[Note: the events of this story took place a week ago on Desperation Day weekend; I've just been busy all week with the move to post this]
I woke up Sunday morning depressed. Not sure why or when exactly it happened seeing as how the last thing I remembered on Saturday night was trying to steal a painting at Zanzibar and subsequently expressing my hatred for the bar through facebook at 11:18 p.m. (yes, both classic Dawson). But something happened between then and me waking up at noon that caused a seismic shift between my outlook and the person I've always strived to be.
Like everyone, I have good days and bad. However, they're mostly good days (bad days to me being solely caused by there being no new How I Met Your Mother on Mondays, wanting Chick-fil-A on Sunday, and when UK gets another good basketball recruit). This may come as a surprise to the many people who think I'm an asshole but when I wake up I'm actually very excited. Even if I have a typical day with nothing new or exciting I still like it because even mundane days are exciting for me.
Sunday was different. Even though it was almost comically warm and sunny outside, I felt detached and grey. I felt both imprisoned by the empty house and averse to leave it, sensing something bad would happen to me. As I lay curled up on the couch watching two douchebag teams (Celtics and Heat) play, I racked my brain for the source of this depression. I was definitely at Zanzibar at 11:20, knew from a receipt found in my jeans that I had been to Molly Malone's, and I sent some texts at 4:15 a.m. about yelling at people for fun and watching Sex and the City (yeah, that text confused me, too***). What happened in that 12 hours between Zanzibar and waking up that caused me to feel so depressed (and no that is not some Dashboard Confessional/Conor Oberst liberal usage of the word depression, this was legit sadness like the video below....except I wasn't crying and Robin Williams wasn't there)
It was if during my blackout stupor, I had discovered a long lost abyss, somewhere in the Highlands (hell it could have been in Ohio, Tennessee or Virginia because we all know I tend to wander while drunk...I'm like an Uruk-hai the way I can cover ground). And in front of this abyss, I sat and stared until every ounce of good will leaked out of my body and all that was left was loneliness, confusion, and alcohol.
Is that overdramatic? Without a doubt. Also vaguely douchey with a smattering of self-importance. But that shouldn't delude the very real fact that Sunday I was the lowest I'd been in a long long time. Even worse I didn't really know the source of this melancholy. During my bender I had unwittingly revealed a long hidden pain that had been buried and pushed to some deep recess of my mind.
And in this gloom I suddenly remembered when one of my role models was at the lowest point in his life.
No, it wasn't Han Solo while frozen in carbonite.
Or Hank Moody after being arrested at the end of season three.
Nor was it Bruce Wayne after the Joker blows up Rachel.
No, not even Barney Stinson after he had the "yips" and couldn't hit on girls.
Or James Bond after Vesper drowns herself.
Nope....it was Kenny Fucking Powers....and he inspired me in ways that would make God blush.
To be continued in "Chapter Two: The Next Chapter"
***So I sent this text out saying "we" so I assumed JC crashed at our house, too, seeing as how he and I had gone drink-for-drink. Turns out he got a ride home earlier that night, so what should I make of the plural? Was someone else with me? Even more odd there was a pair of earrings on the coffee table the next morning that I assumed belonged to AM; however, upon talking to her recently I found out she doesn't even have pierced ears. On top of that, my bed was supremely messed up. When I woke up the next day I just assumed that was from drunk sleep and/or Inception dreams. So either I stole a girl's earrings, pulled a Gollum and started referring to myself as two people and then slept on both sides of my bed...or brought a girl home while being legit blackout drunk for at least four hours. And people say love is dead.
