Saturday, December 15, 2012

merry let's-get-drunk-month

what is it about the holiday season that throws me into a perpetual state of shitfaced? i wouldn't say this "phenomenon" is a common one and probably only resonates with alcoholics and other postgrad youngins who have yet to bear wrinkles and responsibilities. unfortunately, i've come to realize this end of year madness is very unbecoming. i'm committing drunken faux pas left and right and it is SO NOT CHIC.

i find myself texting "i feel like dirt" to my friends nearly every morning as i lay in bed begging the room to stop spinning and my pounding temples to cease knocking because no one's home. and it's no wonder i feel like dirt. dirt probably has a more nutritious diet than what i'm subjecting my pauvre body to: alcohol, fast food, and sudafed. i've hit a bottom of some sort and i can't really explain it to myself. i wish i could be one of those girls who proudly disclose their shame and wear it as a red badge of courage, but i cannot. and they're not crimes worth agonizing over but i'm more proud than i would have it if i had my way. liquid courage makes me a little too courageous. it has me running around acting like a damn, entitled ass, speaking out of turn, making brazen claims to impress the no ones buying me drinks, pretending to be on their level of low intelligence when they hash out cheap lines to compliment me (maybe that's all i'm worth).

to think that i was the one complaining about dudefriend's bad texting etiquette when i'm harassing him with nightly scheduled blasts of illogical messages distastefully strewn together. forget about spelling errors, i'm making up words. of course, this is typical drunk conduct. i'm sure you've been there: that time of night when you're no longer capable of composing a coherent thought and even less capable of transferring that unintelligible nothing onto your phone. but, it's getting out of hand. i have no idea what his tolerance is for this kind of bullshit but it's a surefire way to get any guy running the other way. is this self-sabotage my subconscience's way of telling me something? that was rhetorical.

one message is clear: i have issues. surprise! perhaps it's anxiety that the world might (im)possibly be coming to an end in a few short days. perhaps not. i thought i was on the road to a better place since my October meltdown, but my mind is playing tricks on itself. am i happy or unhappy? content or discontent?

i'm told it's all in good, holiday fun: "finish the year off right; you have the new year to repent for you sins." yet, this festive debauchery isn't so festive. it's regular, old (dark) debauchery. i'm 21 going on 22 and my behavior could facetiously be classified "normal," but cringing at every turn as I'm piecing together the roadmap of what happened the night previous isn't something I want to continue. i'm treading familiar waters decidedly headed toward "hot mess" territory. so let this be a note to self: get it together; quit overindulging and let me remember 2012 in a more dignified light.

drunk texting your mom

is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

on popularity

people indulge me to fit in. they resent it and me, and deserve to; i would, but alas, i'm selfish, always taking more than i'm willing to give, consciously, unconsciously, doesn't matter. they're smart for it though. you never want to step on a cute girl's toes, especially one with my lying eyes. you don't know what type of leverage she probably has and you may need to use her in the future. i admit it's slightly twisted that i take advantage of their pride-swallowing attempts at making nice with me, but let's be real, they'd be disappointed if I didn't meet their low expectations so they'll get what they paid for, a cold shell breathing fiery sass. i'll remain stuck behind this glass display they've encased me in where they're safe from getting to know me. not saying they'd like who they'd find anyway; i'm a cynical and entitled "artsy bitch" who's become so good at feigning confidence that people actually believe my life is all cocaine and daises (generously misguided). my happiness is customarily overestimated by outsiders and by those who lie on the periphery of my social circle, a tier which could really use some tidying up.

it's like a reversal of that bystander effect where nobody takes action after witnessing an accident, assuming everyone else already has. genovese syndrome. in this case, everyone's overcompensating because they see my popularity as fact and they refuse to fuck with status quo. so, because they don’t have the balls to call me out on my shit or to get to know me, we continue to have roundabout conversations at brunch about boys they're crushing on who are chasing me, that girl we sort of knew in college who's getting married to that foul frathard who raped a girl sophomore year (who are we kidding, girls***), and the countless perks we get at the jobs we pretend to like. there's also the occasional backhanded compliment, which is possibly the most amusing and definitely the most honest thing said over the duration of my eggs florentine. i bet on the odds of that in my head.

my heightened sensitivity on the subject stems from a series of fickle and unfulfilling friendships with girls whom I should've known better than to trust. they were desperate to get in with my crowd and i let them maneuver my drunken gregariousness to talk to the boys who'd only ever consider them one night stands. still, the empty friendships that were fastened only by our common aesthetic could have carried on had they not been tainted by rabid jealousy. i must've lost sight of my selfishness somewhere in the barrage of their empty flattery 'cause no matter how you look at it, i ended up with the shit end of the stick.

just because i'm generally detached doesn't mean i don't long to feel. and that in itself is a feeling very likely to keep you up at night. we all want to be liked, but i torture myself over it. it's something i struggle with daily and it's difficult and shameful to admit. i don't want to live the rest of my life like it's a goddamn popularity contest, but i don't think i'll ever "grow out of it" like "they" say I will. go ahead, tell me it's a sign of immaturity or that I can't expect to harvest a fruitful friendship or relationship with anyone if i only expect to take. tell me i'm unlikeable and that anyone i'm keeping around is a willing fool. tell me something I don't know. there's a challenge for you. and by all means, tell me you feel sorry for me. i'm way ahead of you. i've already reserved a table at that chic charcuterie shop that just opened up around the bend for my pity party.

for one of course.