The hills are alive with the sound of me cursing



I pulled a good one last night.

I went up to my campsite in the Berkeley hills. And, needless to say, the terrain is very hilly at my campsite (that’s why they call it “the Berkeley hills”). That’s the beauty of my campsite. It’s so hilly — the terrain is so steep — that nobody ever goes up there. So I have the whole place to myself. I’m living on the side of a steep hill in the deep, dark woods, basically.

And I’ve carved out (with a shovel and a trowel) this small level space in the side of the hill. Just enough space to lay out my sleeping bag. And sleep peacefully at my campsite on this nice flat spot amidst the Berkeley hills.

So last night I trudge up the hill to my campsite. And I’m carrying my sleeping bag, in a bag, in my hand. When I get to my campsite — this little plot of level land — I put my sleeping bag down on the ground. On what I think is part of the level spot. But no. I stupidly put it down on part of the hilly spot

So, my sleeping bag, in the bag, rolls all the way down the hill. And out of sight.

It’s around midnight at this point. And it’s pitch dark. And I’m drunk (needless to say). So there’s no way in hell I’m gonna be able to find where my sleeping bag is (its somewhere down there at the bottom of the hill at this point).

So now. I’m at my campsite. In the middle of nowhere. In the middle of the night. With no sleeping bag to sleep in. And it’s getting cold.

Fortunately, I had a couple of ratty blankets and my goddamn feral cats to cuddle with to keep me warm. So I made it through the night. Barely.

But the moral is. Malt liquor is a stupid drug that causes you to do stupid things (like losing your sleeping bag). But thank God for feral cats.






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