Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to my blog. It’s the throes of the holiday season, and this site, despite about a month having passed since the last post, has gotten 30 hits today, which means that everyone is sitting on their ass at home looking for something borderline interesting that doesn’t involve food or alcohol, at least till the sun goes down.
Speaking of which, I’ve had just about enough of the fetishization of food that’s going on these days. As someone who works in a restaurant, I understand that a beautifully crafted meal is an art, and that presentation is a key element in the success of a dish. However, I’m constantly inundated with pictures of people’s mother fucking meals, most of which are so mundane that they don’t even get a picture in the plastic diner menu.. If you eat brains off a plastic spoon in the middle of the jungle, that’s worth a lo-fi filter. If you go to one of those restaurants where they flake gold onto ice cream sundaes, that might merit a quick shutter snap. But unless your bacon egg and cheese literally has the baby Jesus squeezed between the top roll and that first layer of yellow American, I think you’re taking your own existence far too seriously. And another thing, all you skinny psychos who eat a Christmas Peep and then get all #gavonne #omg #secretfatkid – plis stop it. You’re taking the glory away from the guy I saw eat a 42 ounce steak alone the other week.
It is the holidays, though, and food is bound to be one everyone’s mind, not to mention around their waist and slowly creeping up their throat. I myself have been hoovering about the city and Lower Hudson Valley, eating myself out of half my clothes. In fact, I just returned from American Apparel because I had to exchange a pair of sexy cheetah leggings for whimsical flowery ones. This is very upsetting to me, as whimsy is the last stop before you’re hauling ass to Awedacity. Tell me fat ladies aren’t the first ones to go for bags with antlers, or shirts with sequins and 3-D appliques.
One can’t expand from nourishment alone, however, and it’s most likely that my steadily expanding self is due to an over-consumption of alcohol. Right after Thanksgiving I saw a cartoon of a person, bruised, beaten, and clearly hungover, dragging herself to the 24th of December, decimated by the month of festivities that are The Adult Holiday Season. That has been me. Though I could give a day-by-day play-by-play of the guzzling and gallivanting, I don’t want to glorify gluttony. Suffice it to say, the term “Hot Mess” should just be replaced on Urban Dictionary with my name. I’m not proud, no, but I’m by no means ashamed. I will address this in a following blog – working title: “I’m a Drunk Fuck but You’re A Fucking Douche” – but will just momentarily state that I have learned many things over the last couple of months, the first being that boys don’t actually believe you when you say you blacked out and don’t remember.
But so this is Christmas! I love Christmas. I love giving gifts, and I love getting gifts. I asked for and received books, namely Les Miserables, Infinite Jest, and all of Proust, which means I’ve got over 6000 pages of reading on my hands. Another Christmas HIGH-light was illicit indulgences with the siblings, thus cementing a future lifetime of awesome holiday family gatherings. New Year’s is also going to be fabulous, if only because I will be confined to my tuxedo and my job and thus unable to ring in the New Year by eating fettucini alfredo off a stranger’s plate in Little Italy while propositioning another while my now-ex-boyfriend runs through Chinatown looking for a cab to the airport because I told him to leave, or something to that effect.
Anyway, I’ve got a dinner rendez-vous on the Upper West Side, but stay tuned for more.