M was very sad. She was crying and trying not to. She was in severe emotional distress over that freaking Hallmark commercial. I think we maybe should sue those people.
She did not want me to hug her, because hugging makes people cry harder. I understood, but hugged her anyway. Because as much as I like to ignore my feelings I have been reading a lot of psychology these days, and it is probably unhealthy to bottle all of these things up inside. So, being absolutely ridiculously hammered (allegedly) is the perfect excuse to just go ahead and let it all out!
M disagrees. She thinks she should go out in her car and have a private moment. I think that is a horrible idea. We are all sitting in my room, trying our best not to disturb the sleeping children and babysitter.
M wonders if I have any beer in the fidge. I offer her T's left over beer, because I am all kinds of generous like that. T nods. He is not drunk. Someday? I will be the sober person in these stories.
M goes to the kitchen and returns hugging every single bottle of everything alcoholic that was in the fridge. Two bottles of Coors, an open bottle of wine stuff that was left over from the painting adventure, and a half a bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum.
I do not drink rum. M does not drink rum. T does not drink rum. Only pirates drink rum. So, we decide that we are going to have to be pirates and we pass the bottle around. T says "arhgg" after every sentence, which I attempt only once because it is much much cooler when T says it. There is some talk of burying treasure in the backyard that never comes to fruition because Sailor Jerry's rum is fucking 90-some proof and one can not dig holes and draw treasure maps when the room is spinning.
Also? Tragically? None of us have any treasure to bury except a now empty bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum.
I am having a difficult time understanding the conversation, quite suddenly really. I am babbling about how I am someday going to be able to say "holy shit" with the same conviction T can, M is babbling something about being a mermaid and having pearls or some shit when she decides all of a sudden that she will probably die if she does not have a hot dog. Right now.
I am still babbling about maybe being a stripper like T when I grow up, because that is obviously on the list of shit to do before one can say "holy shit" like T does.
M is not really pissed when she comes to the bedroom door and demands to know where the hot dogs are. She sounds pissed and looks pissed, but she is really just sad and trying not to cry. The effect of holding emotion in too long is that it frequently makes you look like an insane angry woman that will absolutely burn houses down if someone does not produce the hot dogs RIGHT-THE-FUCK-NOW.
Luckily, M finds the hot dogs and cooks them. There is then a full twenty minute conversation about how I do not want hot dogs and yes, T really only wants ketchup on his hot dog. M does not know now if they can be pirates together because she doesn't know what sort of person doesn't like mustard on their hot dogs. M wonders if she even really knows T at all.
T can only answer "arggh."
M brings the hot dog in and also the newspaper and there is a lull in conversation while they eat hot dogs and I watch the room spin in circles until M starts jumping on the bed and yelling.
"Holy shit! Robert E. Lee died yesterday." I am all kinds of confused by this. I had thought Robert E. Lee died a long time ago.
I tell M that everything I thought I knew is obviously a lie.
T wonders if it is the real Robert E. Lee. M says that it must be, because otherwise, who the hell would name their kid Robert E. if their last name was already Lee.
I tell no one in particular that the room seems to be spinning much faster now.
T decides that if we are going to go to the funeral we are going to have to wear our Confederate uniforms. These have obviously been stored in the something room on our pirate ship for the last century or so.
I wonder out loud if maybe that would make us some kind of cross dressers.
T and M wonder if I am okay. I ask if I can wear the eye patch, since T has already claimed the peg leg. I am all lost in my own world. I ask T who is going to cut off his real leg to put on the peg leg. If no one has volunteered? I will do it. With a hammer, because I like hammers.
The conversation seems to have moved on though, and T wants to know what the hell he ever did to me to make me want to cut his leg off. I may have said something about hating him because he was beautiful before giggling hysterically and incoherently babbling about saying "holy shit" in a sleepless stripper accent.