening that i can't recall.

callused hands.

and what is poetry anyway?
who writes it, and how do they really feel?
twisted and tangled emotions around my heart--
my waist, my neck, my legs.
twisted and tangled the sheets on your bed.
why not everyday?
why not tonight?

help me remember the night.
help me to remember why.
convince me we had more than a few good reasons,
we had music, we had shadows, we had the place to ourselves.
convince me there will be other nights--
there will be other nights.

just let me make the most of it.
let me make the most of you.

midwest boys play stupid games.

my sister drunk dialed me tonight. all the way from ireland.
i love her. i love her. i love her.


thank you, katie. i'm sure this will all work itself out, but in the meantime, i loved trying to make some sense of it with you. you really are beautiful, and you really do know it.


so enough with the games, boys. just assume that it's going to work. i'm not going to tug you around on a string, i won't use "cute" pet names, i won't embarrass you in front of your friends, hell i don't even have to be around your friends. to be honest, it's not them i find very interesting; it's you. foreign men apparently have mastered the art of seduction, while coastal types at least attempt to be charming. it's time to step up, before i lose interest in the midwest completely.