Sometimes, frostbite is the price one must pay to get laid

Saturday 1/24/26

Alcohol often makes dumb people dumber and loud people louder; given that many dumb people are also loud, or on the verge of being so, the grating effect for one who is forced to bear witness before they can get away--allowing this is possible--is all the greater. You can be a person who is normally quiet, too, who is nonetheless perpetually on the verge of being loud and displaying those prodigious stores of ignorance in all their glory and doesn't speak up much on account of cowardice, which alcohol will neuter for the time being such that all of that volume and stupidity can be unleashed in a torrent stentorian mindlessness.

Every Friday and Saturday night, hordes of drunk people come down my street. They scream, bang on things, yell, try to pull down street signs, and often gather in a spot for a long time. Doesn't matter how cold it is. The meatheads are hoping to convince dumb women to let them use their holes and have some orgasms inside of their bodies, and the dumb women are looking to make bad choices.

The American male idiot will stand outside for as long as it takes to achieve his end. Sometimes, frostbite is the price one must pay to get laid. Riveting conversationalist, though, judging from the concomitant peals of hyena-like laughter from the ladies, which has that trace-quality of vomit behind it, like this could be one of those nights where knees and bathroom linoleum meet up later on for puking or possible puking. Huzzah. Definitely the kind of guy to hit up for some book recommendations or to pump for cinematic expertise. Bet it wouldn't take much at all for him to tell you that The Town is "literally the GOAT," as if nothing had ever been less debatable.

I have no idea why seemingly every drunk moron enters the North End through Fleet Street where it meets with Atlantic Avenue and nowhere else. There's nothing down there this time of night. A single bar. Other than that, there's a Starbucks--which closes at six, I believe, and isn't exactly a spot to get liquored up anyway--and a breakfast place that replaced the spot where I used to get coffee before heading to the Monument that closes at midday. It's not some row of bars.

This is an insoluble mystery to me as of now. Where are these people coming from? This starts around midnight--which is often when I awake on Saturday to begin work for the new week (as the new week begins for me on Saturday rather than Sunday)--and will continue through five in the morning. The bars here close at two. It's 1:54 AM as I write these words and eleven degrees outside. And yet, there the drunken idiots are, loud as can be, or close to it.

What do they say? One meathead was doing the "Give me a B, Give me a A"--and yes, he didn't use an "an"--and these dumb women were laughing like some many manic hens. Oh, he's so funny, what a wit. Often, these guys have no chins already. The alcohol has taken them away; or puffed them out into two chins, if you prefer to see it that way. Bonus chin. Hooray. How old are these people? Well, it's the North End. There aren't college kids here. They're at least in their mid-twenties. Urban professionals.

Last weekend, one of their ilk was screaming, "Patriotssssss!!!!!!! Let's fucking go!!!!!! We're so back motherfuckers!!!!!!!!!!"

People have little kids, the little kids are asleep. But you know what? Virtually no one in this world cares about anyone save themselves, and have rendered themselves incapable of caring about anyone but themselves.

Wave after wave of these drunken idiots keep coming as I type this entry in this record. Different groups. It's 1:58 now, and there have been three more groups. Trash. Post-human trash. I wonder about the adult who is out screaming in the streets at two, three, four in the morning on a Sunday, because this will play out the same way in about twenty-four hours, regardless of what happens storm-wise, so long as the bars are open. Has to be bar-related. They're not emerging from a party at the bottom of the harbor.

What time do you get up that Sunday? Do you, aged thirty-three, arise at one or two in the afternoon? That can't be good for you and the old self-esteem. And if you wake up with this guy's used condom in the trash bucket near your head and his idiot laugh and stylized cum grunts echoing in your brain? Wonderful. I'd feel like, well, trash. Trash with a headache. Now it's time for the "Sunday Scaries"? What time do you go to bed that night? Because you have to be up for work, right? How do you go to sleep at, say, eleven, if you slept until two? Sleeping pill? More alcohol? Both?

But as a bonus, I do get to hear the word "literally" over 100 times at the earliest of hours on Saturdays and Sundays (and Fridays often enough, too), which I love. These walking pieces of trash cannot go a single sentence in many instances without saying the word "literally" and often multiple times. We are such a race of imbeciles. These people are products of higher education as well. They're not "in the trades." They went to BU and BC and Northeastern and Bentley and MIT and Harvard and PC and so on.

What is it like to go around never thinking of anyone else? Never feeling shame, guilt. Just caring about yourself. What you want. It's strange, too, because it isn't as if people have self-confidence, this assurance in who they are. But I guess ignorance works that way. And when nearly everyone else is this way themselves, then you just blend in by being horrible and stupid. Our society is so bereft of standards that we don't recognize them anymore. The same with intelligence. When someone is smarter, they're put down or ostracized. By the group--not by a person, because people only do things in groups, or with what they feel/sense is the backing of a group.