"Well. . . I went to the gym and then took a long walk and then went to my mother's house and helped her put up some screens."
"That's not much of a story."
"I got one of my prescriptions refilled. Q was on the phone while I was sitting in line and said I should ask them which doctor prescribes the most Xanax."
"You're not even getting warm."
"Then I went home and I ate some sardines and drank a beer and took a nap."
"Why do I even bother talking to you?"
"I don't know."
"Did you meet up with your friends for happy hour?"
"Did anything happen there?"
"Well. . . yea. We had drinks and some people got drunk and one woman passed out at the table. She slept with her head on her arm for about two hours. They had to put her in someone else's car and drive her home. She was drinking big martinis which is always a mistake."
"Did you have fun?"
"Oh. . . sure. Everyone decided we will go to Mexico City together in the spring. We all have an itch to travel again. When I got home, though, one of the women had posted a photo of me she took after putting her big Chanel sunglasses with the gold chain on me and the kids from the factory started in. Hulk Hogan, they said. Hollywood Hulk. Then they started posting photos of wrestlers with bleach blond hair. Turns out there are a lot of them. I told them it was better this way. I usually look like Quasimodo, I said, so this is fine. But they won't let up. They are still posting to the group this morning. I started to write that haters gotta hate, but I thought better of it."
"So you are feeling better, huh?"
"I guess so. I think I should stop drinking again, though. I can drink them all under the table--and did--but, you know. . . this morning. . . ."
"Yea, you should probably stop drinking."
"Yea. But you know. . . ."
"Yea. I know."
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