Dead Sober The Latter Not The Former

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I really want to spill this beer.

I am, for some reason, back in my hometown where I also went to school, in the worst college bar on a Friday. And now- I remember I'm with a girlfriend. Obviously dudes approach us.
In order to keep myself interested I start pretending to be as batshit as I wanna. Not spoiling, just a little bit of a nut job.
So, I really want to spill this beer. All over his shoes. (Is he wearing sandals? Don't think so.)
Dirty white tennies, probably.

Maybe we go to certain places on purpose to be bored so we can start a ruckus inside ourselves, and if it tumbles out, so be it.

I engage with this guy on purpose. Standing close and sloshing, tilting the cups contents. He's trying to look and hold my eye contact at the same time. Even tho' he's taller it's not really working. We're pretty packed in at this point with backward-ballcap-wearing juveniles, and I am happy for my mild success, because to deign to drink this beer would be to engage in a form of self-punishment.
I've been back to this just-short-of-a-titty-bar joint a couple times, even before this said beer-spilling, and mostly because they have awesome karaoke.
In addition in the peculiarly connected world of townies, beer-spill victim is probably still around, even if he has finished his 'education'. Those same white sneakers in his mom's basement, or some other relatives- maybe grandmas'- only to get tossed when she croaks and her estate goes to auction, or in the closet with the broken door at his girlfriend's place.

The last time they fuck, which is last Tuesday, the filthy sheet gets pulled away and the blue and pink pattern on sheer mattress fabric is revealed. Her home incarceration black ankle bracelet gets caught somehow on the bed and she howls.
3 more weeks under house arrest. He hasn't been back since. Of course they talk on the phone, and of course he wants to get laid, but he's the whole reason for her trouble in the first place. Might as well compound this with the guilt of cheating.

No, let's hope he's met with a better fate than spilled beer. Dried stinking over abandoned shoes. The good lord knows I have.

How You Know You've Made It:

And not in any particular order:
-Someone buys your book
-Someone reads something you've written to someone else
-You get rejected
-You get accepted
-Someone tattoos a line of your poetry on their body
-You finish a poem/collection of poems
-When someone says "hey I really liked your book."
-When someone cries over something you've written.
-When you get "in trouble" over something you've written.
-People invite you to come read aloud
-People ask you to host a reading/show/performance
-You get good enough at reading aloud to do it on the street without feeling too exposed
-You stop worrying and learn to love the mess
-You fall in love with someone who fell in love with your poetry first