Stressed For Success

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Stressed For Success

The quiet night music starts and we land at Di's door. Bling-blong! Di answers and Ricky' standing there, drunk. He's three sheets to the wind, drunk as a sailor, blasted, wasted, blotto, stinko, sauced, liquored up, soused, a bit tipsy, schnokered, you know. His eyesockets have X's in them. I'd think of more but I haven't been drinking enough. He goes, "So. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is inappropriate, I shouldn't be here." Di, not blind, says, "You seem to be drunk." Good one! Do you want the donkey or the turtle wax? Ricky says, "Oh, I'm drunk," and DI INVITES HIM IN. Stupid stupid stupid.

Ricky says, "You know what kind of drunk I am?" Angry? Belligerent? Sad? Happy? No. He twirls his finger around and says dizzy. Di invites him to sit on the couch. What, no offer of a bucket? Ricky keeps one foot on the floor, you know, to keep the spins away. Di's eyes work again and she says, "You are a sorry picture." Ricky says, "Di, got that manual?" She says she doesn't know what he's talking about and has to get some sleep. Ricky gets mopey and says he'll take his shoes and socks off when he's sure he won't barf. Oh, boo hoo. Then Di remembers: "The how-to-live manual." Ricky says, "Yeah, don't rush, I won't read it tonight anyway." Di is charmed, somehow, and tilts her head at him as she makes her way to her room to go back to sleep. This is charming? Oh, Di....

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