Last night was a night that seemed totally fine. But the more I thought about it, the more unsavory it seems. This is happening to me a lot lately and I need to P&D (process and dissect, as the SF contingency would say) it to see what the fuck is going on.
This morning it took me about two hours to get home from last night's adventure zone. I asked a boy for the wrong bus, he put me on it going in the wrong direction, and then I ended up walking almost an hour even still. At first I felt fine. But then I started thinking, and this is how it went:
9 am: That was fun. I love boys.
9:30 am: I probably drank too much last night.
10 am: I can't believe that guy wanted to do anal this morning.
10:15 am: Why does every guy in Palermo roll with so much blow?
10:20 am: This happened a few weeks ago, too.
10:21 am: That's kind of gross. Meh.
10:37 am: I wonder if that guy thinks I'm some kind of coke whore, or if this is just the MO around here. Kind of seems like it. Is it the scene or is it me? I really can't tell.
10:59 am: You know, the night started out with me being on a sort of date with that other guy. He was sweet. I don't even remember how the second guy entered the picture. I know I wasn't rude about it. We parted amicably. But he probably thinks I am the worst person ever.
11 am: I am the worst person ever.
Does this mean that I think too much (in retrospect), or not enough (before doing something)? I tried to be gentle with myself this morning. I told myself that I am probably more lonely than I realize, and that I should stay out of Palermo. That, and maybe I should think about moving back to Soberland. This kind of shit never happens there.
I felt strangely absolved when Boy A (the boy with whom the evening had originated) called me out over gchat on me switching horses mid-race. He told me he still wanted to hang out again, that he was into "non-exclusive relations" but didn't want to end up playing wingman for me all the time. I found every element of this exchange very confusing. It all seems very contradictory.
And now I am out of cigarettes and it is pouring rain again.
Showing posts with label adventures in booze. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adventures in booze. Show all posts
Friday, February 5, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
new decade, new continent, same shit
It is 90 degrees and raining here in Buenos Aires and I am just lazing about my house, eating things and feeling the heat emanate from the walls.
It is my first "day off" in a while. After two action-packed weeks with Sexy that bled into some intense partying, I am feeling a little drained and sad. Part of it is because I am not doing a good job at keeping in touch with people so I sometimes feel lonely. The other part is that I have been wondering more and more what the hell I am doing down here, because it's definitely not working. But the biggest part I think is that in order to avoid thinking about this, I have wandered back into some choice addictions: booze, men, and cocaine, all of which are cheap, plentiful, and of decent--if not varying--quality in Buenos Aires.
I will tell you a secret. I am the worst kind of female in a lot of ways, a big romantic at heart who struggles against this perceived tendency towards sappiness through wanton hookups. But anyhow, I bring this up because I sort of thought I could detox from this hapless man-addiction I have down here, and was doing an okay job of it. But then I started down the slippery slope, and have already slept with more men this past week than I have in the past six months. It is a strange time.
I can have NSA sex sometimes, but it seems to be getting more difficult, like the strings want to attach themselves when I least expect it. Then I want to shy away from the whole scene altogether just to avoid any potential tricks my mind has in store for me. There was a moment last week when I was lying in bed with a gorgeous man, all aglow and happy, when I let my thoughts take me too far away and plunged me into deep regret. I started thinking to myself, "I couldn't marry this guy. Our first kiss was in a bathroom stall well past sunrise after doing a bunch of blow. What kind of story would that be at the wedding?" And as soon as that thought crossed my mind, I had to bolt, even though all was just fine and dandy until then.
Why can't things just be one way or the other? I'm fully aware I'm not going to meet the man of my dreams in some sleazy Buenos Aires nightclub. But I still get a perverse sense of satisfaction out of these encounters. My brain gets attached to these sorts of familiar melodramas. I'd been keeping a low profile, which is easy because I don't know anyone here. But also...not knowing anyone can get you into a lot of trouble. Because you just don't give a damn what anyone thinks.
Anyhow. I can't have the first post of 2010 be like this. So let me tell you that I had an incredible New Year's in Punta del Diablo, this small beach town on the Uruguayan coast about an hour away from the Brazilian border. We were walking down the beach under the full moon to a party when fireworks starting going off all around town: in front of us, behind us, to the sides. And everywhere there were boys. BOYS! We drank and danced and ate and kissed cute boys. That's pretty much all I want out of life, trite as it may seem. I'm not very demanding at all.
It is my first "day off" in a while. After two action-packed weeks with Sexy that bled into some intense partying, I am feeling a little drained and sad. Part of it is because I am not doing a good job at keeping in touch with people so I sometimes feel lonely. The other part is that I have been wondering more and more what the hell I am doing down here, because it's definitely not working. But the biggest part I think is that in order to avoid thinking about this, I have wandered back into some choice addictions: booze, men, and cocaine, all of which are cheap, plentiful, and of decent--if not varying--quality in Buenos Aires.
I will tell you a secret. I am the worst kind of female in a lot of ways, a big romantic at heart who struggles against this perceived tendency towards sappiness through wanton hookups. But anyhow, I bring this up because I sort of thought I could detox from this hapless man-addiction I have down here, and was doing an okay job of it. But then I started down the slippery slope, and have already slept with more men this past week than I have in the past six months. It is a strange time.
I can have NSA sex sometimes, but it seems to be getting more difficult, like the strings want to attach themselves when I least expect it. Then I want to shy away from the whole scene altogether just to avoid any potential tricks my mind has in store for me. There was a moment last week when I was lying in bed with a gorgeous man, all aglow and happy, when I let my thoughts take me too far away and plunged me into deep regret. I started thinking to myself, "I couldn't marry this guy. Our first kiss was in a bathroom stall well past sunrise after doing a bunch of blow. What kind of story would that be at the wedding?" And as soon as that thought crossed my mind, I had to bolt, even though all was just fine and dandy until then.
Why can't things just be one way or the other? I'm fully aware I'm not going to meet the man of my dreams in some sleazy Buenos Aires nightclub. But I still get a perverse sense of satisfaction out of these encounters. My brain gets attached to these sorts of familiar melodramas. I'd been keeping a low profile, which is easy because I don't know anyone here. But also...not knowing anyone can get you into a lot of trouble. Because you just don't give a damn what anyone thinks.
Anyhow. I can't have the first post of 2010 be like this. So let me tell you that I had an incredible New Year's in Punta del Diablo, this small beach town on the Uruguayan coast about an hour away from the Brazilian border. We were walking down the beach under the full moon to a party when fireworks starting going off all around town: in front of us, behind us, to the sides. And everywhere there were boys. BOYS! We drank and danced and ate and kissed cute boys. That's pretty much all I want out of life, trite as it may seem. I'm not very demanding at all.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
last minute freakout
I got pulled over (again) today. Welcome back to Illinois! It did not stay my day off right.
This is going to be a somewhat frenetic post. I've ingested a lot of coffee and cigarettes.
Packing tonight was a tricky maneuver. I want to bring nothing and everything. I am obsessed with my summer dresses but cannot bring them all. And, more like, I will end up going out how I went out in New York, in disgusting cutoffs and dirty tee-shirts. I almost don't want to bring them to force myself to look better. But somehow I crammed a bunch of clothes into a bag and am now contemplating this obnoxious thing of beauty, my tripod. It is a separate piece of luggage. I can't not take it and yet I can't imagine taking it. The tripod has become a metaphor for all of my problems with this endeavor at all.
This is going to be a somewhat frenetic post. I've ingested a lot of coffee and cigarettes.
Packing tonight was a tricky maneuver. I want to bring nothing and everything. I am obsessed with my summer dresses but cannot bring them all. And, more like, I will end up going out how I went out in New York, in disgusting cutoffs and dirty tee-shirts. I almost don't want to bring them to force myself to look better. But somehow I crammed a bunch of clothes into a bag and am now contemplating this obnoxious thing of beauty, my tripod. It is a separate piece of luggage. I can't not take it and yet I can't imagine taking it. The tripod has become a metaphor for all of my problems with this endeavor at all.
Got home last night after twelve intense days in California. Top 10 Highlights: 1) Eating a burrito with the dog in Dolores Park an hour after landing at SFO, 2) crashing a City Hall function with booze and schwag and hors d'oeuvres, 3) seeing that Ex is still adorable, 4) a 24-hour date with my peripatetic life partner that included a) biscuits, gravy, waffles, and crab for breakfast, b)watching the Heimlich Maneuver performed at dinner one night, and c) Point Break Live, 7) tailgating with Raiders fans and getting drunk by noon, 8) a sleepover party with Joe, 9) spending soft time with my friends at my old apartment, and 10) the idea of family time.
Bottom 5 buzzkillers: 1) breaking my very-needed cell phone my first morning in SF, 2) a return to the serious boozing and ensuing sicking, and 3) witnessing the fallout of a long-standing friendship gone bad, 4) helping a bloodied, beaten up man to his feet just down the block from my apartment, about an hour after I passed him drinking what smelled like cologne with his buddies, and 5) pissing all over myself in a port-a-potty.
I slept a blessed eight hours last night and then set about freaking out today, starting with getting pulled over. Tomorrow I get on an airplane and fly for fourteen hours. I think what I like best about airplane rides is that the act of booking a ticket and then actually going somewhere works well with my mentality of shoot first, ask questions later. I hate obsessive anxiety, which is going to party out tonight with the three shots of espresso I had earlier this evening. I know it wasn't the wisest move, but I had a lot to do, and I was on a date with a sweet boy who I will probably marry. I will tell you all about it some time. The date had two purposes: the minor one was to take away four hours of pre-trip anxiety. But the real reason I had to go out on a date today is because one thing about me that you probably don't know is that right before I make a big move or decision, I have to fall in love, have sex, (and not necessarily with the same person), then leave. This way, when I leave I can direct all of my obsessive, cyclical thoughts to dramatic romantic fantasies rather than putting myself through the wringer of decision-making anxiety. I recommend it highly. Why second-guess yourself when you can just escape to a fantasy world where everyone is in love--it's just the timing that is off?
Timing: It is everything that matters, completely out of our control, and, in the end, completely inconsequential. It's the perfect abstract concept to take the blame for everything.
See you in South America.
I slept a blessed eight hours last night and then set about freaking out today, starting with getting pulled over. Tomorrow I get on an airplane and fly for fourteen hours. I think what I like best about airplane rides is that the act of booking a ticket and then actually going somewhere works well with my mentality of shoot first, ask questions later. I hate obsessive anxiety, which is going to party out tonight with the three shots of espresso I had earlier this evening. I know it wasn't the wisest move, but I had a lot to do, and I was on a date with a sweet boy who I will probably marry. I will tell you all about it some time. The date had two purposes: the minor one was to take away four hours of pre-trip anxiety. But the real reason I had to go out on a date today is because one thing about me that you probably don't know is that right before I make a big move or decision, I have to fall in love, have sex, (and not necessarily with the same person), then leave. This way, when I leave I can direct all of my obsessive, cyclical thoughts to dramatic romantic fantasies rather than putting myself through the wringer of decision-making anxiety. I recommend it highly. Why second-guess yourself when you can just escape to a fantasy world where everyone is in love--it's just the timing that is off?
Timing: It is everything that matters, completely out of our control, and, in the end, completely inconsequential. It's the perfect abstract concept to take the blame for everything.
See you in South America.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
weekend warrior
Last night around midnight I found myself in the backseat of a car cuddled up with a cute boy whose name I couldn't remember. I'd come out of a club where I was shooting photos of a high school acquaintance-turned-rap-star and was going to head back to my brother's place when this kid ran up to me and said, "Hey, nice boots."
Most people would say thanks and keep walking, particularly if they're tired as hell and still hurting a little bit from the cornucopia of free drinks with which I was paid Saturday night. But I haven't had sex in about six weeks now and am toeing the "fuck anything that moves / no really, I don't need sex" line in a tenuous way.
I really, really, really wanted to take this guy home, but I couldn't very well take him to Little Brother's apartment and further traumatize the one person I care about most in the entire world. And homeboy was on tour with his fellow art-school posse and had no place to take me to. But I think I was secretly hoping that if I drank more, I would be okay with anything. So there we were, killing a bottle of whiskey in an SUV parked right in front of the club.
This is when it came out that he was 25 and I am 29, and for the umpteenth time this year, I got the "really?" that sets off something weird and defensive and confusing in me. I get this a lot lately. I got it Saturday night from the 22-year-old who was shooting photos of drag queens with me, too. People always make some remark about how I should be thankful to be mistaken for being younger, but it always makes me feel incredibly immature and somehow stunted, like someone my age shouldn't be doing whatever it is I'm doing--like having random sex, being paid with booze, or smoking pot with eight young men I'd just met until 3 am on a Monday night. Then tonight I ended up at a fundraiser for a political candidate who turned and asked me if I just graduated from high school or college. This was because I was sitting between my folks, and it made me think that yep, living at home was yet another thing someone my age should not be doing.
I spent the day yesterday watching the entire first season of the show Party Down. Um, hilarious? One of the main characters debates moving home with his parents until the crew has to work a 20-year high school reunion and he's confronted with what happens when you move home. This part was a little too real for me to find hilarious. But still...
Anyhow, the point of this post is to say this: it's getting cold in Chicago and if I don't leave, my weekend boozing is going to go out of control as it pumps up to offset my creeping feelings of complete failure. I've decided to go to South America for at least three months and use Montevideo as my base. I wanted to leave on Oct. 20 but my pops wants me to stay through Thanksgiving. Also, I wanted to tell you that I suddenly understand the health care fiasco. Blue Cross Blue Shield denied me coverage because I was in substance abuse treatment last year. The funny thing is that if I hadn't been in treatment, I would probably be in much worse shape right now, but they would insure me.
Those fuckwads.
Most people would say thanks and keep walking, particularly if they're tired as hell and still hurting a little bit from the cornucopia of free drinks with which I was paid Saturday night. But I haven't had sex in about six weeks now and am toeing the "fuck anything that moves / no really, I don't need sex" line in a tenuous way.
I really, really, really wanted to take this guy home, but I couldn't very well take him to Little Brother's apartment and further traumatize the one person I care about most in the entire world. And homeboy was on tour with his fellow art-school posse and had no place to take me to. But I think I was secretly hoping that if I drank more, I would be okay with anything. So there we were, killing a bottle of whiskey in an SUV parked right in front of the club.
This is when it came out that he was 25 and I am 29, and for the umpteenth time this year, I got the "really?" that sets off something weird and defensive and confusing in me. I get this a lot lately. I got it Saturday night from the 22-year-old who was shooting photos of drag queens with me, too. People always make some remark about how I should be thankful to be mistaken for being younger, but it always makes me feel incredibly immature and somehow stunted, like someone my age shouldn't be doing whatever it is I'm doing--like having random sex, being paid with booze, or smoking pot with eight young men I'd just met until 3 am on a Monday night. Then tonight I ended up at a fundraiser for a political candidate who turned and asked me if I just graduated from high school or college. This was because I was sitting between my folks, and it made me think that yep, living at home was yet another thing someone my age should not be doing.
I spent the day yesterday watching the entire first season of the show Party Down. Um, hilarious? One of the main characters debates moving home with his parents until the crew has to work a 20-year high school reunion and he's confronted with what happens when you move home. This part was a little too real for me to find hilarious. But still...
Anyhow, the point of this post is to say this: it's getting cold in Chicago and if I don't leave, my weekend boozing is going to go out of control as it pumps up to offset my creeping feelings of complete failure. I've decided to go to South America for at least three months and use Montevideo as my base. I wanted to leave on Oct. 20 but my pops wants me to stay through Thanksgiving. Also, I wanted to tell you that I suddenly understand the health care fiasco. Blue Cross Blue Shield denied me coverage because I was in substance abuse treatment last year. The funny thing is that if I hadn't been in treatment, I would probably be in much worse shape right now, but they would insure me.
Those fuckwads.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
recipe for a smackdown
I almost punched a bitch last night. We were standing in line outside of Artichoke Pizza in the East Village, and I was in a sparkling good mood. I'd consumed 5 glasses of tequila and a beautiful, chocolate-and-ricotta-filled pastry topped with strawberries, hand-delivered and unrequested from a man who works around the corner who apparently has a crush on me and has been trying to seduce me with food. (I should probably marry him.)
There was a chick in the pizza line offering a running whine-a-lot on the line and all the people silly enough to queue, when I made some totally innocuous remark. Pride wounded, she retreated into the safety of her all-Asian-male entourage and called me a fat and ugly bitch. Apparently, this was the wittiest thing she'd ever thought of and she liked the sound of it, because then she started "rapping" this line over and over again: "That bitch is fat and ugly!" and then squealing with laughter.
I was not amused.
I let this go on while we made our way into the restaurant, then decided to try and combat it with love. I went up to her and tried to make nice, but she was terrified of me (rightfully so--don't fuck with a girl who is being wooed by a tattooed man with pastries) and she retreated again. I told her buddies that she needed to shut the fuck up or I'd beat the crap out of her. Her boys apologized profusely and two of them actually stepped out of my way and said "Go for it--she's drunk and annoying." I think they were afraid of me, too.
It was Neighbor's last night in the city, and I didn't want it to be brawl-filled, so I told them to get her out of my face, and they pulled her outside. Then we were rewarded with delicious crab-topped, artichoke-filled, and arrabiata pizza. As we were making our way down the sidewalk, stupid bitch somehow made it within five yards of me and I gave her an extreme verbal punishing that was about to escalate into her face being rubbed in the sidewalk before Neighbor's Boyfriend rightfully talked me down, telling me that annihilating her would be as satisfactory as kicking a seven-year-old's ass. The confrontation was proof of this. When I stepped up to her she cowered again and was like, "I don't know what you're talking about!" How can you possible have a good fight with someone who won't even own their shit-talking? Weak sauce.
It's been a long time since I've been so close to throwing down. Rage is a poisonous thing that I don't enjoy (although everyone tells me I'm great fun when I'm filled with it--go figure). I hate anyone who is provokes me enough to send me into a rage, because it takes a lot. I think the magical combination here is pastry-fueled confidence, tequila-enhanced recklessness, and a pathetic cunt chanting the refrain: That bitch is fat and ugly.
I hate going out on the weekends. If anyone gets in my face tonight, they're going to have to deal with leftover rage: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
There was a chick in the pizza line offering a running whine-a-lot on the line and all the people silly enough to queue, when I made some totally innocuous remark. Pride wounded, she retreated into the safety of her all-Asian-male entourage and called me a fat and ugly bitch. Apparently, this was the wittiest thing she'd ever thought of and she liked the sound of it, because then she started "rapping" this line over and over again: "That bitch is fat and ugly!" and then squealing with laughter.
I was not amused.
I let this go on while we made our way into the restaurant, then decided to try and combat it with love. I went up to her and tried to make nice, but she was terrified of me (rightfully so--don't fuck with a girl who is being wooed by a tattooed man with pastries) and she retreated again. I told her buddies that she needed to shut the fuck up or I'd beat the crap out of her. Her boys apologized profusely and two of them actually stepped out of my way and said "Go for it--she's drunk and annoying." I think they were afraid of me, too.
It was Neighbor's last night in the city, and I didn't want it to be brawl-filled, so I told them to get her out of my face, and they pulled her outside. Then we were rewarded with delicious crab-topped, artichoke-filled, and arrabiata pizza. As we were making our way down the sidewalk, stupid bitch somehow made it within five yards of me and I gave her an extreme verbal punishing that was about to escalate into her face being rubbed in the sidewalk before Neighbor's Boyfriend rightfully talked me down, telling me that annihilating her would be as satisfactory as kicking a seven-year-old's ass. The confrontation was proof of this. When I stepped up to her she cowered again and was like, "I don't know what you're talking about!" How can you possible have a good fight with someone who won't even own their shit-talking? Weak sauce.
It's been a long time since I've been so close to throwing down. Rage is a poisonous thing that I don't enjoy (although everyone tells me I'm great fun when I'm filled with it--go figure). I hate anyone who is provokes me enough to send me into a rage, because it takes a lot. I think the magical combination here is pastry-fueled confidence, tequila-enhanced recklessness, and a pathetic cunt chanting the refrain: That bitch is fat and ugly.
I hate going out on the weekends. If anyone gets in my face tonight, they're going to have to deal with leftover rage: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
Friday, October 17, 2008
dicks, planes, marbles and love
At $chool trying to do work, mostly drifting in and out of consciousness.
Today I started to think of my hangover as a precious feeling that I carry around in my head. It's like a symbol that I drank too much tequila last night, smoked some shitty pot that I allowed some guy to sell me in the Lower East Side, and sleeping five hours last night, if you count the hour I fell asleep on the train and rode all the way to 211 Street. I've kicked myself out of my apartment to make room for couchsurfers and have been crashing at Neighbor's place while she is out of town. Her futon is basically rock hard and it's unbelievable how well I sleep on it. Like I'm dead.
I got up to meet a visiting friend from San Francisco whom I haven't seen or spoken to since January. It was nice to see him, and I ate the most delicious eggs florentine with spinach and tomatoes and potatoes and smoked salmon and drank about four cups of coffee.
I am wearing a ridiculously short skirt today in the hopes that I would run into New Crush at school. I love having a new crush at school, because it makes my comings and goings so much more multifaceted. I don't know anything really about New Crush, except that I fell in love with him last week. Let me tell you about it.
I went outside to smoke a cigarette and he was outside doing the same. I sat down and babbled in hopes of distracting him with my speech away from how shitty I looked. While I was babbling, I interrupted myself because I was distracted by a shiny object on the ground that looked like a luminous little bubble. When I pointed it out to him, he reached over and picked it up--it wasn't a bubble after all, but a glass marble. Then he placed the marble in my hand.
At that moment I fell in love with him. I've been thinking about it for days, what it meant. What I've managed to understand is that in that moment, so many things crystallized--all my vague feelings about the delicacy of existence and sanity and how I find it all so beautiful and terrifyingly fragile, and how at that moment he turned all that I fear into something concrete and unbreakable, a source of strength rather than weakness, and put it, literally, in the palm of my hand.
Ever since then, I've been obsessively seeking him out at school, and glimmering whenever he alights across my path. Today I saw him and I was so happy and said hi but didn't stop to talk to him. I am feeling fuzzy. I want to go home and sleep and I know I should but I also think I'm going to end up in Brooklyn tonight because Joe is playing a show and I know he will sing me my favorite song and I will feel all happy and blissed out when he does and then I will sleep with him and all will be well and good in the world and I will forget how tweaked out I feel until tomorrow morning when I wake up naked and confused and zone out on the ride back, wondering why I always feel like this.
Last night at the bar an old dude was looking at this astrology chart he had, and he said to me that things will calm down and simplify soon: am I ready? He said that there are many men right now, but that I am the one in control. He said I have to be mean: in a pointed way, and not drag things out. Then he said, "You have the dick. You're the one flying the plane. You know? You're in control." He repeated it about four times: You have the dick. You're the one flying the plane.
I have the dick. I'm flying the plane.
I just don't know where I'm going or how I'm going to land.
Today I started to think of my hangover as a precious feeling that I carry around in my head. It's like a symbol that I drank too much tequila last night, smoked some shitty pot that I allowed some guy to sell me in the Lower East Side, and sleeping five hours last night, if you count the hour I fell asleep on the train and rode all the way to 211 Street. I've kicked myself out of my apartment to make room for couchsurfers and have been crashing at Neighbor's place while she is out of town. Her futon is basically rock hard and it's unbelievable how well I sleep on it. Like I'm dead.
I got up to meet a visiting friend from San Francisco whom I haven't seen or spoken to since January. It was nice to see him, and I ate the most delicious eggs florentine with spinach and tomatoes and potatoes and smoked salmon and drank about four cups of coffee.
I am wearing a ridiculously short skirt today in the hopes that I would run into New Crush at school. I love having a new crush at school, because it makes my comings and goings so much more multifaceted. I don't know anything really about New Crush, except that I fell in love with him last week. Let me tell you about it.
I went outside to smoke a cigarette and he was outside doing the same. I sat down and babbled in hopes of distracting him with my speech away from how shitty I looked. While I was babbling, I interrupted myself because I was distracted by a shiny object on the ground that looked like a luminous little bubble. When I pointed it out to him, he reached over and picked it up--it wasn't a bubble after all, but a glass marble. Then he placed the marble in my hand.
At that moment I fell in love with him. I've been thinking about it for days, what it meant. What I've managed to understand is that in that moment, so many things crystallized--all my vague feelings about the delicacy of existence and sanity and how I find it all so beautiful and terrifyingly fragile, and how at that moment he turned all that I fear into something concrete and unbreakable, a source of strength rather than weakness, and put it, literally, in the palm of my hand.
Ever since then, I've been obsessively seeking him out at school, and glimmering whenever he alights across my path. Today I saw him and I was so happy and said hi but didn't stop to talk to him. I am feeling fuzzy. I want to go home and sleep and I know I should but I also think I'm going to end up in Brooklyn tonight because Joe is playing a show and I know he will sing me my favorite song and I will feel all happy and blissed out when he does and then I will sleep with him and all will be well and good in the world and I will forget how tweaked out I feel until tomorrow morning when I wake up naked and confused and zone out on the ride back, wondering why I always feel like this.
Last night at the bar an old dude was looking at this astrology chart he had, and he said to me that things will calm down and simplify soon: am I ready? He said that there are many men right now, but that I am the one in control. He said I have to be mean: in a pointed way, and not drag things out. Then he said, "You have the dick. You're the one flying the plane. You know? You're in control." He repeated it about four times: You have the dick. You're the one flying the plane.
I have the dick. I'm flying the plane.
I just don't know where I'm going or how I'm going to land.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
abuse of all things
I have spent the week largely hungover. I don't know how it happens; it just does. Friday night I canceled all my plans and nursed myself with pot and the excellent film Manhattan. It's kind of nice to be a pothead because halfway into the movie I realized I'd seen it before, so it was vaguely familiar, but still awesome. I get to rediscover the things I like, all the time.
I have decided to stop dating everyone simultaneously. Friday was a healing day. I woke up because John was biting me and I had a headache. He was whining that he hadn't seen me in so long, even though I'd seen him last week. When I left he said in a snarky way, "So, I'll probably see you in what, three weeks?" I said, "If you're lucky." As soon as I got out of his apartment, I knew I'd never go out with him again. I went to lunch with my friend and tried to text break up with a boy I've only gone out with once but somehow he's convinced he's in love with me. I was hoping to just let it slide away, but his text messages were getting increasingly impatient, so I told him to leave me alone. This put me in a bad mood regarding all things male-related, so I canceled my date with Joe for that night. Then his messages got really dramatic and desperate, culminating in a four-page text sent at 6 a.m. that read:
Hi its me again. Yes i know, i am bothering you again. Sorry for that, i cannot seem to get you out of my mind. For the first time in my life, i want something so bad. Dont mean to scare or put any pressure on u. I know u have so much on u right now with school and everything. All i am asking is that u give me the chance to get to know u better. It dont have to be right now when ever things slow down with school. Like u a whole lot for that short time i know u. Just want that opportunity. Its up to u anything u decide i will respect it. So text me your thoughts, want to know what you think.
I'm not kidding! I thought I'd made it clear by saying I was too busy, which everyone knows is clearly just a gentle no, because no matter how busy a person is, if they really like you, they will make time for you. I was actually awake at 6 a.m., having gone to sleep at 9:30 Friday night, and I answered him immediately: This is ridiclous. Please stop sending me messages.
It made me hate everything, myself the most. I feel like every girl in my life this week has said the same thing that I've been saying to myself all my life: how can this person possibly like me?
I titled this post "abuse of all things" because I was going to detail this week's adventures in booze, but now I don't feel like it. It's the same story, over and over again, of ritual self-abuse that is slowly killing me but I honestly don't know any other way. And it can actually be quite entertaining in the meanwhile.
"C'est l'histoire d'un mec qui tombe d'un immeuble de cinquante étages au fur et à mesure de sa chute il se répète sans cesse pour se rassurer: jusqu'ici tout va bien, jusqu'ici tout va bien, jusqu'ici tout va bien... mais l'important, c'est pas la chute, c'est l'atterrissage." (La Haine)
"It's the story of a guy who falls from the fiftieth story of a building and while he's falling, he says to himself over and over again to reassure himself: so far so good, so far so good, so far so good...but what's important isn't the fall...it's the landing."
I have decided to stop dating everyone simultaneously. Friday was a healing day. I woke up because John was biting me and I had a headache. He was whining that he hadn't seen me in so long, even though I'd seen him last week. When I left he said in a snarky way, "So, I'll probably see you in what, three weeks?" I said, "If you're lucky." As soon as I got out of his apartment, I knew I'd never go out with him again. I went to lunch with my friend and tried to text break up with a boy I've only gone out with once but somehow he's convinced he's in love with me. I was hoping to just let it slide away, but his text messages were getting increasingly impatient, so I told him to leave me alone. This put me in a bad mood regarding all things male-related, so I canceled my date with Joe for that night. Then his messages got really dramatic and desperate, culminating in a four-page text sent at 6 a.m. that read:
Hi its me again. Yes i know, i am bothering you again. Sorry for that, i cannot seem to get you out of my mind. For the first time in my life, i want something so bad. Dont mean to scare or put any pressure on u. I know u have so much on u right now with school and everything. All i am asking is that u give me the chance to get to know u better. It dont have to be right now when ever things slow down with school. Like u a whole lot for that short time i know u. Just want that opportunity. Its up to u anything u decide i will respect it. So text me your thoughts, want to know what you think.
I'm not kidding! I thought I'd made it clear by saying I was too busy, which everyone knows is clearly just a gentle no, because no matter how busy a person is, if they really like you, they will make time for you. I was actually awake at 6 a.m., having gone to sleep at 9:30 Friday night, and I answered him immediately: This is ridiclous. Please stop sending me messages.
It made me hate everything, myself the most. I feel like every girl in my life this week has said the same thing that I've been saying to myself all my life: how can this person possibly like me?
I titled this post "abuse of all things" because I was going to detail this week's adventures in booze, but now I don't feel like it. It's the same story, over and over again, of ritual self-abuse that is slowly killing me but I honestly don't know any other way. And it can actually be quite entertaining in the meanwhile.
"C'est l'histoire d'un mec qui tombe d'un immeuble de cinquante étages au fur et à mesure de sa chute il se répète sans cesse pour se rassurer: jusqu'ici tout va bien, jusqu'ici tout va bien, jusqu'ici tout va bien... mais l'important, c'est pas la chute, c'est l'atterrissage." (La Haine)
"It's the story of a guy who falls from the fiftieth story of a building and while he's falling, he says to himself over and over again to reassure himself: so far so good, so far so good, so far so good...but what's important isn't the fall...it's the landing."
Monday, September 8, 2008
S.A.D. x2
This afternoon I went to Counseling and Psychological Services. I made the appointment last week when I started freaking out about my adventures in sobriety. My nerves felt really shot; they still kind of do even though I have been drinking for the last three nights. I have also been largely unable to sleep. I popped awake this morning at seven and went for a jog even though (a) I don't have class today and (b) I didn't get to sleep until around 3 a.m.
My Clinical Psychologist is young. I almost think she is younger than me, but is that possible? Can you be a CP by the age of twenty-eight? I wonder.
Anyhow I laid out my whole history for her, which I actually read to her from a document I'd written last night at 2 a.m. because I was losing my voice to the extent that I thought I'd be unable to speak when I got to the appointment. I could speak, but I figured I might as well read what had taken me almost an hour to write.
CP told me some interesting things that I'd never really considered. She said my withdrawal symptoms were normal but that it wasn't a good idea for me to quit drinking cold turkey due to the amount that I drink. She said I could have had a seizure! and that it would probably be in my best interests to continue to drink, but to try and moderate it down a bit. Instead of twelve drinks, she said, try to have eight.
After some time she said I would "definitely qualify" for Substance Abuse Disorder by the standards of the DSM. And I thought Seasonal Affective Disorder was enough! Now I'm twice as SAD! (that was a crazy joke! laugh!) Apparently people with Substance Abuse Disorder can get some bomb free treatment here in New York. She doesn't know why, but people who are this SAD are taken very seriously. I'm not quite clear how this SAD is different than, say, alcoholism, or what have you, but there it is. Next week we will try to talk about Abuse versus Dependence. This is why I hate this kind of shit. What you call it doesn't really matter. All I know is that when I don't drink continuously I feel fucked up. Isn't it so weird that you can have withdrawal from The Booze? You can have heart failure and shit. She also said it's normal that I got sick. But not good. It's kind of funny because I don't think I can have a drinking problem, it's just that I drink so much that my body wants it now. I was mentally okay without drinking, it's just that my body felt like shit. That's what happens when you spend 4-10 hours a night drinking for a many many years at a time.
I'm glad I can go back to drinking. I didn't think my nerves were going to last.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Soaking It
Being dry at muffin and papa's boozefest was actually okay. I was just sick of thinking/talking about sobriety, so when I met up with John and he suggested getting a drink, I just went along with it. I didn't feel like explaining again why the hell I find it necessary to extend a few days of detox into a month-long test of my sanity. So we boozed.
He took me to a bunch of sweet spots in the Lower East Side, including Home Sweet Home at Delancey and Chrystie, and Black and White, where I actually ran into someone I used to work with in San Francisco. The other two bars I'd been to before.
John insisted on paying for everything, which threw me off. We ended the night with a bottle of nice champagne and tequila shots at the same bar where my accidental date had ended badly with papa the day after his birthday. It was kind of funny. John also happens to work in the same office as Boy, the young'un I dated for a hot minute last year.
I felt like absolute shit this morning, but my sore throat/swollen lymph nodes were completely cleared up. I don't understand why not drinking makes me sick. Honest to god, I'd been downing ibuprofen since Monday because my throat was killing me. This morning I had a horrible dream after John and I had sex; I dreamt that he had to get up to go to a beer festival and he put his fictitious roommate in bed with me in his underwear and I thought to myself, "oh god, I'm too hungover to fuck this guy too." I think I have a really messed up relationship with sex. When I checked my messages I had a text from Curly timestamped at a quarter past two in the morning.
What the shit? He is driving me crazy! How can I take a guy seriously when he only texts me late night? I hope he gets a firm grasp of his balls soon and fucken calls me sometime. Then again he might be trying to post me up for another bait-and-switch with Red, whom apparently EVERYONE hates. I just never got that vibe of evil and insecurity that everyone else picked up on. These Williamsburg boys! Maybe I should embrace the NYC dating protocol of only dating guys who live within a seven-block radius of me. However, the last time that happened, I couldn't even vomit the next day. But I would really love to go out with Curly sometime. Boy juggling is a necessary distraction right now.
John and I are going out again Wednesday, and I am climbing my boozed ass back on the wagon today.
He took me to a bunch of sweet spots in the Lower East Side, including Home Sweet Home at Delancey and Chrystie, and Black and White, where I actually ran into someone I used to work with in San Francisco. The other two bars I'd been to before.
John insisted on paying for everything, which threw me off. We ended the night with a bottle of nice champagne and tequila shots at the same bar where my accidental date had ended badly with papa the day after his birthday. It was kind of funny. John also happens to work in the same office as Boy, the young'un I dated for a hot minute last year.
I felt like absolute shit this morning, but my sore throat/swollen lymph nodes were completely cleared up. I don't understand why not drinking makes me sick. Honest to god, I'd been downing ibuprofen since Monday because my throat was killing me. This morning I had a horrible dream after John and I had sex; I dreamt that he had to get up to go to a beer festival and he put his fictitious roommate in bed with me in his underwear and I thought to myself, "oh god, I'm too hungover to fuck this guy too." I think I have a really messed up relationship with sex. When I checked my messages I had a text from Curly timestamped at a quarter past two in the morning.
What the shit? He is driving me crazy! How can I take a guy seriously when he only texts me late night? I hope he gets a firm grasp of his balls soon and fucken calls me sometime. Then again he might be trying to post me up for another bait-and-switch with Red, whom apparently EVERYONE hates. I just never got that vibe of evil and insecurity that everyone else picked up on. These Williamsburg boys! Maybe I should embrace the NYC dating protocol of only dating guys who live within a seven-block radius of me. However, the last time that happened, I couldn't even vomit the next day. But I would really love to go out with Curly sometime. Boy juggling is a necessary distraction right now.
John and I are going out again Wednesday, and I am climbing my boozed ass back on the wagon today.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Blur of Brooklyn
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.
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.
Friday, August 1, 2008
that buzzing sound: is that my soul fighting with itself? or a vibrating cock ring?
The Boys are pissing me off this week, and even more irritating is my Handling of Them. I went to a farrrbulous wedding this past weekend: yes, I did just say a fab wedding. It was actually twenty-four hours of fun, so take note, people: it is possible.
At said wedding, however, I got roped into a seemingly endless conversation where he trapped me into giving him my phone number. He was a nice enough guy, but totally self-absorbed. I was into him at all, but I was sober and I can’t lie when I’m sober, so I gave him my number.
Homeboy has called me EVERY FUCKEN DAY since Sunday. When will this stop? I have yet to pick up or return a single call. The messages were kind of rude. One of them was like, “SERIOUSLY. Call me and tell me when the best time is to reach you.” Right, dude, the only reason why I haven’t returned your calls is because we haven’t found the right time yet. Then this morning—I kid you not—he calls me at ten to seven in the morning, and left me another message about maybe I was a morning person? Please stop fucking calling me. Isn’t there a rule about the number of unanswered phone messages a person can leave before entering the legal realm of stalkerdom?
Then last night was the worst. I went on a date with this guy who I didn’t know at all. This guy chased me out of a bodega in the neighborhood and last night we went out to dinner. I should have known there were going to be problems from the beginning because when I said I was free Wednesday, he asked me, “Do you go spinning?”
I said, “Spinning? Like at a gym?” Color me disgusted as he invites me to a spinning class. La-a-a-a-me.
No, we did not go spinning together. But we did go have a night of serious boozeness. Okay, here’s how the night went wrong. Literally on our first drink, he kissed me, on the lips, without warning or asking. I couldn’t even get out of the way. I…think that’s wrong. I didn’t like that one bet. Throughout the night he kept kissing me and I could not make it stop. Seriously, dude? What’s up with that?
He was a nice enough guy, though. He brought me a rose. We had a nice dinner. He was holding my hand, too! On a first fucken date? Really? I didn’t know how to be like, “Please don’t touch me” without being too much of a bitch, so I just went along with it.
Then, fast forward a few hours and much boozeness later, he’s trying to come into my apartment with me. I said, “NonoNO you’re not coming up. I’m not sleeping with you.” But he was really fucken insistent that he see me upstairs, and of course we end up having sex and while it’s not bad, I didn’t want to have sex with him, and shit just happened. The weirdest part about it was that homeboy had a VIBRATING COCK RING with him. Who the hell carries a vibrating cock ring around with them? Man, that was a shocker.
This morning he pulled the “I’m going to fuck you awake” tactic, and I was like “Get the hell off of me, dude.” Then he practically begged for sex. God, what is more pathetic than that? The bed was a bloody mess; I was pissy; there was a dude in bed with me who I was hating more and more with each passing moment.
All of this shadiness made me miss Joe, who always asked me if he could even put his arm around me, let alone kiss me. Why did I put up with this behavior last night? Is booze really to blame? Why do I let guys just have their way with me, only to feel like crap about it later? Thoughts, anyone?
And now, another person whose calls I’m going to have to dodge. Thank you Jesus for caller ID.
At said wedding, however, I got roped into a seemingly endless conversation where he trapped me into giving him my phone number. He was a nice enough guy, but totally self-absorbed. I was into him at all, but I was sober and I can’t lie when I’m sober, so I gave him my number.
Homeboy has called me EVERY FUCKEN DAY since Sunday. When will this stop? I have yet to pick up or return a single call. The messages were kind of rude. One of them was like, “SERIOUSLY. Call me and tell me when the best time is to reach you.” Right, dude, the only reason why I haven’t returned your calls is because we haven’t found the right time yet. Then this morning—I kid you not—he calls me at ten to seven in the morning, and left me another message about maybe I was a morning person? Please stop fucking calling me. Isn’t there a rule about the number of unanswered phone messages a person can leave before entering the legal realm of stalkerdom?
Then last night was the worst. I went on a date with this guy who I didn’t know at all. This guy chased me out of a bodega in the neighborhood and last night we went out to dinner. I should have known there were going to be problems from the beginning because when I said I was free Wednesday, he asked me, “Do you go spinning?”
I said, “Spinning? Like at a gym?” Color me disgusted as he invites me to a spinning class. La-a-a-a-me.
No, we did not go spinning together. But we did go have a night of serious boozeness. Okay, here’s how the night went wrong. Literally on our first drink, he kissed me, on the lips, without warning or asking. I couldn’t even get out of the way. I…think that’s wrong. I didn’t like that one bet. Throughout the night he kept kissing me and I could not make it stop. Seriously, dude? What’s up with that?
He was a nice enough guy, though. He brought me a rose. We had a nice dinner. He was holding my hand, too! On a first fucken date? Really? I didn’t know how to be like, “Please don’t touch me” without being too much of a bitch, so I just went along with it.
Then, fast forward a few hours and much boozeness later, he’s trying to come into my apartment with me. I said, “NonoNO you’re not coming up. I’m not sleeping with you.” But he was really fucken insistent that he see me upstairs, and of course we end up having sex and while it’s not bad, I didn’t want to have sex with him, and shit just happened. The weirdest part about it was that homeboy had a VIBRATING COCK RING with him. Who the hell carries a vibrating cock ring around with them? Man, that was a shocker.
This morning he pulled the “I’m going to fuck you awake” tactic, and I was like “Get the hell off of me, dude.” Then he practically begged for sex. God, what is more pathetic than that? The bed was a bloody mess; I was pissy; there was a dude in bed with me who I was hating more and more with each passing moment.
All of this shadiness made me miss Joe, who always asked me if he could even put his arm around me, let alone kiss me. Why did I put up with this behavior last night? Is booze really to blame? Why do I let guys just have their way with me, only to feel like crap about it later? Thoughts, anyone?
And now, another person whose calls I’m going to have to dodge. Thank you Jesus for caller ID.
Monday, June 30, 2008
yes, keetens, i really am busy
My week has pretty much been a swift return to the boozeness, peaking Friday night with My Friend's brilliant idea to get me to drink six shots of whiskey on the roof of his building before I needed to go out to Brooklyn. Needless to say, I peed on someone's German automobile and woke up at 4:30 in the morning, confused, hungover, and in Park Slope.
That day was a rough day. I made my way out to Little Neck for an epic BBQ involving at least a dozen chickens, a duck, a turkey, lamb gyros, a repeat of the amazing Brazilian picanha (expertly prepared by my current obsession, Tyler), and several thousand dollars worth of beer. Tyler is driving me fucken crazy. I don't know why I have to want someone who is clearly emotionally inaccessible, but that's just the way it is, I guess. The boy just won't give me a damn inch. I hate hate hate love love him. I spent the evening wondering how to connect with him, aside from showing him my many bruises and scrapes from the past few days. Incidentally, this is also how I connect with eight-year-olds.
On a happy note, I finally grew the makings of a spine--albeit a flexible, cartilage-based one--and broke it off with Joe. I had failed on making the transition earlier this week, and I am horrible at ending things with nice boys whose only mistake was to show me how truly interested they were in pursuing a meaningful relationship with me.
I had kind of thought/hoped/feared that I had "broken up" with him via drunk voicemail on the night of my whiskey greyout, but then I kept getting more messages from him. I just want to share this with you, because this was a good one. It worked for me, and maybe it can work for you, too!
Ending a 6-week affair via text message, in less than 100 words:
Joe: Hi! Hang out tonight?
S: Sorry i cannot
Joe: Pssh, I give up. (this was the third night in a row)
S: Sorry it's nothing personal--i am really busy this week. To be honest i didn't really expect to see you anymore because of our travels. (it took me a half hour to decide between saying 'didn't' and 'don't')
Joe: Ah no hard feelings. Its a bummer, I'd squeeze in time for it (by it I think he meant fucking, what do you think?) but we can call it even.
(Ten minutes later)
Joe: Ah heck with it, if I dont see you - good luck out there!
(Awww! What a sweetheart!)
S: Thanks doll, say hello to the cali for me.
Done and done. Now, back to my secret plans.
That day was a rough day. I made my way out to Little Neck for an epic BBQ involving at least a dozen chickens, a duck, a turkey, lamb gyros, a repeat of the amazing Brazilian picanha (expertly prepared by my current obsession, Tyler), and several thousand dollars worth of beer. Tyler is driving me fucken crazy. I don't know why I have to want someone who is clearly emotionally inaccessible, but that's just the way it is, I guess. The boy just won't give me a damn inch. I hate hate hate love love him. I spent the evening wondering how to connect with him, aside from showing him my many bruises and scrapes from the past few days. Incidentally, this is also how I connect with eight-year-olds.
On a happy note, I finally grew the makings of a spine--albeit a flexible, cartilage-based one--and broke it off with Joe. I had failed on making the transition earlier this week, and I am horrible at ending things with nice boys whose only mistake was to show me how truly interested they were in pursuing a meaningful relationship with me.
I had kind of thought/hoped/feared that I had "broken up" with him via drunk voicemail on the night of my whiskey greyout, but then I kept getting more messages from him. I just want to share this with you, because this was a good one. It worked for me, and maybe it can work for you, too!
Ending a 6-week affair via text message, in less than 100 words:
Joe: Hi! Hang out tonight?
S: Sorry i cannot
Joe: Pssh, I give up. (this was the third night in a row)
S: Sorry it's nothing personal--i am really busy this week. To be honest i didn't really expect to see you anymore because of our travels. (it took me a half hour to decide between saying 'didn't' and 'don't')
Joe: Ah no hard feelings. Its a bummer, I'd squeeze in time for it (by it I think he meant fucking, what do you think?) but we can call it even.
(Ten minutes later)
Joe: Ah heck with it, if I dont see you - good luck out there!
(Awww! What a sweetheart!)
S: Thanks doll, say hello to the cali for me.
Done and done. Now, back to my secret plans.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
blah blah burnout
So I finally took a night off after probably 50+ days of consecutive boozing.
It was not fun. Not only do other people like me more when I'm drunk, I like myself more, and I like everything more. Whaddyado? I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to take one more night off because my body hurts, and then I'm going to go back to the boozeness. Until you think of something better, let me know. I don't mean to sound depressing, but that's just the way it is. Like my friend Jen used to say, "I'm not a bitch. I'm just being honest."
This is how I feel when I'm drinking: "I love you, I love me, and I love life. You're a cock, but that's okay. I don't care. You think I'm stupid? Haha! I probably am. That's hilarious. Life is great."
This is me sober: "Even these beautiful days are heartbreaking, because I don't know what I'm doing. Why do I have so much when others have so little? Why can't I just enjoy my life? You think I'm self-absorbed? Well I am. Maybe that car will hit me and everything will be over."
Let's move on to another equally spastic part of my life, from matters of the liver to matters of the heart. I invited Joe over for a sleepover Thursday night. It was way fun; we played cards for hours with Neighbor and her boyfriend, then watched a movie and snuggled like teenagers on the futon. Joe is a sweetheart and all, but there is something that is off about everything. One is that he isn't a big eater, and I've never been with a guy who doesn't love food. Two is that when I wake up next to him, I just want to get rid of him. The two times he's slept over at my house, I wake up and run away--literally. I go for a jog. Then I come home and make a fatty breakfast, but he doesn't want to eat. This makes me sad, because some of the best mornings of my life were spent fucking and then eating. What is better than laying in bed, sweaty and satisfied and hungry, and talking about the delicious things you are going to fry? Nothing, that's what. Oh yeah, unless you don't like eating. So it is pretty much over between me and sweet, harmless Joe, whose friends I adore.
I made a big fuss over Tyler the other night. Aside from the slapping, I was just trying to be a good hostess because he didn't know anyone else there, and then I just ended up being a spurned ho. I find it terribly amusing, but even more so, horribly embarrassing. On the spectrum of wonderfulness in life, there is hot sex, bacon, eggs, and orange juice on one side, and getting spurned by The Boy at your own house party on the other.
Fortunately, I have no shame, and so when I accompany Neighbor's Boyfriend to yet another BBQ where Mr. Tyler will be present, I will don my vodka cap and continue to pursue this spiteful little boy. Honey, I am the queen of that shit.
It was not fun. Not only do other people like me more when I'm drunk, I like myself more, and I like everything more. Whaddyado? I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to take one more night off because my body hurts, and then I'm going to go back to the boozeness. Until you think of something better, let me know. I don't mean to sound depressing, but that's just the way it is. Like my friend Jen used to say, "I'm not a bitch. I'm just being honest."
This is how I feel when I'm drinking: "I love you, I love me, and I love life. You're a cock, but that's okay. I don't care. You think I'm stupid? Haha! I probably am. That's hilarious. Life is great."
This is me sober: "Even these beautiful days are heartbreaking, because I don't know what I'm doing. Why do I have so much when others have so little? Why can't I just enjoy my life? You think I'm self-absorbed? Well I am. Maybe that car will hit me and everything will be over."
Let's move on to another equally spastic part of my life, from matters of the liver to matters of the heart. I invited Joe over for a sleepover Thursday night. It was way fun; we played cards for hours with Neighbor and her boyfriend, then watched a movie and snuggled like teenagers on the futon. Joe is a sweetheart and all, but there is something that is off about everything. One is that he isn't a big eater, and I've never been with a guy who doesn't love food. Two is that when I wake up next to him, I just want to get rid of him. The two times he's slept over at my house, I wake up and run away--literally. I go for a jog. Then I come home and make a fatty breakfast, but he doesn't want to eat. This makes me sad, because some of the best mornings of my life were spent fucking and then eating. What is better than laying in bed, sweaty and satisfied and hungry, and talking about the delicious things you are going to fry? Nothing, that's what. Oh yeah, unless you don't like eating. So it is pretty much over between me and sweet, harmless Joe, whose friends I adore.
I made a big fuss over Tyler the other night. Aside from the slapping, I was just trying to be a good hostess because he didn't know anyone else there, and then I just ended up being a spurned ho. I find it terribly amusing, but even more so, horribly embarrassing. On the spectrum of wonderfulness in life, there is hot sex, bacon, eggs, and orange juice on one side, and getting spurned by The Boy at your own house party on the other.
Fortunately, I have no shame, and so when I accompany Neighbor's Boyfriend to yet another BBQ where Mr. Tyler will be present, I will don my vodka cap and continue to pursue this spiteful little boy. Honey, I am the queen of that shit.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Preview: Summer of Love 2008
It is so beautiful outside that I can't stand it. Literally. My spring-induced mania is pretty out of control, so I have locked myself indoors and am cooking up magical warm-weather food for tonight's par-tay.
It has been a blur since getting on the train at 10 p.m. Thursday night in Chicago. I got crazy bruised celebrating Cian's birthday hours after getting off Amtrak. For some reason The Booze gives me The Violence Against Men, and unfortunately for me, I was with boys that hit back that night. I also like to wake up in the morning and send people photos of my injuries, asking for explanations.
Joe had texted and called me while I'd been in The Chi, so we met up for a sleepover party. Although I can't take him seriously, his sweetness is pretty endearing. So are his friends. Saturday I went to Coney Island with him and his buddies and I had a fantastic time being by the ocean, playing frisbee in the sand, and drinking the strongest bloody marys known to man. It was fun being with Joe and having someone to love on, and I'm hoping we can keep it fun and casual for the Summer of Love 2008, and I don't think it'll be too hard since we'll both be traveling around at opposing times. At the same time, I feel so awesome when I'm around him, like a little kid, just goofy and beautiful and happy. There's something right with that, and I don't want to fuck with it. I know that if I let myself, I will just fall crazy in love with him, and that is something, for some reason, that I am trying to avoid.
With the help of my buddy Eric, I had decided not to invite Joe to tonight's party because I think he might be a little clingy and I have other irons in the fire. And----yaaay! Tyler is coming tonight, and I haven't seen him in about a month, so I'm excited. This kid makes me want to slap him more than anyone else; that is another one of my infatuation tells.
Anyhow, I'm so excited and so drunk on life, and I love the summer and I love you.
It has been a blur since getting on the train at 10 p.m. Thursday night in Chicago. I got crazy bruised celebrating Cian's birthday hours after getting off Amtrak. For some reason The Booze gives me The Violence Against Men, and unfortunately for me, I was with boys that hit back that night. I also like to wake up in the morning and send people photos of my injuries, asking for explanations.
Joe had texted and called me while I'd been in The Chi, so we met up for a sleepover party. Although I can't take him seriously, his sweetness is pretty endearing. So are his friends. Saturday I went to Coney Island with him and his buddies and I had a fantastic time being by the ocean, playing frisbee in the sand, and drinking the strongest bloody marys known to man. It was fun being with Joe and having someone to love on, and I'm hoping we can keep it fun and casual for the Summer of Love 2008, and I don't think it'll be too hard since we'll both be traveling around at opposing times. At the same time, I feel so awesome when I'm around him, like a little kid, just goofy and beautiful and happy. There's something right with that, and I don't want to fuck with it. I know that if I let myself, I will just fall crazy in love with him, and that is something, for some reason, that I am trying to avoid.
With the help of my buddy Eric, I had decided not to invite Joe to tonight's party because I think he might be a little clingy and I have other irons in the fire. And----yaaay! Tyler is coming tonight, and I haven't seen him in about a month, so I'm excited. This kid makes me want to slap him more than anyone else; that is another one of my infatuation tells.
Anyhow, I'm so excited and so drunk on life, and I love the summer and I love you.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Mom 'n Pop Detox
Live from Illinois, it's Saturday morning. I had a great 30-hour trip from New York to my parents' home, via Amtrak. It was wonderful, although there was a six-hour stretch somewhere in Pennsylvania where I almost regretted getting on the train, but it dissolved as the sun rose. I was sitting in the cafe car, drinking crappy/wonderful coffee, and watching the fields go by with my new friends talking about the book of Revelations...
It was a much, much-needed respite from the three-week bender I've been on. Just when I didn't think things could get much more wanton/drunken/randy, I hung out with Joe again, artfully evading his inquiries about (a) sex stains on my bed that didn't belong to us, (b) breast bruises that did not belong to him, and (c) what I thought about his plan to start a tee-shirt company. Prematurely possessive questions aside, this last one really got to me, because the world needs more snarky tee-shirts just as much as we need more babies, nuclear war, and graphic designers. I wanted to call it our last night together, but it is hard because I really do feel like his body was made just for me, and he left his flask at my place before going out to meet his family for Mother's Day.
I had to hustle him out of my apartment because this Swiss couchsurfer called me from JFK to tell me he was on his way over. I half-heartedly dragged myself around my apartment cleaning up disgusting things and kind of feeling bitter/overextended about sharing my apartment for the third, fourth, night in a row. But he was passed to me by Love Affair and Girlfriend, so I had agreed to let him stay two nights with me.
As soon as I opened the door to let him in, however, I told him he could stay the week with me. He was so fucken adorable! Thank you, Girlfriend! What a delightful Swiss gift! I promised myself I wouldn't sleep with him--it's kind of against the couchsurfing protocol, and he's a bit younger than me--but it wasn't my fault. It really wasn't. I'm only human.
The funniest thing about that whole situation was happened as I was leaving for Penn Station Thursday morning. I was hustling around trying to get my shit together and give him instructions on what to do, whom to call, while he was sat there in his underwear scratching his head, and he asks me, "So...what should I say...when your friends ask about us?" I knew exactly what he was saying, but it was so fun to watch him squirm, so I was like, "What do you mean? Tell them we met on Couchsurfing. Or tell them about Girlfriend and Love Affair. They know what Couchsurfing is." And he's struggling to say the right words in English without being vulgar, "No, I mean...about...not that..."
Hilarity!
So now, after that week of sluttery and drunkening, I am chastely sitting at my parents' house, sporting the patch, and remembering what life in middle America is all about: big houses, big cars, big meals, and big televisions. TV is crazy, man. Me and Little Brother are watching Pretty Woman at one in the afternoon, and there are commercials on for BecomeAnEx.Org, a quit-smoking program. It was a hilarious commercial, by the way. You must check it out.
It was a much, much-needed respite from the three-week bender I've been on. Just when I didn't think things could get much more wanton/drunken/randy, I hung out with Joe again, artfully evading his inquiries about (a) sex stains on my bed that didn't belong to us, (b) breast bruises that did not belong to him, and (c) what I thought about his plan to start a tee-shirt company. Prematurely possessive questions aside, this last one really got to me, because the world needs more snarky tee-shirts just as much as we need more babies, nuclear war, and graphic designers. I wanted to call it our last night together, but it is hard because I really do feel like his body was made just for me, and he left his flask at my place before going out to meet his family for Mother's Day.
I had to hustle him out of my apartment because this Swiss couchsurfer called me from JFK to tell me he was on his way over. I half-heartedly dragged myself around my apartment cleaning up disgusting things and kind of feeling bitter/overextended about sharing my apartment for the third, fourth, night in a row. But he was passed to me by Love Affair and Girlfriend, so I had agreed to let him stay two nights with me.
As soon as I opened the door to let him in, however, I told him he could stay the week with me. He was so fucken adorable! Thank you, Girlfriend! What a delightful Swiss gift! I promised myself I wouldn't sleep with him--it's kind of against the couchsurfing protocol, and he's a bit younger than me--but it wasn't my fault. It really wasn't. I'm only human.
The funniest thing about that whole situation was happened as I was leaving for Penn Station Thursday morning. I was hustling around trying to get my shit together and give him instructions on what to do, whom to call, while he was sat there in his underwear scratching his head, and he asks me, "So...what should I say...when your friends ask about us?" I knew exactly what he was saying, but it was so fun to watch him squirm, so I was like, "What do you mean? Tell them we met on Couchsurfing. Or tell them about Girlfriend and Love Affair. They know what Couchsurfing is." And he's struggling to say the right words in English without being vulgar, "No, I mean...about...not that..."
Hilarity!
So now, after that week of sluttery and drunkening, I am chastely sitting at my parents' house, sporting the patch, and remembering what life in middle America is all about: big houses, big cars, big meals, and big televisions. TV is crazy, man. Me and Little Brother are watching Pretty Woman at one in the afternoon, and there are commercials on for BecomeAnEx.Org, a quit-smoking program. It was a hilarious commercial, by the way. You must check it out.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
so many things
There are so many things I want to write about but I am horrendously drunk for 6 pm on a Tuesday, so we'll start right here and see what happens.
First off, I only 10 percent remember writing that last post about...soup? This is what I write about when I'm drunk? Soup? My Friend and I have a tendency to get unexpectedly drunk together. This is what happened this afternoon. But our newly cemented Friend status makes getting drunk together totally awesome, and we are even considering living together next year
because my Neighbor confirmed that she got into SCAD and is probably taking off late summer.
Exciting, daunting, everything all at once. Cheers to: The Future...!
I had my one and only final exam this morning at 9 a.m. Instead of studying yesterday, I celebrated Cinco de Mayo by eating nothing but "Mexican" food all day, and staying up until 2 in the morning chatting with Girlfriend about the latest development in my junior high love life. Strangely enough, I only had one tequila drink yesterday, on the holiest of holy days for my preferred beverage, and I realize that there are now three things I have to ingest on a regular basis in order to keep my bowels in motion: cigarettes, coffee, and tequila.
Something happened to me Saturday evening, and all of a sudden I needed to have sex. And when I say "need," I mean it in a very comprehensive way, where my body and my mind and the stars all aligned to make sure I got some action. When I left my apartment Saturday night, I knew I wasn't coming home. I was being pulled by some force greater than me to some form of casual encounter, and nothing could stop it, not even Netflix. I even put my overnight kit (i.e., eyedrops and a pack of gum) into my purse as I left.
There were some days that I recall last year in my months of severe drunkening where I just didn't give a flying fuck and although I wasn't particularly happy, I wasn't sad either, and I couldn't stop laughing, which gave me the feeling of light satisfaction. There was one day I remember where I thought I was holding it together at the office pretty well because I was sating myself by holding an unlit cigarette in my mouth, thereby making me less edgy and pleasant despite being quite dry in the head. It wasn't until late afternoon that I had sufficiently rehydrated enough to pee, and when I got into the bathroom, I saw that I had what looked like several day's worth of eye makeup drying on my face. This was also the time that I stopped brushing my hair (which I still don't do, but now it's about a foot shorter so it's harder to tell), and when I attempted to pull it back into some semblance of dignity, I saw that I had dried blood all around one ear. I don't think I was bleeding out of my ear, so its source was unclear to me. In any case, I found this terribly funny, because all day long some people had commented that I looked like shit, and somehow it never occurred to me to go and check it out.
Sunday I was vaguely aware that this might be one of those days, because I found myself vaguely singing and dancing on the subway platform the morning after popping my NYCherry and heading to school for a crucial review session, during which I volunteered to clean the blackboard with my clothing. I have been blessed with an insomnia-free streak for a little while now, and I also have not yet slept out a single night in The NY, so Sunday was a little jarring for me. Also, Sunday, if you remember, was about thirty degrees warmer than it was Saturday, so I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt under a heavy sleeveless item, and I felt fucken ridiculous. So I tried to alter what I was wearing accordingly, then passed out in the sun for a while after indulging in a much needed slice of Koronet pizza.
This is when I got the call that suggested that Tyler, this boy that I'm so incredibly into, might maybe be at this BBQ back from whence I came in Brooklyn that evening. I have many scruples about anything that seems even remotely duplicitous, so I was torn. On the other hand I really wanted to see Tyler and I didn't have time to go home and shower and make it look as though I had chosen to wear the clothes I was wearing. So I did the only thing I could do: I took a paper towel bath in the restroom, asked my unsuspecting friend to smell me for ball stank, and headed back to Brooklyn.
Tyler wasn't there, but it was still a great time, and I was happy to be with such a mellow group of people who never once referenced anything relating to the existing dominant Manhattan paradigm, any struggle with it, or any acknowledgment that that world existed. I was with people who just...were. And this made me incredibly happy. It made me think that here I was, all stressed and worried about trying to be Somebody, without taking the time to realize that I already am Somebody. Right now I'm Somebody who doesn't do what I want, and the world is feel of Somebodies who are always trying to be Somebody Else without just being who they are, and doing what makes them happy.
This brings me back to my exciting Friday night, which consisted of watching Little Miss Sunshine, which made me (a) miss my family and (b) just want to "Do what you love, fuck the rest." I really, really, loved this movie.
Anyhow, I want to write more about this new boy, whom I will also call by his unidentifiable first name, Joe. I went on a hilariously awkward post-sex, sober, daytime date with him yesterday, and some interesting things were revealed to me, things that I couldn't even respond to because I was so sober, and of course self-censorship and BAC are inversely related. I said so little and ate so much (as you can see, my diet and no-drinking phase lasted all of 48 painful hours) that I was surprised to hear from him again last night, and I am now trying to sober up by blogging, napping, and heading back into the night to see him again. He is a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, or something like that, which makes me trust him infinitely more than anyone I've met via craig. And this is why I slept with so many people in San Francisco: there, everyone is separated by a maximum of three degrees. Of course, that's also what made it kind of creepy, and why most people don't advise sleeping with roommates or co-workers.
Foolish? I think so. But it's amazing our capacity for self-distraction when faced with an inordinate amount of work and requirements, either self- or publicly imposed. I react poorly to rules.
First off, I only 10 percent remember writing that last post about...soup? This is what I write about when I'm drunk? Soup? My Friend and I have a tendency to get unexpectedly drunk together. This is what happened this afternoon. But our newly cemented Friend status makes getting drunk together totally awesome, and we are even considering living together next year
because my Neighbor confirmed that she got into SCAD and is probably taking off late summer.
Exciting, daunting, everything all at once. Cheers to: The Future...!
I had my one and only final exam this morning at 9 a.m. Instead of studying yesterday, I celebrated Cinco de Mayo by eating nothing but "Mexican" food all day, and staying up until 2 in the morning chatting with Girlfriend about the latest development in my junior high love life. Strangely enough, I only had one tequila drink yesterday, on the holiest of holy days for my preferred beverage, and I realize that there are now three things I have to ingest on a regular basis in order to keep my bowels in motion: cigarettes, coffee, and tequila.
Something happened to me Saturday evening, and all of a sudden I needed to have sex. And when I say "need," I mean it in a very comprehensive way, where my body and my mind and the stars all aligned to make sure I got some action. When I left my apartment Saturday night, I knew I wasn't coming home. I was being pulled by some force greater than me to some form of casual encounter, and nothing could stop it, not even Netflix. I even put my overnight kit (i.e., eyedrops and a pack of gum) into my purse as I left.
There were some days that I recall last year in my months of severe drunkening where I just didn't give a flying fuck and although I wasn't particularly happy, I wasn't sad either, and I couldn't stop laughing, which gave me the feeling of light satisfaction. There was one day I remember where I thought I was holding it together at the office pretty well because I was sating myself by holding an unlit cigarette in my mouth, thereby making me less edgy and pleasant despite being quite dry in the head. It wasn't until late afternoon that I had sufficiently rehydrated enough to pee, and when I got into the bathroom, I saw that I had what looked like several day's worth of eye makeup drying on my face. This was also the time that I stopped brushing my hair (which I still don't do, but now it's about a foot shorter so it's harder to tell), and when I attempted to pull it back into some semblance of dignity, I saw that I had dried blood all around one ear. I don't think I was bleeding out of my ear, so its source was unclear to me. In any case, I found this terribly funny, because all day long some people had commented that I looked like shit, and somehow it never occurred to me to go and check it out.
Sunday I was vaguely aware that this might be one of those days, because I found myself vaguely singing and dancing on the subway platform the morning after popping my NYCherry and heading to school for a crucial review session, during which I volunteered to clean the blackboard with my clothing. I have been blessed with an insomnia-free streak for a little while now, and I also have not yet slept out a single night in The NY, so Sunday was a little jarring for me. Also, Sunday, if you remember, was about thirty degrees warmer than it was Saturday, so I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt under a heavy sleeveless item, and I felt fucken ridiculous. So I tried to alter what I was wearing accordingly, then passed out in the sun for a while after indulging in a much needed slice of Koronet pizza.
This is when I got the call that suggested that Tyler, this boy that I'm so incredibly into, might maybe be at this BBQ back from whence I came in Brooklyn that evening. I have many scruples about anything that seems even remotely duplicitous, so I was torn. On the other hand I really wanted to see Tyler and I didn't have time to go home and shower and make it look as though I had chosen to wear the clothes I was wearing. So I did the only thing I could do: I took a paper towel bath in the restroom, asked my unsuspecting friend to smell me for ball stank, and headed back to Brooklyn.
Tyler wasn't there, but it was still a great time, and I was happy to be with such a mellow group of people who never once referenced anything relating to the existing dominant Manhattan paradigm, any struggle with it, or any acknowledgment that that world existed. I was with people who just...were. And this made me incredibly happy. It made me think that here I was, all stressed and worried about trying to be Somebody, without taking the time to realize that I already am Somebody. Right now I'm Somebody who doesn't do what I want, and the world is feel of Somebodies who are always trying to be Somebody Else without just being who they are, and doing what makes them happy.
This brings me back to my exciting Friday night, which consisted of watching Little Miss Sunshine, which made me (a) miss my family and (b) just want to "Do what you love, fuck the rest." I really, really, loved this movie.
Anyhow, I want to write more about this new boy, whom I will also call by his unidentifiable first name, Joe. I went on a hilariously awkward post-sex, sober, daytime date with him yesterday, and some interesting things were revealed to me, things that I couldn't even respond to because I was so sober, and of course self-censorship and BAC are inversely related. I said so little and ate so much (as you can see, my diet and no-drinking phase lasted all of 48 painful hours) that I was surprised to hear from him again last night, and I am now trying to sober up by blogging, napping, and heading back into the night to see him again. He is a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, or something like that, which makes me trust him infinitely more than anyone I've met via craig. And this is why I slept with so many people in San Francisco: there, everyone is separated by a maximum of three degrees. Of course, that's also what made it kind of creepy, and why most people don't advise sleeping with roommates or co-workers.
Foolish? I think so. But it's amazing our capacity for self-distraction when faced with an inordinate amount of work and requirements, either self- or publicly imposed. I react poorly to rules.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
We booze, we boozed, we will booze
Yesterday was a day to reflect on. It started with my exciting purchase of plane tickets to Alaska and ended, predictably, with my head in the toilet. I was so plastered that I first threw up next to the toilet, and I still haven't cleaned it up because...well, that shit is gross and I can't yet handle it.
But in the 14 hours between the beginning and end of my day, I had a lovely post-birthday walkabout with Papa. I was feeling the loopy high of 8 hours of drinking the previous night, and we took advantage of the lovely weather to walk from Chambers Street over the Brooklyn Bridge. We meandered through Dumbo for a while, went up the Brooklyn Heights promenade, and then traversed the Gowanus Canal on our way to the Brooklyn Museum. We did this all on foot. I'm actually sore today. The whole day long we were just giggling and chatting and pointing at dogs. Papa is such a great ambling companion, and we were definitely moving at the same speed yesterday.
I can't stop talking about how ecstatic I am that winter is over. I honestly didn't realize how much the winter got me down. And I bet that if you did a study, you would discover that blogging decreases significantly in the spring and summer months. We're all too busy having fun outside to pause, reflect, and gripe online.
But now that spring has sprung, we can turn our attention to love love love again, and the confounding state of relationships today. Let us pray:
Before omelettes with my lovely neighboroommate, I got a message from a former lover, a guy I used to call My New Best Friend, because I was trying not to sleep with him. (It didn't work.) It's the second time MNBF has messaged me this week, which is a little strange, but that's beside the point. The first message was a photo of him wearing this hat that I'd given him. And the second message was a photo of Love Affair. No words, just the photo. I don't really know what that's all about, but I had this vision of them talking at a party, fishing for some common thing to talk about, and that common thing being a common lover. Brrr. I usually try to avoid thinking about shared bed partners.
Seeing Love Affair last week was a mixed bag. I think I used every possible excuse to touch him and kiss him. I got him to help me with some cooking and it really made me miss My Former Life, where we would cook together, eat together, sleep together...I told myself I wouldn't allow myself to miss him. But it just felt good to be next to him. Baw!
Anyhow Papa and my day transitioned into this very entertaining situation when we decided to go meet up with the kid I met in Chicago, the night that I Crown-Royaled myself into sleeping in my car. Let's call him Crown Royale Companion (CRC). I'm not attracted to him at all, but he'd invited me to meet up with him for the Murakami opening at the Brooklyn Museum, and I said yes. From the text message, it seemed like he was going with people, and I should meet up for a drink if I was around. Let me add a disclaimer here that one of our friends was "sure" that CRC was "gayer than a picnic basket," and didn't believe me when I said that CRC was hitting on me, and so I kind of was seeing this as a playdate with new friends.
Text messages have brought communicative ambiguity to an entirely new level.
Anyhow, Papa and I started to wonder if I was going on a date, so I made sure to mention in my next text that I was bringing a friend. I think this caused him to hustle to bring someone with him as well. It ended up being me and Papa, and CRC and CRCroommate.
So the four of us are strolling around the museum, and the dynamic was just funny because Papa and CRC and CRCroommate don't know each other at all, and I don't really know why we're there, because I'm not into CRC really. I thought CRCroommate was gay, so I was trying to give Papa and CRCroommate some space. I was also trying to give me some space so as not to make CRC think I was all into him, but I also didn't want to lose anyone. It was a little challenging because it was such a scene last night, with the collision of opening night and free first Saturday. The ambiguity of the arrangement was very funny to me. CRCroommate (not gay in the end) was probably disappointed that Papa isn't a hot chick, but was being a tremendously good sport about it all, and we had a nice time.
After the museum we went to the boys' apartment in Williamsburg and had beers. I started acting like a dipshit, just chattering to keep the energy up, but also to avoid thinking about the funny social dynamic. I was entertaining myself by rotating us about methodically so I wasn't just walking with CRC and such, and I was a little disconcerted to discover that I liked CRCroommate more than CRC. That kind of stuff amuses me. We then went to Barcade, which was great fun. It was just as crowded and noisy as the museum. We played a bunch of video games and then got crunched into a corner of the bar, where I connected with CRCroommate about architecture and urban planning. I decided I liked him a lot more. Then CRC came to break us up, and in response I went outside to smoke a cigarette and exchanged phone numbers with two boys who I got to talking to about pinball.
Anyhow, CRCroommate left after 3 drinks (smart guy) and we went off to a fancy bar where we somehow dropped more than a $100 drinking wine and eating prosciutto. What the fuck. I was so la-la by then I probably would have agreed to anything. Over the first bottle of wine, we got into a heated discussion about capitalism and the role of the financial markets in New York City specifically, and I found myself hating CRC because of the way he was arguing. He kept saying, "Wait, let me finish," as though we were just taking turns talking. To me that's such a power play in a conversation amongst peers. Part of the conversation is negotiating points and delimiting your own speech in the interest of participation. Again I went outside to smoke cigarettes and demanded to sit with these three guys who were talking about black holes. When I went back into the bar I ended up making out with CRC.
Now that I write this all down, it seems far less amusing. But now I'm stuck with wanting to see CRCroommate again, but not really CRC. Is it possible to make this switch? I didn't get CRCroommate's number. If I want to see CRCroommate again, I'm going to have to set things straight with CRC.
Then this morning I got this weird text (fucken text messages--although they are a hangover's best friend) from him that says:
"All the passionate talk of politics and social reform. Yet I sleep here alone. A man not of capitalist greed or liberal anarchy. But of loneliness."
Does this message give anyone else the creeps? And does anyone have advice for me on making the switch?
Do you think this will work?
But in the 14 hours between the beginning and end of my day, I had a lovely post-birthday walkabout with Papa. I was feeling the loopy high of 8 hours of drinking the previous night, and we took advantage of the lovely weather to walk from Chambers Street over the Brooklyn Bridge. We meandered through Dumbo for a while, went up the Brooklyn Heights promenade, and then traversed the Gowanus Canal on our way to the Brooklyn Museum. We did this all on foot. I'm actually sore today. The whole day long we were just giggling and chatting and pointing at dogs. Papa is such a great ambling companion, and we were definitely moving at the same speed yesterday.
I can't stop talking about how ecstatic I am that winter is over. I honestly didn't realize how much the winter got me down. And I bet that if you did a study, you would discover that blogging decreases significantly in the spring and summer months. We're all too busy having fun outside to pause, reflect, and gripe online.
But now that spring has sprung, we can turn our attention to love love love again, and the confounding state of relationships today. Let us pray:
Before omelettes with my lovely neighboroommate, I got a message from a former lover, a guy I used to call My New Best Friend, because I was trying not to sleep with him. (It didn't work.) It's the second time MNBF has messaged me this week, which is a little strange, but that's beside the point. The first message was a photo of him wearing this hat that I'd given him. And the second message was a photo of Love Affair. No words, just the photo. I don't really know what that's all about, but I had this vision of them talking at a party, fishing for some common thing to talk about, and that common thing being a common lover. Brrr. I usually try to avoid thinking about shared bed partners.
Seeing Love Affair last week was a mixed bag. I think I used every possible excuse to touch him and kiss him. I got him to help me with some cooking and it really made me miss My Former Life, where we would cook together, eat together, sleep together...I told myself I wouldn't allow myself to miss him. But it just felt good to be next to him. Baw!
Anyhow Papa and my day transitioned into this very entertaining situation when we decided to go meet up with the kid I met in Chicago, the night that I Crown-Royaled myself into sleeping in my car. Let's call him Crown Royale Companion (CRC). I'm not attracted to him at all, but he'd invited me to meet up with him for the Murakami opening at the Brooklyn Museum, and I said yes. From the text message, it seemed like he was going with people, and I should meet up for a drink if I was around. Let me add a disclaimer here that one of our friends was "sure" that CRC was "gayer than a picnic basket," and didn't believe me when I said that CRC was hitting on me, and so I kind of was seeing this as a playdate with new friends.
Text messages have brought communicative ambiguity to an entirely new level.
Anyhow, Papa and I started to wonder if I was going on a date, so I made sure to mention in my next text that I was bringing a friend. I think this caused him to hustle to bring someone with him as well. It ended up being me and Papa, and CRC and CRCroommate.
So the four of us are strolling around the museum, and the dynamic was just funny because Papa and CRC and CRCroommate don't know each other at all, and I don't really know why we're there, because I'm not into CRC really. I thought CRCroommate was gay, so I was trying to give Papa and CRCroommate some space. I was also trying to give me some space so as not to make CRC think I was all into him, but I also didn't want to lose anyone. It was a little challenging because it was such a scene last night, with the collision of opening night and free first Saturday. The ambiguity of the arrangement was very funny to me. CRCroommate (not gay in the end) was probably disappointed that Papa isn't a hot chick, but was being a tremendously good sport about it all, and we had a nice time.
After the museum we went to the boys' apartment in Williamsburg and had beers. I started acting like a dipshit, just chattering to keep the energy up, but also to avoid thinking about the funny social dynamic. I was entertaining myself by rotating us about methodically so I wasn't just walking with CRC and such, and I was a little disconcerted to discover that I liked CRCroommate more than CRC. That kind of stuff amuses me. We then went to Barcade, which was great fun. It was just as crowded and noisy as the museum. We played a bunch of video games and then got crunched into a corner of the bar, where I connected with CRCroommate about architecture and urban planning. I decided I liked him a lot more. Then CRC came to break us up, and in response I went outside to smoke a cigarette and exchanged phone numbers with two boys who I got to talking to about pinball.
Anyhow, CRCroommate left after 3 drinks (smart guy) and we went off to a fancy bar where we somehow dropped more than a $100 drinking wine and eating prosciutto. What the fuck. I was so la-la by then I probably would have agreed to anything. Over the first bottle of wine, we got into a heated discussion about capitalism and the role of the financial markets in New York City specifically, and I found myself hating CRC because of the way he was arguing. He kept saying, "Wait, let me finish," as though we were just taking turns talking. To me that's such a power play in a conversation amongst peers. Part of the conversation is negotiating points and delimiting your own speech in the interest of participation. Again I went outside to smoke cigarettes and demanded to sit with these three guys who were talking about black holes. When I went back into the bar I ended up making out with CRC.
Now that I write this all down, it seems far less amusing. But now I'm stuck with wanting to see CRCroommate again, but not really CRC. Is it possible to make this switch? I didn't get CRCroommate's number. If I want to see CRCroommate again, I'm going to have to set things straight with CRC.
Then this morning I got this weird text (fucken text messages--although they are a hangover's best friend) from him that says:
"All the passionate talk of politics and social reform. Yet I sleep here alone. A man not of capitalist greed or liberal anarchy. But of loneliness."
Does this message give anyone else the creeps? And does anyone have advice for me on making the switch?
Do you think this will work?
Monday, March 24, 2008
the queen of this here space
I'm feeling especially crazed lately, and it is all due to the fact that I'm in grad school and I have not a clue what I am doing, but I have many crazy thoughts and not enough time/direction to pursue them all. This story has something to do with it.
The other night I was back in The Chi and I decided to start drinking Crown Royale at 9:30 in the evening. This is what happened:
(first drink): This is nice. I like Chicago. This bartender is nice. I like this song. I wish I could get out of my head though. I can't believe this drink was $12. If Eric weren't DJing here, I would never have come in here. That go-go dancer screen thing is pretty fucken cool though.
(second drink): I wonder how long we have to stay here. I can't drink too much. I have to drive home.
(third drink): Dude, let me tell you about New York. Shit is fucked up. I kind of like it though. Oh you live there too, huh? Well, let me tell you about it. Hey, you need a drink?
(fourth drink): Man Eric, that was a great set. Meet my new friend. What's your name, dude? He's visiting from New York. Hey, you want to fight? I'm just kidding. Hey, you want a cigarette?
(fifth drink): Man this is great. I love Chicago. Hey, you need a drink?
(sixth drink): What are you talking about? I'm a great dancer. Fuck off. Who needs a drink?
(passed out in some bathroom): No, Eric, you can't come in. I'm fine. But I will need to leave soon. Get ready.
(wandering aimlessly down Lincoln Avenue): No, my car's not on Lincoln. It's...parked in front of another car. On the side of the road. (apparently I said the next thing 3 times) Man Eric, you know what's great? As soon as we find my car, I'm gonna get in the back seat, and I'm gonna go to sleep. It is gonna be great.
(7 a.m.): Am I dead? Oh my god, I'm frozen to death. Weird, I'm under a blanket though...but I'm not in bed...I'm in...my car. Parked...on the side of the road...on Diversey. Frozen to death.
When I got the lowdown on my behavior the next day, I was glad to hear that I'm not a bad drunk, and that I contained all of my grossness to the bathroom of some diner we were at. Also, I started to talk about how crazy I was feeling, but it made me sad, and so I stopped talking about, and started trying to beat people up. The things a person will do to get away from their craziness!
It is a very lonely feeling, and I am desperate for some real guidance. But I don't know who to get it from. I don't even really know what I'm thinking about, just that it's driving me crazy and I can't escape it. Some of it is circular thought. Some of it is just bottomless philosophizing. A lot of it leads back to Marx.
I guess it is grating on me more than I know. I hate the feeling of not being able to explain myself or what is on my mind. That, I suppose, is why I write. I want to know that what I'm thinking can be explained. If I get bogged down in heady thoughts that are inexplicable, they are pretty much worthless thoughts. What is the use of thought if it isolates you rather than connects you? But I am floating lately, and I try to get into things, and then I try to avoid them, and then I get frustrated because I don't even know where to begin. I don't even know how this all began.
Waking up in the icebox of my mom's SUV at 7 in the morning made me feel like the desperation is coming to a hilt, that all the thoughts that I've been having, all the explanations I've been seeking may not actually be getting me anywhere except towards psychosis, cirrhosis, and complete alienation from society. It is a weird sensation to wake up alone, freezing, and thinking, "I don't even know the last thing I remember. It all blends together into this confusing feeling that is so overwhelming it brinks on numbness."
And then the nausea kicks in.
As I drove home, I thought of the last time I'd woken up cold and alone, and probably saved from freezing to death by my high BAC. It was in San Francisco when I leaved by Ocean Beach, and I got locked out of my apartment, and I slept on the stairs for a few hours because my roommates would not wake up. Oh, these cold and drunken nights when we are so close to home...
The other night I was back in The Chi and I decided to start drinking Crown Royale at 9:30 in the evening. This is what happened:
(first drink): This is nice. I like Chicago. This bartender is nice. I like this song. I wish I could get out of my head though. I can't believe this drink was $12. If Eric weren't DJing here, I would never have come in here. That go-go dancer screen thing is pretty fucken cool though.
(second drink): I wonder how long we have to stay here. I can't drink too much. I have to drive home.
(third drink): Dude, let me tell you about New York. Shit is fucked up. I kind of like it though. Oh you live there too, huh? Well, let me tell you about it. Hey, you need a drink?
(fourth drink): Man Eric, that was a great set. Meet my new friend. What's your name, dude? He's visiting from New York. Hey, you want to fight? I'm just kidding. Hey, you want a cigarette?
(fifth drink): Man this is great. I love Chicago. Hey, you need a drink?
(sixth drink): What are you talking about? I'm a great dancer. Fuck off. Who needs a drink?
(passed out in some bathroom): No, Eric, you can't come in. I'm fine. But I will need to leave soon. Get ready.
(wandering aimlessly down Lincoln Avenue): No, my car's not on Lincoln. It's...parked in front of another car. On the side of the road. (apparently I said the next thing 3 times) Man Eric, you know what's great? As soon as we find my car, I'm gonna get in the back seat, and I'm gonna go to sleep. It is gonna be great.
(7 a.m.): Am I dead? Oh my god, I'm frozen to death. Weird, I'm under a blanket though...but I'm not in bed...I'm in...my car. Parked...on the side of the road...on Diversey. Frozen to death.
When I got the lowdown on my behavior the next day, I was glad to hear that I'm not a bad drunk, and that I contained all of my grossness to the bathroom of some diner we were at. Also, I started to talk about how crazy I was feeling, but it made me sad, and so I stopped talking about, and started trying to beat people up. The things a person will do to get away from their craziness!
It is a very lonely feeling, and I am desperate for some real guidance. But I don't know who to get it from. I don't even really know what I'm thinking about, just that it's driving me crazy and I can't escape it. Some of it is circular thought. Some of it is just bottomless philosophizing. A lot of it leads back to Marx.
I guess it is grating on me more than I know. I hate the feeling of not being able to explain myself or what is on my mind. That, I suppose, is why I write. I want to know that what I'm thinking can be explained. If I get bogged down in heady thoughts that are inexplicable, they are pretty much worthless thoughts. What is the use of thought if it isolates you rather than connects you? But I am floating lately, and I try to get into things, and then I try to avoid them, and then I get frustrated because I don't even know where to begin. I don't even know how this all began.
Waking up in the icebox of my mom's SUV at 7 in the morning made me feel like the desperation is coming to a hilt, that all the thoughts that I've been having, all the explanations I've been seeking may not actually be getting me anywhere except towards psychosis, cirrhosis, and complete alienation from society. It is a weird sensation to wake up alone, freezing, and thinking, "I don't even know the last thing I remember. It all blends together into this confusing feeling that is so overwhelming it brinks on numbness."
And then the nausea kicks in.
As I drove home, I thought of the last time I'd woken up cold and alone, and probably saved from freezing to death by my high BAC. It was in San Francisco when I leaved by Ocean Beach, and I got locked out of my apartment, and I slept on the stairs for a few hours because my roommates would not wake up. Oh, these cold and drunken nights when we are so close to home...
Sunday, February 3, 2008
drank o'clock
I don't understand this new function of getting older where I am pretty much unable to sleep past eleven a.m., no matter how drunkenly and late/early I collapse into bed. Then I wake up drunk, wanting simultaneously to both go for a jog and eat everything in sight while systematically doing a sobriety check for the previous evening's events, to make sure everything lines up in drunk vision.
I got off on a cradle-robbing foot earlier in the day when I saw a cute boy from one of my classes in the library. I asked him if he was an architecture student like the most of them, and he revealed himself as an undergrad. This revelation put me on edge for some reason. When I got out of the library I called Ex, the original younger man. I hadn't talked to him since the half-assed cocaine intervention, and I miss him. I miss him more when I am in these schizo moods.
After killing time playing the accordion with Beauty, we went down to the Lower East Side, where I spent the next several hours wandering around with a bottle of Sauza, alienating most people I came into contact with. My Friend showed up to this school-people gathering with a girl, putting me in this ridiculously insecure mood of hostility and urgency to become drunk. I became absorbed with the task of making all the food at the party in order to decrease the risk of me being a complete asshole. Then I left the party with My Friend, his female friend, after towing out a fellow student, who then wondered if we were being assholes by leaving. Then he felt bad, so he left us leaving, and went home.
Ask me again why I hate the group dynamic.
At Library I lost track of My Friend and had one of those long, enthusiastic drunk conversations with someone that you wouldn't ever be able to recall in a million years after getting up to go to the bathroom. That's when I met a cute boy, in the bathroom line. When I emerged from the stall he asked me if I wanted to go get something to eat, so I left My Friend and his friends, and joined new guy...and two of his friends.
It wasn't until I encountered his two friends that I realized how young this lad was who had picked me up in the bathroom. These days when I find myself surrounded by people who are closer to 20 than 30, I either want to sleep with them or give them some milk and cookies before sending them away. I had wanted to sleep with the original boy, but after some French toast and some QT with his milk-and-cookie friends, I found myself in a happy, sexless state. And that's when I wanted to be with My Friend, who I had haplessly ditched earlier in the night. Sigh.
Oh, Girlfriend, if you're reading this...I gave him your phone number. Yours and someone else's. He's going to San Francisco for something and doesn't know anyone there. He's a nice guy. His name was Bill. He probably won't call, because he'll be embarrassed to be under 21.
I got off on a cradle-robbing foot earlier in the day when I saw a cute boy from one of my classes in the library. I asked him if he was an architecture student like the most of them, and he revealed himself as an undergrad. This revelation put me on edge for some reason. When I got out of the library I called Ex, the original younger man. I hadn't talked to him since the half-assed cocaine intervention, and I miss him. I miss him more when I am in these schizo moods.
After killing time playing the accordion with Beauty, we went down to the Lower East Side, where I spent the next several hours wandering around with a bottle of Sauza, alienating most people I came into contact with. My Friend showed up to this school-people gathering with a girl, putting me in this ridiculously insecure mood of hostility and urgency to become drunk. I became absorbed with the task of making all the food at the party in order to decrease the risk of me being a complete asshole. Then I left the party with My Friend, his female friend, after towing out a fellow student, who then wondered if we were being assholes by leaving. Then he felt bad, so he left us leaving, and went home.
Ask me again why I hate the group dynamic.
At Library I lost track of My Friend and had one of those long, enthusiastic drunk conversations with someone that you wouldn't ever be able to recall in a million years after getting up to go to the bathroom. That's when I met a cute boy, in the bathroom line. When I emerged from the stall he asked me if I wanted to go get something to eat, so I left My Friend and his friends, and joined new guy...and two of his friends.
It wasn't until I encountered his two friends that I realized how young this lad was who had picked me up in the bathroom. These days when I find myself surrounded by people who are closer to 20 than 30, I either want to sleep with them or give them some milk and cookies before sending them away. I had wanted to sleep with the original boy, but after some French toast and some QT with his milk-and-cookie friends, I found myself in a happy, sexless state. And that's when I wanted to be with My Friend, who I had haplessly ditched earlier in the night. Sigh.
Oh, Girlfriend, if you're reading this...I gave him your phone number. Yours and someone else's. He's going to San Francisco for something and doesn't know anyone there. He's a nice guy. His name was Bill. He probably won't call, because he'll be embarrassed to be under 21.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
an educational saturday night
this is what i learned last night:
do not go out to get away from your mind or your resolve to stop drinking so much.
drinking cocktails out of double-shot glasses will give the appearance that you have only had little sips all night. do not be fooled.
do not stand too close to the pinata. foil-wrapped chocolate balls, when flying at high velocity, can really hurt.
if you tell yourself, "i will only have one drink," it usually works. if you tell yourself, "so what's one drink in these cute little glasses...three? four? well, i'll figure it out later," an educational saturday night is in store for you.
when you abandon the cute glasses that everyone has been drinking all night and start swigging tequila straight from the bottle, you have had too much to drink.
when people start calling you a hero because you are championing everyone else's discarded desperation drinks -- like vermouth on ice-- you have had too much to drink.
when your friend who has NEVER asked you if you're okay asks you if you're okay, leave immediately.
when leaving a party drunk, ask the hostess if she has a plastic garbage you can take with you. an old shopping bag should work too.
if you have to take the subway, sit at one end of the train, as far away from as many people as you can.
if you have to puke, use the garbage bag. if you don't have the garbage bag, use your purse.
if you are too drunk to open your purse, use the floor.
if you're vomiting all over the A train and you can't even think to yourself, "oh my god, i'm vomiting all over the A train, i'm so embarrassed," this is a good thing.
just because you want to get off the train doesn't mean it's your stop.
if you've already puked all over the A train, you might as well sit in it, so to allow other people to sit in seats that you haven't puked all over. also, if you change seats, you are messing up more seats.
just because a man wants to take you home does not mean he wants to sleep with you.
when a nice stranger walks you home, just say thank you. do not try to hug him, because you are covered in thirty people's drinks, and your partially digested meal. the stomach acid could ruin his coat and discourage him from helping other pathetic drunk girls in the future.
although tight chinese dresses are not comfortable pajamas, it doesn't matter if you're passed out on the toilet.
do not go out to get away from your mind or your resolve to stop drinking so much.
drinking cocktails out of double-shot glasses will give the appearance that you have only had little sips all night. do not be fooled.
do not stand too close to the pinata. foil-wrapped chocolate balls, when flying at high velocity, can really hurt.
if you tell yourself, "i will only have one drink," it usually works. if you tell yourself, "so what's one drink in these cute little glasses...three? four? well, i'll figure it out later," an educational saturday night is in store for you.
when you abandon the cute glasses that everyone has been drinking all night and start swigging tequila straight from the bottle, you have had too much to drink.
when people start calling you a hero because you are championing everyone else's discarded desperation drinks -- like vermouth on ice-- you have had too much to drink.
when your friend who has NEVER asked you if you're okay asks you if you're okay, leave immediately.
when leaving a party drunk, ask the hostess if she has a plastic garbage you can take with you. an old shopping bag should work too.
if you have to take the subway, sit at one end of the train, as far away from as many people as you can.
if you have to puke, use the garbage bag. if you don't have the garbage bag, use your purse.
if you are too drunk to open your purse, use the floor.
if you're vomiting all over the A train and you can't even think to yourself, "oh my god, i'm vomiting all over the A train, i'm so embarrassed," this is a good thing.
just because you want to get off the train doesn't mean it's your stop.
if you've already puked all over the A train, you might as well sit in it, so to allow other people to sit in seats that you haven't puked all over. also, if you change seats, you are messing up more seats.
just because a man wants to take you home does not mean he wants to sleep with you.
when a nice stranger walks you home, just say thank you. do not try to hug him, because you are covered in thirty people's drinks, and your partially digested meal. the stomach acid could ruin his coat and discourage him from helping other pathetic drunk girls in the future.
although tight chinese dresses are not comfortable pajamas, it doesn't matter if you're passed out on the toilet.
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