BUT don’t come at me sideways on twitter with unsolicited vulgarities regarding my sex life, like *slanderous people do*
Don’t say you’re down for a casual relationship and five minutes later scream “SLUT!” at me inside a parked car.
And definitely don’t call me irresponsible, ungrateful or belligerent when we both know that’s not true, shit happens, and you have an attitude problem.
These are three different conversations I’ve had in the last 24 hours, with three different people. Two of them are “in my family,” whatever that means. I think it means someone married the wrong person, or something. I mean, I love my family. I even like them for the most part. But when the chips are down, just make sure you plug your ears until people come to their senses, because it can get ugly.
That being said, I’ve actually been having a decent amount of fun in the time since my relationship ended, i moved out of my house (and back with my parents), and got in a minor car accident that managed to majorly fuck up my car, my legal record and my ability to “possess a driver’s license for 30 days.”
I’ve come to terms with everything that happened. Yes, I shouldn’t have had so much to drink at that gallery on First Friday even though I couldn’t afford to pay for drinks at the bar later. Yes, I probably shouldn’t have been playing that old Vice records Flosstradamus mix so damn loud while driving to the next party. Yes, I should have driven slower around that corner of the parking deck so I didn’t hit the bumper of that (wonkily parked) fucking church van which made my Honda crumple up like a Coke can.
And maybe, just maybe, I should have waited to sober up before calling the cops on my own accident to only then be breathilized and handcuffed, never making it to the party in question.
Sure, I felt like a failure for the first day or two. But I focused my efforts on finding my ever-so-fabulous lawyer, making paper in my last few days at work, and on the wonderfully excruciating process of moving out of my ex-boyfriend’s house. By the time I made the cover of The Slammer looking like the love-child of Lindsey Lohan and Cruella Deville, I had very few fucks left to give.
There is a common misconception that shame and regret actually change the course of history. Sure, I’m not going to drink and drive anymore. But I’m not going to go to rehab, cry in my room all day or resign from reign as Queen Bitch. Everyone has things in their life that they’d do differently the second time around. I probably wouldn’t have tried so hard to fit in during middle school, or hooked up with that unattractive drummer at that bon fire in ‘09, but I’m not going to break out my flux capacitor for that shit any time soon. Instead, I’m going to buy some new platform shoes, move in with my friends, plead innocent in court and move on with my fucking fabulous disaster of a life.
Meanwhile, suck on this picture of my cat.
