Burritos and Barefeet

 This is a flashback to the Satan Stories. And it is so Florida. 

I don’t know why or what entity is forcing me to write this stuff. I’ll just go with it. 

So this goes back three years ago (wow) to 2023. The Year of Magical Drinking (Sure). 

I was by now definitely living with John, the guy up the street with all the cats. The cat part was lovely. It was like the house was the church of the holy feline and here were all these little black monks. There was statistically more black cats than non— I guess the gene is dominant. If you were superstitious you would take this as a bad OMEN. The only bad omen was me and all the beer I was consuming (slowly but surely all the cats disappeared and I feared I really had brought bad juju here…).

So I was drinking ALOT of beer, not the quickest or best way to get drunk, but the fastest way to fill up your trashcan. I wouldn’t eat all day, but then I would get very hungry at night and binge on burritos that John bought. One plate, two frozen burritos, and a mound of toppings: cheese, salsa, onions, black olives, tomatoes, garlic powder, jalapeños, and sour cream or French onion dip (that dip was addictive itself, and is still so amazing). It was a lot of food, for a little hundred pound girl. And it was so good. And not just because I had the drunk munchies. I’ll make em still (which gives me flavor flashbacks), but not like the way I used to (one burrito is enough), and I’m like, no wonder I ate this all the time. 

John joked that I was going to turn into a burrito. He told the neighbors when we were visiting them, “man, you should see what she eats! I’m not kidding.” And there was some irony in it, the starving myself and losing weight while filling up on an obscene amount of Mexican food (I might as well have ate an entire nacho bell grande) and hundreds of calories in Busch light. But it was just SAD. Because I always went straight to bed after I binged (only to wake up four hours later, still craving more food. And Gatorade). I felt regret in the morning, not for the way I drank, but for what i had ate with abandon. And that was just more reason to starve myself all over. I was in a vicious burrito cycle. 

And then there was the barefeet. The refusal to wear shoes, for months. John and I would go on these long walks up Riverside Drive, maybe a mile up and back. I pranced around without shoes, not really feeling the ground beneath my feet. I don’t know how I got so lucky not to step on anything dangerous: glass, nails, wire, metal, etc. I was the Drunk Hippie, but I had abandoned love and the care for my feet. There was just certain things I “forgot” to do, like brush my hair, shower, wear shoes. It’s amazing how you don’t really need these things, really, but how much more they improve life. Self care goes a long way. Alcohol has ZERO regard for people, it’s warm embrace is a LIE people drink every day.

I stepped on a briar patch one night and let out a yelp. “Ow, my foot, John, help me!” He pulled it out for me. I started wearing shoes after that. And I did start conforming by showering every day (only because i was copying John), brushing my hair, putting on a little makeup, brushing the teeth, and having a big cup of coffee. I just couldn’t give up the alcohol. Or dozens of menthols. 

The only thing I can thank alcohol for is sobriety and supplying me with these stories.

It’s a wonderful life.