Honey, I have a headache...

I know I haven't posted anything of substance since Sunday night, I'm just not in the mood. Not only do I have a terrible case of writer's block but I am also suffering from extreme laziness. Not a good combo.

Maybe it's because my pole dancing class is off this week?

But seriously, I've tried writing several posts and each of them sucked. I sound sad and whiney and too contemplative. I mean, if you want depth, read an angsty teenager's blog. That's the problem with sobriety, I think too much with the spare time on my hands.

Anyway, I'm bored and tired. Hopefully LI will rejuvinate and give me lotsa funny material. At least I get to hang out with my dad. He is really cool. Like seriously, one of the most ireverent senses of humor you will ever encounter. I also think he is slightly bipolar, but, we all have our own vices.

And I finally slept through the night on Tuesday because I shared my bed. I can't sleep more than three consecutive hours if I am by myself, but if someone is next to me, not even needing to spoon me, I am out like a light and sleep like a baby.

Anyone want to play surrogate boyfriend this summer? I have an air-conditioned bedroom in the Village and dont kick in my sleep.

Excuses, Excuses

"There is no excuse for my behavior, but there are many reasons"
--Some cool old actress

Been hella busy with my last few weeks at work, and have been spending my "down-time" in fits of sobriety with lotsa reading and contemplating my life.

With a clear head, I've come to an important realization. And when I heard it for the first time four years ago sitting in a leather chair with tissues in my hand, balling my eyes out, I refused to believe it. But noticing patterns of my behavior, I think it's evident and I think my therapist is correct.

I have a lot of fucking issues and really need to go into therapy. Too bad, I flee the country and the mistakes I've made for the last three years, in two and a half months.

Why is it that I always come to terms with my need for mental help when I am about to peace out of a destination?

A girl's penis size

I don’t know what it is about the spring/summer. At first I had to deal with the explosion of ass—all of my friends, myself excluded (of fucking course), have either gotten some booty on a regular basis or, my friends in serious relationships, have taken the next step in adulthood and made a commitment with their current significant others. As we all know how fickle young love can be, usually these commitments last as long as the time between herpes outbreaks or just until someone becomes emotionally stable enough to face the world on their own. When we hear our friends talk obsessively about their new love we smile, nod and wait for it to pass. And it usually does. Someone fucks up, misrepresents themselves and their emotional attachment and boom, in one messy break up scene, tears shed on shoulders and the relationship ceases to exist. Over in a split second.

However, I’ve noticed a curious thing as I am getting older. When people reach their mid to late 20’s, these breakups are becoming less common and more and more I see myself congratulating my friends on their one year anniversaries and inviting their boy/girlfriend by default on our nights out together. Just as I am getting used to the idea that my friends are in stable long term relationships, the engagement period quickly befalls upon me, and once again I’m knocked out of my comfort zone. No longer are these relationships hanging on a loose thread of “emotional intimacy” and “common interests” but now there is a $5-15K ring on the table as collateral; ensuring both parties that if the other person fucks up that there will be consequences.

A guy is going to think mighty hard before he does something very stupid.

The engagement ring is much more than just an innocuous piece of jewelry for us laypeople to oogle, but, it takes on a life of its own and becomes part contract and part social barometer. We ladies yearn for the biggest rock-- our competition amongst each other acting as the female reaction to penis envy. After hearing you boys compare penis size for all of these years, an appendage of six inches that is supposed to gauge your masculinity, your virility, and sexual prowess, I want to let you in on a secret. We girls do the same thing, but instead use the ornament sitting on our left hand’s ring finger that you gave us. You boys may have had to whip it out in the locker rooms when you were fifteen, but as an adult I keep my feminine worth out in the open for the whole world to see.

The engagement ring becomes a prize that we girls work towards, and once we reach that goal of finding the rich Christian/Jewish/whatever fiancé who works in either the financial services, law, or medical fields, the ring becomes our spoil of the dating war that we won. No more battles of getting into those tight Sevens jeans, teetering on five inch stiletto heels, nor begging friends to set us up on dates. Once the ring is slipped onto our fingers, it looks like the war is won.

However, if history teaches us anything, it’s that once an old enemy is laid to rest a new one emerges. And as much of a glimpse that ring can offer us into the future with prospective good Jewish fiancé, it still cannot guarantee anything. That ring offers no protection against a broken heart, no matter how much we girls think that receiving a gold or platinum band with a diamond on top symbolizes security. The sad fact is that 60% of us who live in NYC will be calling upon our pre-nups while we sit on opposite sides of the mahogany table negotiating alimony and custody of the Ecuadorian maid.

But that doesn’t stop us from buying into the dream that the ring symbolizes, nor does it stop us for being happy for our friends who do get engaged. Because Barbie never had to fight Ken for the dream house with the aid of a divorce lawyer. And as long as we believe in the Barbie fantasy, we also believe that we are part of the 40% whose marriages will be forever. Because if we didn’t believe, then what would be the point in being excited for our friends’ engagements and hoping for that one great love ourselves?

I suck

Yea, I know I have been neglecting posting and this week has just been insane. Although, I have to admit that it has been a great ego boost from you all asking me where the posting has gone.

You know, I actually am working on a very funny post, but I have been going out every night this week (Perrier the drink of choice--except for Tues, but that is another matter) and haven't had the time to editting that would take it from good to fucking fabulous--the post that you IM to your friends and say, "This shit is on fucking point!"

So, my Tuesday. I guess what my friends parents have been saying for years about me is true: I am the bad influence. Not in a let's get drugged out and fuck strangers in dark alleys bad but the fuck responsibility and let me enjoy getting fucked up. Which, you know what, at that moment it is always a great idea.

I have a theme with my friend's 25th bdays. If I am invited there is usually Dom Perignon involved and some older rich man taking care of us. And this bday was no different. Within, literally, fifteen seconds of telling my friend that we should find some rich men to finance our drinks and an excursion to the strip club, they literally fell into our table. Bottle of wine offered and accepted. Hired car for the evening. Going to Tens and stripping at the club (just went topless though) while pounding Grey Goose martinis. Fucked up a pole trick and bang up my leg. Back into the hired car to go to NY Dolls and hang out with the refugees from Eastern Europe. Consume Dom Perignon. Have hired car drop us off uptown. Eat a tuna melt bagel to absorb the alcohol and prevent a massive hangover--which it did.

Looking back onto the night, I have to comment, that night was pretty unbelieveable. Don't ask me how I manage to pull off finding the rich guys to blow money on me and my friends. It's actually something that I put a lot of thought into. I mean, I am not 5'10 and a leggy blond; I am not the standard girl that men want acting as a trophy on their arm. But somehow I end up pulling something off--having some of my hot friends in tow doesnt hurt either.

So, this is what has been on my mind lately. That question that you get when you look over at the person in the bed, laying next to you who is totally out of your league and you think to yourself, "Why did that person just fuck me?" Is it that I don't give myself enough credit in the looks department or can charisma and an attitude carry a pretty cute girl far enough? I would love to hear a guy's response to this.

Fuck, back to work.

Stripper Titties and the Faded Charm

This is why expectations suck. The minute I start to hype shit up, it always goes down the tubes. The last two times I’ve been to a strip club, I’ve had a fucking awesome time. Bottle service at Scores the first time, where we got shitty and started to at first, buy each other lap dances, then later perform them for each other. A few weeks later I went to the gentleman’s club Tens at 2am with a few guy friends and my little brother. I was blitzed and rocked the pole for a while as men stuffed dollar bills into my shirt and my brother was in a corner getting lap dances. All in all, that qualifies as a fucking awesome time. Titties, booze, and dollar bills that I helped to pay for my cab ride home.

So, when the girls from my strip class wanted to check out Tens with me to see what I’ve been talking obsessively about in class, I jumped at the chance. I mean, I love to share the stripper tittie wealth, you know?

However, as soon as I got there, I realized that this night wasn’t on the same trajectory that my other run-ins with strip clubs have been like. First of all, moi, attention whore extraordinaire whose lack of inhibitions pave the way for my other more mild mannered compatriots to act out, was stuffed from vendor dinner and drinks. This is how I know I am getting old: a few months ago, I would have pulled a sorority girl and puked up dinner to make more room for my drinks but, today, I dealt with that horrible feeling of too much food and too much drink. I was craving a tums instead of a second extra dirty Grey Goose martini. As an FYI to you ladies, stuffing your face with wine and cheese then going to a strip a few hours later will not make you feel hot. Even if the girls at Tens “got back”. It doesn’t change the fact that you are bloated and your tummy “got front” over your jeans.

So, trying to be frugal, because the last time strip class went to Scores, bottle service and lap dances set us back quite a bit. Instead of plunking down a credit card, we all paid for our drinks in cash. When you have to go into your bag and take out your wallet each time you want a drink, you become aware of just how much you are drinking and how much those drinks are costing you. Hence, I didn’t make it past the two drinks that failed to make a dent in my sobriety. It just wasn’t worth the money nor the calories.

However, attention whore-dom doesn’t only come out with the aid of alcohol. As I grew up going to gay clubs where the music reigned King of the night next to the queens (well, once you take out the drugs and sex that went along with those places), I have a very hard time sitting still when I catch the beat of the music. But I didn’t feel all sexy and fun and fabulous when I made my way up onto the pole. Especially since I fucked up my pole tricks because I was wearing flip flops and a heavy meal in my belly.

IMing my friend Katie, I told her about the disappointing evening.

Shannon: Lesson from last night: strip clubs are only fun when you are blitzed

Katie: They can lose their luster in the harsh glare of sobriety

It's actually kinda true. Although, getting a tour of the champagne room, I had to say, I had some impure thoughts.

And now, I am hobbling around work because, I think I pulled a muscle.

So, let’s re-cap. I can’t drink the way I used to and I pulled a muscle because I didn’t stretch before I performed my pole tricks.

And I am going out again tonight. I need a vacation from myself.

Making up for the flimsy posts

When I gave my six week notice to the Agency I had no idea the repercussions that would follow. At first it was wonderful, random people in the company would walk up to me and start to gush how proud they were of me:

"I just want to say,congratulations!! That is wonderful!"

"I don't think I have ever met anyone who is going to Oxford!!"

I relished the attention. It was like my "I told you so" moment; see, I really am smart! I swear I wasn't lying during the interview when I quoted the Harvard Business Review. I really do read shit like that in my spare time--especially when the subject deals with wide scale manipulation of people. It was like the vindication the dorky over-weight girl back in high school feels when she comes back in September after fat camp with a new wardrobe and the cool kids begin to befriend her. The validation feels great but also somewhat hollow at the same time.

And besides the daily congratulatory metaphorical pat on the back, my life stayed pretty much the same. I did my job, went to meetings where I doodled in the margins hearts and stars and I continued to work my standard fifty hour weeks. However, as I am learning, there is an additional flip side to giving a company six weeks to find your replacement as opposed to the customary two weeks notice. The problem with giving so much notice, however, is that you begin to lose your resolve to leave the company gracefully and ladylike by the end of week two. Hence, I write this blog post in the middle of the day.


I don't know if any of you have ever quit a job but usually, from the moment you formally quit you have mentally checked out. When I quit my old job last year, my two weeks were filled developing a blog crush on Jason Mulgrew, IMing sordid details from nights of partying, negotiating my salary with my current job, and taking extra long lunches. It's like parole, a two week supervised paid vacation. Check in with your boss, sit at your desk, but do whatever you want as long as you aren't breaking the law. Or reading BDSM erotica in my case.

However, as the cache of the accecptance wanes and it becomes more and more clear that I will not be here past the middle of July, I find that I am being taken off of the more interesting projects of my job. I mean, I do see a point. Why have someone involved in a major project and then when it goes to the client, "Oh, the girl who worked on this is no longer here. But, it looks great doesn't it?!"

So, my days have become increasingly similar. Eat my breakfast while checking email, going to interesting meetings have been replaced with reading various celeb gossip blogs, I'll work on a few billing discrepancies, then read more celeb gossip blogs, follow up with a vendor on the phone, take my lunch break, email my friends, and make myself a cup of Chai tea by mid afternoon. And we cannot forget the lip-syncing contest I host in my cubicle to bad chick rock. Quoting Brittany, "It's me against the music."

No really, I lip-sync to really bad chick rock like Avril all day in my cubicle. Throw in my theatrical streak, and you have a very bad drag impersonation.

And, I am actually lucky that my work is not that strenous right now because in the ever fucked up world that is my life, the stem of my new neurosis: I think I have discovered roaches in my apartment.

Now those of you who have been to my apt and stayed with me, you are probabley not all that suprised to hear that I've finally succumbed to the inevitable. With a floor divided into clean clothes section and messy clothes section, a closet stuffed with numerous boxes of shit that never got hung or cleaned as well as filled with the requisite throw backs to my more athletic days, with racquets and cleats in addition to a roomate who leaves dirty dishes on the stove and a bathroom that hasn't been cleaned in about six weeks-- this shouldn't be too much of a suprise to any of you. However, I have never had fucking roaches before and I am fucking surprised as shit!

I've lived in NYC for the last two years and before I "officially" moved back, I've had plenty of sublets here. I am accustomed to city living. I know to never keep food out, to take out the trash nightly, never to keep dishes over night in the sink. I know this and I do this, and it has always worked for me. Except now when I have only six weeks left on my lease from my final apartment in the city for, hopefully, a very long time.

I think I am going to vomit.

A few days ago, I saw roach #1 on my wall in my bedroom. I chalked finding the little critter to the string of humid days we've been having in NYC. I mean, every apartment gets a roach at one point or another. I wasn't too concerned. I killed it and went along my merry way. Albeit, a tad freaked out, but I dealt with it (chalk one up to Shannon acting like a grown up). However, when I saw roach #2 this morning, when I was getting my clothes out of the closet, I freaked the fuck out. Especially since #2 came from the dark caverns of my overstuffed closet.

I'm afraid to go back to my apartment.

I mean, I'm so neurotic that I've even contemplated burning shit so that I do not accidentally bring a roach or its eggs with me when I move to the UWS in August. Plus, we can't forget how there will always be a part of me that actually enjoys living like a refugee, having all of my possessions fit into two suitcases. When the going gets tough, or if roaches are found, pack up in fifteen minutes and move the fuck back home. Or to another roach free space. Whatever is the least mentally taxing.

But seriously, this is fucking disgusting. I am a Jewish girl from the North Shore of Long Island, and this is not a way I live. The last time I lived among roaches is when I was three years old and we were living in Bay Terrace and a roach crawled into my little brother's crib. My dad packed the family up and we moved in with grandma until my parents found more sanitary housing.

If you didn't notice, over reacting runs in the family.

So, because I am such a germ-a-phobe, especially after my meningitis scare last year, I am spending Friday night cleaning and scrubbing with chlorine bleach my entire apartment. Roach motels will be set up, Raid will be sprayed, and I will be sleeping elsewhere because I am launching a chemical attack on my apartment. And as a pre-emptive measure, I'm moving out half of the shit and delousing it in my parent's garage.

I am feeling itchy just thinking about it. Oh yea, I've started to itch myself thinking that roaches have somehow implanted eggs into my skin as I sleep. I haven't slept well in weeks, and yet another reason for me to wake up in the middle of the night. What the fuck?!

In other news, important lessons learned:

1. I am powerless over alcohol and look soo much better not hungover.
Last night I polished off a bottle of champers. I wasn't supposed to, but it tasted so good and I liked the way it made me feel. This morning I woke up, my skin amiss, exhausted from such a crappy sleep and bloated.

I am not hot today.

I really need to be more serious about this lack of drinking, like seriously. I need to learn the word M-O-D-E-R-A-T-I-O-N. Moderation. Say it, use it in a sentence, make it part of my life.

2. How I spend my days at work now:

Besides developing an addiction to celeb gossip, I am trying to plan out my book treatment in order to maximize my six weeks of writing. So I spend my days at work, staring at the computer screen, thinking about some of the most painful moments of my life for the past three years. But, they are pretty fucking funny so hopefully finding an agent shouldn't be too difficult.

And the plans for tonight, off to another strip club with the strip class. My pole routine is mother fuckingly hot, if I may say. And no, I am sooo not drinking. I dance better when I am sober anyway.

I cant stand looking at myself in the mirror the morning after drinking.

Back in the saddle again

First of all, I would like to thank the endless stream of readers who have referred me to AA. Yes, I know that I do not have to do it alone; however, I am not exactly sure what "it" is. This past Friday night, my friends and I, eight of us in total, went out to that fabulously tacky Indian/Bangladeshi restaurant with all of the lights in the East Village. For the NYers who read my blog, you know exactly the place that I am talking about on first avenue. As this place is a BYOB place, my friend D decides to have a competition-- who can find the best wine under $10 to go with our meal. All eight of us brought wine, and having sampled each other's we all ended up drinking about a bottle each.

Yes readers, including myself. I drank Friday night. My teetoling ways were just not to be. I fell off the wagon, but quickly got back on. And no, sadly, I wasn't drunk. A bottle of wine over three hours with heavy Indian food just doesn't get me fucked up.

After dinner, we walk to a lounge in the East Village and as soon as we enter the place, all of us make a beeline for the bar. With a water in hand, I am watching the night begin. Drinks are ordered: shots are taken and vodka tonics are chugged. As I stand there, sipping my water with a twist of lime, it dawns on me.

I have as many issues with drinking as every other young professional. We all need to be somewhat intoxicated to "enjoy" an evening because, let's be real--bars and clubs suck when you are sober. We all run to the bar, plunk down our money, and yell over a loud and boisterous crowd our drink order to the person behind the counter. We all throw back shots and root each other on to finish the drink.

I am not that different than any of you. Only I have no problem acknowledging the absurdity of it all.

Maybe we are a generation of alcoholics. In addition to providing over-priced educations and teaching us esoteric subjects, maybe college schooled us in bad drinking habits? Or maybe our drinking is a by product of modern life, a way for us to reach an escape from our rigid lives: awake 8am, cereal at desk at 9:30am, work in cubicle ten hours, gym, catch tail end of Chappelle show, go to sleep, and start all over tomorrow morning. With lives like that, it is not wonder that so many of us abuse drugs and alcohol. We are prisoners of modern conveniences and are desperate to find a reprieve of the predictability.

And as for my drinking, let's just say that wine shouldn't count but, I am back on the wagon. I am actually enjoying sobriety. It is so great to wake up on a Sunday morning without a headache and take a long walk uptown, running errands and meeting up with friends. And as an added bonus, I can't tell you, how many people have been telling me how great and happy and glowy I look.

Another reason why I should be a hypochondriac

I was making copies of a presentation and my eye felt like I got something stuck in it. I washed it out, thinking that a paper shred accidently found its way into my eye but I would eventually blink out the foreign body.

It still didn't feel better, but I had an eye brow threading appointment that I needed to keep because my eye brows have been looking a bit too Brooke Shields lately.

My eye still stung, but I was so far into denial, that I thought the paper shred in my eye feeling had to be allergies.

However, by 8pm, when I looked into the mirror, I saw a pink band around my left eye, making me look like a Jem doll. It's puffy, watery, and feels like my eye is trying to give birth to something. I want to help scratch it out. And then I think:

Yesterday my roomie was showing me her pink, puffy, watery eye. And pink eye is highly highly contagious.

I go to the offical website of hypochondriacs, WebMD, and my fears are confirmed. I have all of the symptoms.

Guess where I am spending my Saturday afternoon instead of going to my hair appt and rollerblading in Central Park with hot old boss?? My day is fucked because of the plague that is taking place in my eye. I mean, isn't this the disease of five year olds?!?

Moral of the story: I need health insurance because I am chronically having something happen to me. Memorial Day I needed a tetnus shot. Today is a field trip to the doctor for eye drops. I should bring roomie in tow.

Fuck, as I write this, the right eye is feeling scratchy.

Also, if anyone wants to pass through the village and help me put the drops in my eye, please help me. Last time I had pink eye, I was 4 and my mom had to hold me down with her knees as one hand held my arms as she put the drops into my eyes as I screamed for dear life.

I promise to be mildly better behaved. You know, I am 24 now.

The lengths for an Oxford Husband

It’s official, my neighbors across the street must think I am a nut job, with today confirming their suspicions.

I am a terrible procrastinator, especially with household duties. It explains why my apt looks like part pig sty and part college dorm room. —I get all ready to clean and put away my extensive shoe collection that sits in a corner of my living room, then suddenly I get distracted. Someone calls, I decide to go on an impromptu walk, or I decide to dance in my underwear topless. And I know we all dance around our living rooms naked. This would be fine and I would be just like all of you, except since I am a procrastinator, I have not put up curtains in my living room for the last ten and a half months I’ve lived here. My neighbors see all of this. Including my naked body scampering across the living room, and my obsession with the mirror, checking myself out all the time.

As part of my no-drinking-for-thirty-days-but-am-making-an-allowance-for-when-Lu -comes-into-town-and-maybe-if-my-strip-class-goes-to-a-strip-club sober promise, I've also decided to get into shape. Hence, I'’ve resurrected the BBA from college, the Beautiful Body Adventure. My commitment to the BBA knows no bounds and despite the fact that it was raining today and I couldn't go for a run along the Hudson, I decided to exercise in my living room. Except, my version of exercise is my strip-ilates. While wearing my seven inch platform shoes and tank top that barely covers my breasts.

So I treated my neighbors to a view of me gyrating in the middle of my living room, doing my hip shakes and pelvic thrusts into the ground. My neighbors must think that I am a sex starved stripper.

Or an attention starved girl.

And other news, lately I have been so motherfuckingly exhausted. Drinking with imagined impunity for two weeks straight will fuck with every single thing in your body. I haven'’t been able to get to fall asleep and stay sleeping for the last three days. I've been anxious at work. It'’s like I developed a physical dependence to alcohol.

Or it could be that I've cut out the ciggs too.

One thing is for certain, my system is in shock from this detox.

*********************************************************************************

And a reflection from Shannon past.

After reading this blog for anything longer than one post, it's obvious that I am an attention whore. I love being in the spotlight. What you probabley did not know, is that it actually came from somewhere, besides my mother having all four of us close in age and vying for her attention. When I was younger, I did diaper commercials. I think it was for either Luvs or Huggies. Some huge brand. Anyway, I've always harbored a grudge over my father for taking me out of showbiz because, "A baby shouldn't be under all of those bright lights." If I would have stayed in commercials I would probably be more famous than Paris Hilton.

But my mother conceded. She forced me to take all of my star power and channel it into such lovely endeavors as my church's Christmas play, the role of chorus member # 956 in my middle school musical and a whole host of other child actor reject roles.

Well, reading www.dlisted.com I ran across this on Candace Cameron's (DJ from Full House) website:

During my teenage years, I had what one would consider a very good life. I was on a hit TV show, was making lots of money and had a loving and supportive family. I also had a lot of fans that admired and looked up to me and I was considered a good role model. I traveled all over the world meeting people, fans, and other celebrities. I couldn’t complain about anything! But, aside from my busy and exciting life, church had become more of an after thought. I’d go when I had time, or when I wasn’t too busy. It wasn’t my first priority anymore.


What the fuck?! I thought to myself. Child actor stardom was wasted on her. I at the very least would have had a coke problem to keep fans entertained!!!

It's just not fair.

So instead I run around my office singing and creating pantomime for my co-worker's entertainment.

Since I've given my notice, I really do have too much time on my hands.

A letter to the woman I ran over

Dear Random Woman Who I Ran Over,

A few days ago it seemed that we crossed paths. It was 7am and I was rollerblading along the Hudson River, right around the Mercantille Exchange. You were with, who I think, your co-workers--dressed neatly in your pressed suit and they in their starched khaki pants and blue button down shirt combo.

My punk music was blasting on my I-pod, I was in one of my trances. Singing along to the music, weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic and recreating my awakward adolescent years. I was doing really well, and judging how you did not get out of my way, I bet you thought I knew how to stop.

But I don't. Just like the time I ran over a squirrel in college--the bushy tailed creature thought I knew how to stop too.

I'm sorry for grabbing onto you and not letting go. Despite the fact that I don't know how to stop, I am petrified of falling. So, when we crashed into each other, and I grabbed your buttocks for dear life and would not let go until the momentum passed, it was out of fear for my own safety. It hurts like a motherfucker scraping your skin. I didn't mean for you to fall down along side of me, but thanks for breaking my fall.

Especially since I got home to change into clean clothes and you had to go straight to the office with a grass stain on your thigh.

Much love,
Shannon

Sober and Single NYC

I don’t know how many of you have gone on a fourteen plus day drinking binge, but let me tell you, there is nothing glamorous about it. Even if you are having bottle service at Scores or watching “El Duque” get a lap dance. My emotions are shot. I am left with anxiety, make-up smeared across my cheek from last night, and this perpetual head ache. There is a very large part of me that just wants to crawl into my closet and cry. And I don’t know why, well actually I do. I have radically altered my brain chemistry after this two week “celebration” period with a downer by the name of Grey Goose.

I tried really hard to not drink last night, but it was my sister’s bday party and then my friends were throwing this party and it was cloudy, and I was wearing a black shirt and my “lucky” undies and the music was just so good…

There is always an excuse.

Especially when there is back to back weekends of partying. Last week we were celebrating my admission. Last weekend I was in VA celebrating seeing my old friend Rusty. And this weekend was my sister’s birthday weekend. I, unlike the rest of the world, do not understand the concept of moderation. If I am going to be partying again a few days later, why don’t I just continue the trend? I’d hate to be a good friend and all.

However, there is a lesson I learned in college that has stayed with me. I can treat my body like a trash can but once it shows in my emotional state, I have to put an end to it. Or else the results can be disastrous. And I finally have something going for me that I don’t want to inadvertently fuck up some how.

And now that end starts. It won’t be especially easy with the new summer season being welcomed with vendor parties. It’s just going to have to see my participation with a diet coke in hand, as opposed to drink # seventeen. Even if someone is picking up the tab for me to get sloshed. Too bad I am going to miss out on the wine bar party this week.

My thirty days of sobriety start today.

Alcohol withdrawl and the (lack of) creative process

I woke up in my bed, after seven hours of sleep without a headache, somewhat refreshed, and ready to take on the world and begin to work on the outline for my book treatment.

I forgot what it was like being a productive member of society, sans drinking every single night for the last two weeks.

I haven't written anything of substance lately, done anything productive, well, except curse the last shot that I took the previous evening. Go to work, meet up with friends after work for drinks, get drunk, do something stupid, go to bed at some bizarre hour, wake up, and begin the process all over again. Well, some nights I didn't do anything that dumb.

But throughout this season of excess, I've come to a conclusion about myself. I really like me sober. I'm funny, smart, don't have that drugged out look in my eye, and I enjoy not having to scroll through my cell phone and see who I've drunk dialed and proclaimed my love to. I also write much better posts than the three lines of "I am drunk. Fuck. Wow." than I have been doing as of late.

That being said, I want to get more in touch with this sober girl who has been in hiding for the last few weeks. And what better way than having her play for thirty days?

So yes, readers, with the exception of when Lu comes to town (because, uhm, how can I be sober when my wife is in town ) I am not drinking for the next thirty days. And I know my little four day allowance shouldn’t be made, but, there isn’t any money on this thing. So, like, whatever.

Sober and Single NYC. Fuck, it doesnt sound as much fun. It sounds more like a Lifetime movie of the week. Oh well.

agh

You know your friends are enablers when you both confess a desire to check yourself into rehab. Except, "shouldn't that be saved for our dirty thirties?"

So instead we have been looking up herbal answers to our desire for downers and other substances that make inhabitions go away. You know, because I will lose my access to medical care at the end of July. Do you think a doc would give me a year's supply of Valium to help me deal with the stress?

Once again, like this should be fucking new, I am hungover. I've been drinking heavily for the last two weeks now, with my sister's birthday dinner tonight and off to DC tomorrow.

My liver weeps. My hands shake. And I am in dire need to some sleep.

Fuckin' A

Got drunk.

Fucking, I am drunk right now.

Pole danced at Scores. Gave lap dances. Another place my boobs are famous.

I even got down to my bra and panties :) As I fucked the pole like it was a massive...well, use ur imagination.

Did I tell you I was drunk right now? And kinda turned on from the lap dances.

Palm readings, pirate booty. I'm going to have 4 kids, be famous and have a very tight knit marriage.

Rehvah is sleeping in my bed.