I'm Like, soooooo Content with Impending Doom Pt. 1

Barf (I always wanted to start a post like that; sometimes I do, mmmmmmmmjust not in writing). Another debilitating hangover and a bewildering case of "bar-pocket". Oooh, gather 'round, friends. Let's see what we have here. We've got a couple of bus passes, a Pilot G-2 pen, a pack of Extra Polar Ice gum, some change, camera with pictures on it that I don't remember taking, drawings of the Cassini-Huygens Probe on a cocktail napkin, more cocktail napkins (none of which have numbers written on them), fuck- more cocktail napkins, my glasses that have been welded back together twice in the past 3 years, a cut-out of a "Get Fuzzy" comic strip, my cell phone with an overabundance of text messages saying "where u at?" and voicemail messages that can be summed up with "Don't come back." or "Hope you have enough money to pay for what you did.", drawings of the Galileo Probe (RIP) on a cocktail napkin, a collection of state quarters, a copy of the warrant for my arrest, a Polaroid of Robin Williams and I doing lines of coke, and finally, a lightsaber. I totally made up a couple of those last ones, and I'm sure you guessed as much, but most of those can truly be found in Craig Phillips' pockets on any given morning-after-the-bar. These are helpful clues as I spend many-a-morning piecing together the previous night, trying to remember whose life I ruined or how much property damage I managed to rack up. And you absolutely have to be quick in this business, the business of documenting everything silly, making no money, and avoiding as best you can the involvement of your friends. This particular summer's morn, I feel totes dry and nasty, but not so much that I will pitch forward and projectile vomit. That hasn't happened in years. I feel pride in this and disgust at the same time. I cannot deny the advantages of the hangover, though. This heart-slowing, brain-numbing, gag-inducing (much like my sweet embrace, ladies in Ladytown, Pennsylvania) effect seems to facilitate passage through my synapses, allowing me to write comfortably about the stupid things I say around women and even speak freely about my overbite. The hangover also acts as a sort of catalyst in whatever part of my brain likes to rant about things apart from the subject that I'm addressing and whatever other part of my brain likes to make really, really dumb lists. Whatever those parts are called. Whatever. What I'm trying to convey is that it brings about a sort of brain-storm, like my 5th-grade teacher used to call it. Not hangovers, I mean, but thinking. My 5th-grade teacher wishes you to know that she does not condone drinking in excess or underage drinking or talking to your class about drinking, especially when you're a teacher of 5th-graders, or even being hungover without having anything to drink the night before. I apologize for that (especially that last one- a bit nonsensical, really), but she likes to sit with me in my room, about 3,000 miles from where she lives, and proofread my stuff. That is, I think she's still alive, maybe. Back to the other thing about the stuff I was writing about before. I do, in fact, wish very much that my brain would actually storm. My reasoning behind this is that there is actually some semblance of organization in a storm. More so than usually occurs in my brain. My brain-storm would make my art (I know, you're wondering what my art is... it's this stupid. Quit being so fucking insensitive) like a storm as well. That's right. My writing is like a storm. Making the news. Causing people to hide in basements or bathtubs, avoiding windows and other things made of glass. Tearing the tops off of houses. Picking up farm animals and placing them elsewhere. Displacing record numbers of families. Prompting people to chase my writing around in a van with cameras, like in that one movie. Anyway, brain-storming is not my forte, nor is cooking anything besides pasta dishes. Once again, you're shit-out-of-luck.
Despite the hangover's effects on me, I manage to feel stressed and ecstatic at the same time. I'm merely a week from my big move. There is still much to do and many, many people to see. I'm getting a little emotional as well. If you notice an increase in "emo" activity on my last.fm (proxima1022 is my username, befriend me, get it, share it!), it is not because I attend high school or was recently dumped. It's because I have a great many memories in the Bay Area and made some ridiculous-awesome friends. I believe I will reminisce for a moment. A long moment.
I remember subletting with a close friend at 108 Shotwell, while a young gentleman freed up his room to us while he was on tour for a month. Waking up in the middle of the night to one of the roommates screaming and pounding on the door of another roommate's room. He was near splintering the door's wood, shouting "I'm gonna fucking kill you, you motherfucker!" This went on for close to 20 minutes, I believe, when he suddenly gave up, came to the room that my friend and I were staying in, politely apologized for the ruckus and slipped off to slumber. It turns out, as was explained the next day, that he was completely justified in wanting to kill the motherfucker. He had done something rather terrible. The aforementioned "motherfucker" then proceeded to move out in record time, and burn every other bridge available to him in his circle of friends. Good riddance, blighter-of-the-century. I hope you get horribly disfigured in a hot-air-ballooning accident.
Not long after that, a completely different roommate in the same place got very, very sick. We all knew that he was missing some work and definitely did not look very good, and when he emerged from his room occasionally for food or water, he smelled less-than-desirable. We did not, however, understand just how sick he was until it was almost too late. My roommate and I were sitting around listening to the subletter's records one afternoon, when there suddenly was a frantic ringing of the apartment's doorbell. We said "What the fuck", got up and went down to the door. A group of paramedics were asking us, "You from 108?" and we were like "Yeah, what's going on?" They looked at us like we were fucking out of our minds. They rushed up the stairs, ran in to our sick roommate's room (with our direction) and helped him out with a stretcher, if I remember correctly. A fucking stretcher. The dude couldn't walk. It just so happened that the smell that would burst forth from his room when he would venture to get a glass of water was indeed, piss. He was so sick (I forget what kind of sick) that he more-oft-than-not didn't have the energy to muster a walk to the bathroom and had been sleeping for about a week in his own urine. We felt terrible and neglectful but also wondered why he played it so cool when he would get a glass of water, like nothing was up. Shortly after, my friend and I moved into that room for a month. It was thoroughly cleaned beforehand, I swear.

To be continued...