So I’m texting back and forth with a friend of mine, and she said something that prompted me to say: “No! Don’t tell me! I’ll guess.” I guessed. The message went through. What if it’s correct? I thought. What if I guessed the 100% right answer to her obscure statement, and I can actually read minds? My whole life would change.
My phone did that obnxious whistle that signals the message, it turned out I had, in fact, guessed erroniously, and we carried on with our texting.
The issue here is that, at twenty six years old, there’s some part of me that’s still waiting to wake up and find out I have powers. Is this just me? Did I want too much Alex Mack as I child? I feel like I still every once in a while wake up hoping that some strange indigenous Mexican insect bit me while I was living there and that I’m going to start speaking fluent Zapoteco and be able to have lucid dreams that I write myself, and also hover three inches above the ground at all times.
Remember me? The lying theiving weasel who claimed she was going to write a novel, healthify herself, and close all orifi until the end of the semester? Yeah, in the flesh.
So with regards to the National Novel Writing Month, I technically met the requirements, which were to write 50,000 words of a novel. However, I plagarized about a third of it – not from the internet or anything, but from my past self who had apparently already written parts of the story I decided to write – so I’m not saying I actually did it.
The bad on fornication and alcoholization has been what the world wide web would call a Hashtag Epic Fail. I made it six days. I have since been behaving in a way that prompted the same friend from above to tell me: “In not so recent news, the summer bender is over.”
Have you ever gone into the kitchen to wash a few dishes, only to get really into it and end up scouring the entire apartment from top to bottom, scrubbing floors, vaccuming the little corners, changing sheets, and ultimately redecorating? That’s how I feel about the summer bender. I already started repainting the walls well into October, so I may as well just keep going until the spring equinox comes and summer is back. And why not? Don’t we always say how we wish it could be summer all the time; oh, if we only lived all year round with the freedom that envelops us in the vernal months! And it’s even better because in the winter, nights are longer.
Yeah, one of the best things about studying writing is that you learn more and more how to semantically glorify sin. But this house cleaning metaphor’s gone on too long, which seems to be lo de hoy because that’s totally how I feel about this semester. Did anyone else know that it’s December? I’m sorry, did I miss something? Something being the month of November? Those Mo-guys barely got a change to push whiskers and already it’s time to shave them off. And Thanksgiving weekend went down, albeit in a blur of dessert trios, John Denver, Marlboro Reds, tequila shots, and shitty ass substances that don’t even deserve to be called narcotics cause they’re so cut with garbage. (Seriously, I’m not a teenager anymore: How can I get access to the Dior of drugs? I’m sick of buying counterfeit crap.) And this whole “tipping like a boss” is capital-I Inappropriate with regards to the amount I work. Seriously, it’s like I get a few ounces of Jimador in my system and I’m like Hansel and Gretel except instead of breadcrumbs I’m leaving twenties, which is a trail that’s surefire NOT gonna be there when you turn around to go home.
So with regards to my interpersonal relations with members of the opposite sex, I end up hanging out with this guy the other night, and during the time it took me to drink one Stella, homeboy had imbibed six fucking Jameson’s on the rocks. Now, I understand that it’s enjoyable to be inebriated, and that there’s a fine line between borderline alcoholic and belligerent addict, but there’s something about a 1:6 ratio that rubbed me the wrong way.
But this was just the latest in a series of guys that finally make me understand why Sex and the City went on for so many seasons AFTER they were in their mid-thirties. I’m twenty six, and let me tell you, it’s a fucking war zone out there. If they’re not alcoholics, they’re married. If they’re not paying child support, they’re still being nursed by their mothers. If they’re seemingly perfect, they have a tiny penis, and if they’re locked and loaded, they’re probably a real douchebag. And whenever I meet someone I actually like, there’s inevitably a geographical constraint, or a height issue, or, most commonly, he’s a character in a movie.
But I love being single! It’s like frollicking around the city, trying on clothes in different stores and not buying something until you actually love it. Of course, the problem with THIS analogy is that all men are, by default, used clothes, and isn’t there something schkeevy about trying on clothes in a thrift store? You don’t know if they’re washed, where they’ve been, who used them. Last winter I went to the Salvation Army Depot on 11th Avenue and I got some weird ass rash on my arm that lasted for 5 days. You almost have to just buy the $4 sweater, take it home, get it dry cleaned, and then see if you really like it. Who has time for this shit? But what’s the other option? Dating a V? Yeah, that worked out really well. I’ve found some of my very favorite pieces at secondhand shops, but you really have to do some impeccable analysis: There’s nothing worse than buying a gorgeous coat for a great price only to realize once you get home that there’s a huge hole in the armpit, or – worse – that it has crippling OCD and is still thinking about its parents divorce fifteen years ago.
So obviously all this Monday morning blogging is indicative of the fact that I have a final paper due at 4:50 today. Said essay is meant to be on a book I have not had the pleasure of finishing, though the first sixty pages have proven imminently enjoyable and I’m sure the last 200 are as well. I simply don’t care. I care about school in general, but not this class, or about the other two. I picked awful classes. I want this semester to end. Come on! It’s the most wonderful time of the year! I have cute outfits to wear, I have yoga classes to take, novels to read, memoirs to write, blogs to create. I have people with whom I need to dine, others with whom I need to drink, Rockerfeller Center trees to see, and Christmas gifts to make and buy. If this semester has done anything for me, it has made me become re-interested in many things.
Just not this paper that’s due later today. And on that note, I depart. It’s crunch time. It’s computer lab time. Most of all, it’s wikipedia time. Happy Monday!
NB: Due to the author’s belligerence, laziness, penchant for the nightlife, and end of semester anxiety, this blog has gotten a little lax. After tomorrow, though, expect greatness.
Music’s Affect on My Life!