Blacking Out During Intramural Kickball: A Poem By Me

Nothing good happens when I tip the first glass back in the afternoon sun

Bartender, gimme a tequila soda and make it a double, let’s have some fun

A friend joined me for those happiest of hours

Pickle back shots sprouted from my lips like soured wildflowers

It was Tuesday and there was work early the next morning, but fuck it I was bored

Awoke to a mundane adult life, made a pinata and cut the cord

Measure my words like sugar when I’m drunk

He told me I’m funny, his beer-bated-breath stunk

I am what I am, and I was late to kickball

Cross-eyed and limp like a cracked-out babydoll

They say the game happened, but all I remember was the bar

Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean played later in the car

The morning alarm dropped like a hammer to the head

I’m now too curious to any longer want to be dead

I found out we won from the group chat

They say I pitched a perfect game, how ’bout dat

“You looked like you were having so much fun!”

My friend texted me when I cancelled our afternoon run

I mopped my smile across the bathroom floor because I didn’t care

What good is fun when you weren’t even there?

To be funny is to be real, but it’s not always real to be funny

I prefer to goof off, even if it doesn’t make me much money

But if I’m telling a story then that means I’m here

And that above all else, I’ve learned to hold dear