Dear Journal

Dear Journal,

In case it wasn’t already evident from the severe decline of my penmanship, I got extremely drunk last night. I have no idea what any of these scrawled scratches are supposed to mean, but it looks as though drunk me got rather intense. I also don’t know what the hell I spilt all over these pages, but writing through it just now almost killed my micron pen. That would have been such a huge tragedy.

So, I woke up this morning around seven. I got up to let the dog outside and he started being a brat. He ran into the living room when I opened the door to our bedroom, but he wouldn’t come into the kitchen when I opened the back door. I had to call him about eight times before he finally came, which was super annoying because I had to pee like a race horse. It was still dark in the house, so I didn’t notice why he was so fascinated with the living room.

I sat on the toilet a few minutes longer than necessary because I knew Buster would need more time outside before heading back to bed. I was also trying to figure out what ended up happening last night. I remember walking into the living room. I stood there for a minute and then decided to set up a makeshift desk on my kitchen table. I didn’t want to fall asleep journalling in bed. Then I remember making a third stiff stiff drink, but I don’t remember anything after sitting down at the table with it.

This definitely did not seem important at seven this morning. I was home and alive. My dog was home and alive. Who cares what I ended up doing while I was fucked up, at home, and by myself. This is the whole reason I started drinking at home in the first place, to keep me out of trouble. At this time I had no idea how little drinking at home had helped.

Anyway, I decided I didn’t want to suffer through my hangover without a little weed, so I started a cup of coffee and smoked three hits while the keurig did it’s job. I let Buster back in and corralled him directly into the bedroom where I shut the door behind us. We curled up in bed and I was back out before a third sip of coffee could be had. 

I think it was around eleven-thirty when I woke up sweating from the sun beating in through the window I have yet to replace the curtain for. That’s when I decided to brave assessing the possible damage level on my phone. Luckily it didn’t look like I’d texted any exes or coworkers. But, I did, apparently, set up a Tinder account.

Apparently I’d decided to give my phone lot’s of attention sometime around my scrawled journal entry. I’ll probably never know which came first. There was a long text conversation with a number I definitely don’t recognize. I scrolled through it to find his name was Todd and we met on Tinder last night. I also learned that I’d asked him to Uber to the Casey’s toward the edge of our town so I wouldn’t have to give him my address. So much for drinking at home to avoid random hookups.

It all seemed a little weird when I was first going through my phone though because I didn’t feel like I’d had sex. I may not always remember it, but you can usually tell if you’ve had it, at least. I reached my hand down my pants and was as dry as ever. That’s when things got really weird and I got a nervous sick feeling in my stomach that said something was definitely not right.

When I pulled my hand back out of my pants, I noticed it was filthy. I set my phone down and inspected the other hand. They were both covered in some brownish copper colored substance that seemed to be flaking off like a dry and crackled second skin. There was more of a much darker version of the substance up under my fingernails and caked in my nail beds.

I got up to wash my hands and Buster took off toward the couch the moment the bedroom door opened. This time the sunlight from the kitchen let me see why. Tom was sitting in the center of the couch and Buster was sniffing away at him. My eyes widened at the sight and I just stood there for a minute trying to take it all in. I looked down as soon as I realized what the substance was all over my hands.

There were little bloody paw tracks all over the floor of the living room and leading into the kitchen from the couch. A pool of blood had formed in the cushion Todd was sitting in and Buster was circling through it with his tail twitching away like a metronome on crack. Exactly as he must have the first time I let him outside, and quite possibly last night too. Who knows.

When I got close enough to grab Buster it became quite clear Todd’s throat had been slit. I could tell because one of the large serrated steak knives I stole from my previous job was sitting in the puddle of blood next to Tom’s ass. I could also tell because his head was resting on the back of the couch and his neck was hanging open like some sort of mangled Halloween edition Pez dispenser.

So I tossed Buster outside and smoked a couple more hits while I popped my coffee in the microwave. It’s probably cold again by now, but this was just way too bizarre not to write down as fast as possible. 

It definitely looks like we met for the first time on Tinder and only exchanged numbers. He Ubered from a little church town ten miles out from here. He Ubered to a gas station in a shady little part of Chambana. Who’s to say he even made it here. Who’s to say anyone will even know he Ubered anywhere if they never find his phone. Looks like I’ll be having a bonfire tonight.

I’ll have to figure out how to get everything into small enough pieces. I have been wanting a new couch for a while anyway. This is so bizarre. I’m going to make a drink and then see what I’ve got out in the garage.

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