The Fab Disaster

Before I decided to quit drinking this past Monday morning I had at least a week of experiences I didn’t actually regret. In fact, I was quite proud of the parties I assisted in throwing and their overall success. Unfortunately, the 24 hours of substance consumption after the last celebration led to a lot of “questionable decisions” and “attempted murders” that quite audibly indicated that I need to make some changes in my life. I’m not sure if it was the fact that I had been drinking for two days straight, or all that caffeine or whatever was on that sweet tart they gave me, but that is neither here nor there. What really matters is that, at the dawn of my 23rd year (I just turned 22, which means it’s the end of the 22nd year? Okay class, moving on) I have accepted the challenge that every adult must face after college: a big fat self-induced reality check.

At first I was all

But then I was like

because unless my tolerance goes back down to non jabba-the-hut levels and I learn to drink less like an Orca and more like human being, I’m probably going to end up like Amy Winehouse who died at 27 from alcohol withdrawal. Plus I could end up “hurting the people I care about” which is, of course, unacceptable. 

Fear not, it is only temporary. It’s not a matter of “getting sober” but is rather a glimpse at the world of self control that will allow me to keep doing what I’m doing for years, only better. Don’t work harder, work smarter! …as it were.

In addition to the brain cells I plan on repairing in this process, I hope to lose the beer tummy* I acquired over the course of 2011, via single-handedly supporting such ambitious international companies as Jose Cuervo and Modelo Especial.
*i have not reached belly status quite yet, fuckyouverymuch 

So far, I already have leads on at least three real jobs I’d love to have and started going to the gym again. I went to a bar for an entire evening and managed to only drink ginger ale, until afterwards when I went home to four trusty bong rips. I also found out that if all you eat is salad for three days your poop will actually turn green. These are all great things. 

Tomorrow night there’s a dance party at Pulse, some sort of a continuation of Moe and Jane’s birthday party but really it’s just going to be fun. I am going to do my very, very best to show everyone that I am not actually Godzilla, and that I can still be the life of the party even while my liver is on vacation in the Hamptons. 

where you recognize the shittiness of your own life and look in the mirror at your sad, naked body in the unbelted bathrobe and suddenly feel motivated to make an excel spreadsheet of all the jobs you want to apply for with the managers’ names, phone numbers and Lifetouch yearbook photos, a separate column for the organic vegan bean paste products that you will conceivably eat during each hypothetical lunch break, and a column for the gyms in closest proximity to each location so you can finally counteract the vault of Tombstone pizza that is your withering small intestine. 

But so help me, I have been up all morning and only minutes ago did I even consider putting on underwear. 

Actually to be honest since around last Thursday or Friday I have been sleeping all day until between the hours of 5 and sunset, and then staying up all night looking at gifs of animals and stupid people, or recreating the nyan cat video by putting my face on the cartoon and re-recording the audio so that it says “me me me me me me” over and over instead of meow. Then I’ll usually go to sleep sometime around 7 ish as my boyfriend, who, god bless him, has a real job and sometimes even a life, gets up for his 9 to 5 and actually showers which would put me shame were i not completely unconscious. 

So last night we had this fight, which was one of those fights that’s like a culmination of all the other fights, the “what are we going to do!” fight, that kind of thing, and it came to my attention that even though I am not always the instigator or root cause of our sometimes cataclysmic confrontations, I am pretty frequently somewhat of an asshole. My first instinct after I came to this conclusion was, I gotta move out, I gotta get my life together and be motivated and do something productive for myself, man. But then I thought, instead of setting up the perfect situation for me to guiltlessly look at t-shirts online in my underwear every night until dawn, I could actually try to be a contributing member of society at the minimum level and also to my relationship. Then maybe, just maybe, my boyfriend will actually like me more and both of us will be less annoyed at the aggregate level. 

After we finished this discussion, somewhere around 3 am (which is when i usually have lunch), I decided that the best course of action would be to stay up for the rest of the morning mopping the floors and listening to literally hours of stand-up comedy specials recorded during the bush administration, and then fold laundry and send out resumes until tonight around sunset when I can finally attempt a normal human sleep schedule for the first time ever. i even woke up my boyfriend with french toast and coffee which hopefully will give me some kind of “get out of jail free” card in the future when i fuck up again. 

”I DID NOT FORGET YOUR BIRTHDAY!….remember that time six months ago when i made you french toast??!”

But really, relationships are hard, and being homeless is even harder. So whether you’re free-loading on principle or the recession has made both you and your bachelor’s degree about as useless as a pussy at the pride parade, the most important thing is to learn how to kiss ass and use a frying pan so you don’t get thrown on the street by the ones you love. Blow jobs don’t hurt either. 

Now that I’ve figured out how to get my relationship back on track I think i’ll feel much more comfortable about the next time my boyfriend eats a weed brownie, drinks 14 long island iced teas and passes out in the back of Terry’s mom’s pick-up truck. And he’ll feel much better about all the times he lends me money so that I can do that exact same thing to him. That’s the thing about love; once the both of you accept that there is not a shred of dignity to be shared between the two of you whatsoever, a golden anniversary can’t be that far behind.