flight

"i'm sick and i'm irritable and i wish he weren't such an idiot. the thought of him annoys me yet i allow him to come back for more because i'm tired and selfish and want someone to care about me even though i can't return the "favor." FUCK. what pisses me off most is his total lack of cognizance. how could he possibly mistake my blunt bitchiness for anything else?! even if it could pass for lethargy, won't he realize that when you're with someone you're excited to be with, you perk right up? motherfuckin' duh."

...that was the last time i really thought about him. it ended just as quickly as it started. the fade away. how predictable of me. the more i'm dating the more easily i recognize what i don't want and how rare to come by the combination of qualities i'm looking for in a man is. my impatience has morphed into doubt and i'm disinterested. but my biggest problem is i project. i meet someone who piques my interest just a little bit and i jump the gun. i invent a storyline, a happily ever after, that no one could live up to. is it really so impossible to find intelligence, humor, and compassion all in one tall, dark, and handsome package?

i wallowed in this realization, lying horizontally on my bed, in the same position I collapsed in when I got home from work 30 minutes earlier, boots still fastened tightly on my feet. tuesday's down, but still 3 full days to conquer before the weekend. maybe i'd use this one to recover from the two months worth of havoc i wreaked on my body over the holiday season instead of adding to the damage. not likely. in fact, why wait until the weekend; i wanted to rage tonight. i dialed my buddy, a guy i'd met 6 months earlier who had become someone i partied with often. he'd been in the studio all day recording with his band, but luckily for me, he was off the hook for the remainder of the night. we decided on a cantina down the road and an hour and three cigarettes later, we were comfortably settled with two overzealous 36 oz. bowls of ice blended margaritas. we talked about the goings on in our lives and told each other inconsequential stories, glancing intermittently at the bloodied ufc contenders on the flat screens decorating the walls from corner to corner. i quickly finished my drink, impatient for the buzz to reach full-fledged drunk. we asked for the check soon after, both of us aware that the cantina had nothing else to offer us. i reached for my phone as i hopped in the car: 9:45. what the fuck. the night was premature. we headed back to mine and put on an obligatory movie then crawled into bed. we chatted through half of Lincoln and killed two bottles of wine before I threw on a different choice of background noise. Almost Famous was an easy pick. i'll blame the movie for inspiring our lust for something more effective than alcohol as I scoured my room for any 'leftover' goods I kept too safely in the hiding places I designated while intoxicated. all i could find was the vicodin prescribed to me after a very recent car accident that afforded me 30 pills and 15 stitches in my hand which was still draped in the dressing applied during my last visit to my old soviet doctor. Tonight there were only three left in the pill bottle. I knew I'd regret being so generous with them on the night of my birthday, but c'est la vie, we'd make due with what we had. i cleared my nightstand just as instinctively as he pulled out a credit card and a twenty dollar bill. i hastily crushed the pills up and cut the white pile into four lines. a moment of better judgment had me question the sanity of what we were about to get into, but he had no qualms and volunteered to go first. I could tell he regretted it immediately. He cursed the sting as he pinched his nose. i took that as a sign not to follow suit and scooped the powder into my unimpaired palm, emptying it in my mouth and chasing it down with water. he did the same with what was left. now fresh out of alcohol and drugs, he turned to the next best thing.

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.

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.