Love is blind.
And, on occasion, love is piss drunk and committing crimes.
Let me explain.
When I was in high school, I was never that guy from the teen romantic comedy that fell so deeply in love that she was the end all, be all of my existence.
That was John Cusack. (Say Anything. Badass trench coat.)
I never understood those guys and spent a lot of time making fun of them.
I have been kind of an asshole all along.
But, since I had friends like that, I am acquainted with the species.
I have also been known to secretly enjoy those films. (Lets just keep that between us).
I was thankful that my friends finally grew out of that stage, and we all moved on.
Why, you may ask, am I getting all sappy on you?
Because I am taking a walk.
The responsible move in writing this blog would be to have the entire week written and posted ahead of time, that way, I can take my time, diligently crafting future blogs much like an old world craftsman pours his heart into his craft.
However, I end up desperately churning these blogs out in the nick of time, continually facing another deadline tomorrow.
I decided to take a walk to the Starbucks down the road, the one across the street from the international hotel I have mentioned before?
I usually cut across their parking lot to get to the highway, it shaves about two thirds of a block off of my walk.
I was halfway across the parking lot when I heard the first puncture.
The sound of a tire being punctured intentionally is a rather specific sound.
Off in the corner of the lot, up against the chain link fence, is a white Nissan Altima, with two flat tires.
The drunk guy in the white t-shirt was making his way to the other side of the car to add to the flat tire tally, when he saw me and smiled.
I have clearly defined rules about interacting with drunk guys that sound friendly when they say “Hello” and then wave at me with a shiny folding knife.
But, I am stuck with that common problem of mine.
I don’t have a blog for tomorrow.
I know, I am kind of a whore that way.
What the hell.
“Say, ah, what are you doing there?”
That is a great ice breaker, by the way. I am rather proud of it.
“Having a shitty night.”
Hearing him speak makes me revise my estimate of him, he isn’t drunk, he’s shitfaced and armed.
Recipe for bad times.
I decide to keep my distance.
“How come?” I am starting to feel my fight or flight instinct taking the final vote with flight riding a landslide.
He points at the hotel with the knife.
“My girlfriend is in there, having sex with a roomful of guys.”
He says this deadpan, then leans over and stabs the front passenger tire.
I am done here.
I would love to stay and really work this up into a Pulitser prize winning blog, but fuck that noise, he’s nuts.
“All right, have a great night.”
I hot foot it out of there.
When I am a half a block away and now sure that he is not following me, ready to give me a “Colombian necktie”, I begin to feel sorry for him.
One of two things are going on.
The first is that the guy is drunk and jealous and his girlfriend is in the hotel for some perfectly legitimate reason and he is a dangerous drunk.
This is the most likely, to my way of thinking.
However, given the state of this country, number two is possible.
She is in the hotel, having sex with a roomful of guys.
You never know.
She could be doing this as an amateur for kicks, or as a professional whore.
Unless their filming it, and she is an adult film actress.
Which would make this her big break.
Actually, any one of those would be hard for the boyfriend to take, talk about the soul-crusher.
I feel so bad, I almost hesitated when I called the police.
I said almost.
After all, the kid is nuts.
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