A work session at Strong and Whispers's place Friday afternoon turned into an incredible writing retreat. We worked and partied with determination and vengeance; it was an amazing time. I love working with people. It felt great to be surrounded by really stellar individuals working and supporting in each other in our endeavors, and we all got a lot done. I'm hoping that we can do it again next weekend, though maybe not to such an extreme. My clock is totally fucked now.
We got up late yesterday after an evening of serious boozeness, had a gigantic meal around three, and worked until we had to go back out for dinner at 11 p.m., which is when things got a little weird. At dinner we were all loopy on productivity and I got a text from Curly, one of the two boys I'd met at keets' party a few weeks ago. Since I was in the burg already, he said he'd come meet up with us for drinks. I was pretty surprised to hear from him, and I could not finish my dinner out of excitement. I was so excited that I almost forgot that I hadn't showered in a while and I was smelling pretty rank.
Per my usual m.o., I swallowed two drinks before Curly showed up--yes, with the other boy, Red. This confused the hell out of me, seeing as Curly and Red were the two guys whose numbers I had gotten and then gotten confused. This shouldn't have been so confusing, because it's not like I was trying to specifically get with either of them, but it definitely threw me for a loop. I was even more confused when Curly disappeared, and Red ended up hanging out at S&W's until about six a.m.
Suddenly we found ourselves in a convertible hurtling on the BQE. It was sunny, beautiful, warm, and we wound up in Astoria, then in East Flatbush drinking rum at 8 a.m. with a former Gap model from the Ivory Coast. He tried to pressure me into a drinking contest, not even kidding, and for some reason I got all salty about this. It was a while before I remembered that I could Just Say No.
I finally made it back to my place at 1 p.m. and slept for a few hours, waking up to a text from Red inviting me to hang out before what I'm sure will be another night of The Booze. I go dry on Tuesday, so I'm succumbing to all of my alcoholic urges to do as much liver damage as possible before then.
What should I wear tonight?
(20 hours later)
I'm having one of those days where I alternately feel like a pretty princess and a crack whore. Such extremes! Such dualism! So much confusion. I want to talk to Girlfriend so badly that I can't call her. I just want to lie here and wait for it to go away.
Red's party was fun. I stopped by to get Lucho to be my escort, but he was sidelined by cute new neighbors. It was nice to see My Friend, whom I've missed and haven't seen all summer. As soon as I saw him I realized I'm still secretly in love with him, this after not having spoken to him since the night I peed on a car in Park Slope at the end of May.
Because I was so tired I decided to aim for a tequila-based BAC of around 2.3. Curly showed up with a girl. I'm so attracted to him it's ridiculous, but with his girl there, it was easy to be distracted by other nice people. I felt pretty princessy because boys were being sweet to me and crack whorey because I haven't added up to a night's full sleep in a few days.
I made the following note to myself on my cell phone: Some line of desperation carried me back to Brooklyn after little sleep. Commuting soothed me like sleep--purposeful, undisturbed. Something like work in respite and observation, the marriage of necessity and dreams.
What is this craze in my blood, this craze that needs to be tempered with booze and constant motion? It's a buzzing that I have to follow or it will tell me I'm sad, in both the pathetic and miserable ways. I follow it; since I have no choice, I try to enjoy it.
Keets advised me to stay away from a certain boy who was uber-focused on me, so I turned my attention to the sweet boy who kept sticking cocaine up my nose. I followed him home around 6 a.m. and let him love on me. He was amazingly endearing and softspoken for a boy with so much blow in his pocket. This morning we talked about the DSM over coffee, and I remembered that Gap model too had a strong interest in clinical psychology; it was the second time the DSM had come up in conversation in 24 hours.
I suddenly remembered the flurry of text messages Gap model had sent me while I was maintaining my target BAC on Red's roof. I hadn't said yes or no to him, and at that moment I told him no. I thought of the last time I'd boy-hopped with such intensity and a sick feeling of regret and desire filled me. This happens any time I say no.
I don't understand why the things I do sometimes feel so right and other times so wrong.
Tomorrow I go back to $chool.