Rock Bottom

I began counting backwards to the night Debbie dumped me. Scott said that was an understatement, but hell, our divorce isn’t even final yet, and we were barely married before she started up with her ex behind my back, ultimately leaving me for him after his stupid app made him a millionaire.

The douchebag came up with a map app that doesn’t start giving you directions until you’re on a state or county highway. Yeah, it’s fucking genius, but it’s also Dave, so there’s that.

You should have seen Deb’s eyes light up when she showed it to me. I even used the damn thing to get to the gig the night she left me for him. It’s a good fucking app, but I’ll never use it again.

Anyway, it fucked me up bad, and like the dumbass I am, I let Tom and Joe take me to the Broad Street ballet the next night, where I got shitfaced and went home with some stripper who “never does this.” I mean I had to be drunk as Cooter Brown, fucked up as a football bat or soup sandwich to go home with a stripper. I’m the kind of guy who washes his hands after handling money because I figure it’s been in some stripper’s sweaty g-string. So that was one.

Then, after that Christmas party we played with the fancy caterer, there was that bartender with the sad eyes. She tried to turn my rebound into a relationship, and it ended badly. I still get the occasional drunken fuck you text from her.

I’ve been fairly well-behaved, but there was that party at Joe’s between Christmas and New Year’s. I’m still not clear on the events of that night, and I’m damn sure not asking anyone who might have been there. Joe’s parties can get really out of hand, like to the degree that when Debbie and I were together, I didn’t go to Joe’s parties. They’ve ended more than their share of relationships and good things.

Rule of three. I put a three in the box and moved on. The door opened a few times while I was checking the family history boxes, but I didn’t look up. It always seemed like the people who filled out the forms fastest got called back sooner.

“Mark.”

I didn’t even look up, so they called my name again. The third time, it dawned on me that it was me. I’m used to hearing my first and last name, Mark Johnson, because for some reason people think my name is peanut butter and jelly and can’t be separated. I went back and painfully peed in the cup, then sat down on the paper over the exam table to wait for the q-tip, hoping I wouldn’t pass out like I did the one other time I had to come here. I’d rather not relive that exam, so let’s just say that I’m not going to any more of Joe’s parties or falling into another pair of sad bartender eyes. Definitely not going home with a stripper ever again. Like I told the nurse practitioner, I’ve learned my lesson but good, and you won’t be seeing me here again.

📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖

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