I’m Trying to Right My Wrongs, But it’s Funny Them Same Wrongs Helped Me Write This… Post?

Hi guys!

Rather than tackle any of my Challenges, I’m gonna talk about how my night went, and you’re going to freaking deal with it, okay?

For starters, I think it’s time I get a name tag something like this:

Now, it’s not that I don’t appreciate people buying me drinks–especially when it’s The Ladies, because then I don’t feel obligated to pay them back with sexual favors.  Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it a good idea.

I’ll give you some perspective on the matter.  On a good day, I break the 3-digit weight barrier.  I also frequently forget to eat.  I usually get at least one meal a day in me, but for the most part, caffeine and nicotine suppress my hunger level so thoroughly that I wind up feeling faint before I feel hungry.  It’s a damn miracle I haven’t passed out at work, like, ever.

I also don’t drink nearly as often as a regular 22-year-old.  (Which is pretty goddamn sad, in my opinion, since I’ve always thought I drink a lot.  Then I met other people my age.  Thanks for setting the Alcoholism Bar so high, college students!)  By default, all this puts me in a different drinking category than the majority of the human race, and that fact is highlighted when other people are doing the Alcoholic Beverage Ordering for me.  If I almost never remember my own low alcohol tolerance, they’re definitely not going to think of it before I’m, you know.  Drunk.

That basically tells you all you need to know about my night.  Due to the kindness of others and my own inability to gauge my own blood alcohol content, I wound up slizzard when I should have just been… Thursday-afternoon-drunk, I guess?  (Does such a threshold exist?  I kinda feel like I should never be drunk on a Thursday afternoon.  Clearly, the inventor of the happy hour disagrees with me.)

As I type this particular sentence, it’s 11 PM.  I got home and into bed around 7:30.  That tells you how early this shit started.  On a fucking Thursday.  Hey there, Self!  Have you maybe considered growing up at some point?  No?  Well, okay!  You can just continue to regret every decision you make.  That’s cool too, I guess?

(This may not be important, but just for the record, I’m only conscious right now because I wanted Taquitos more than I wanted sleep.)

At drink number 2, I was feeling pretty sweet.  I made a couple semi-inebriated phone calls to some awesome people (HI WAYNE.  I called you back.  You never answered.  The tables have tuuuuuurned), sexually harassed both the UPS guy and the security guard at work (did I mention we were getting drunk less than a block away from work? I freaking love Seattle.), and… Okay so I regret all those things a little.  BUT ONLY A LITTLE.  It was still pretty fun!

And then I had three more drinks and never ate any food, sweet Lord why?

And later, after stumbling the 8 blocks to my bus stop, I realized I’m The Drunk Girl At The Bus Stop On A Fucking Thursday.  That was cool.  I love how I can be totally wasted and still incredibly self-conscious.  Thanks, social anxiety, for making everything in my life not fun at all.

Now, you may ask yourself what point there could possibly be to recounting my alcoholic shenanigans when, clearly, a sane person would never speak of it again.  I promise I’m not only writing this out of boredom while I wait for Taquitos to heat up in my oven like a fucking 18th century houswife, because this apartment was invented before microwaves.  (Although that’s helping with the motivation.) I actually have two super valid reasons for talking about this.  Prepare yourself for number one.

As I staggered into my apartment and passed right the fuck out less than five minutes after getting changed into my super awesome mature adult Tweety Bird PJs, a thought popped into my brain, seemingly out of nowhere.

I wouldn’t mind if I died right now.

In fact, it might be a little easier if I did.

… Um.  What… was that bullshit?

If I’d been sober enough to sit up without worrying about the twirling room (and its possible effect on my Vomit-o-Meter), I might have jolted upright and slapped myself in the face.  Instead, I just fell into a dead sleep for 3 hours.  When I woke up, I didn’t even remember feeling that way until I spent at least 20 minutes fantasizing about what my life would be like if I had the energy to make Taquitos.  (Hint: It is almost identical to what my life was like without the energy to make Taquitos, except with Taquitos)

When it came back to me, I was a little disturbed.  Not necessarily by the content, because.  Well.  I’m kind of a melodramatic fucker, if you haven’t noticed, and I often have stupid thoughts that are quickly followed by the thought, stop being so fucking melodramatic.  Howevs, this particular thought struck me as completely true and honest at the time.  I genuinely did not give care if I died.

So, uh.  Maybe I should try not feeling like that?

I’m not suicidal, mind you.  I’m waaaay the hell too lazy to end my own life.  This was not a fit of true depression.  It was just overwhelming apathy.  And apathy’s not too bad, y’all!  It’s gotten me through quite a lot of bullshit in my life.  Apathy has saved me from more destructive emotions, like blinding rage and real suicidal feelings.  It’s how I’ve gotten through the last few months without spontaneously punching people in the face, and I think apathy is often a good tool when one needs to reign in their emotions to get through a rough patch.  But the rough patch is mostly over, and apathy is no longer helping.  It’s time to kick that habit, because hey, I actually have shit to care about now.

“Hey, Jess! You said you had two reasons for writing this entry, and Holy Hell you have written a lot of words and you’re not even to the second thing yet.”  Calm the hell down, okay?  I’m getting to it.  Slowly.

Tonight, before the major drinking began, my homeslice Sarah was talking about abstaining from alcohol for the month of January.  (While typing that, I automatically capitalized “alcohol” like it was a proper noun.  Issues, much?)  Everyone was all, naaaaahhhhh!  But she made it through the night without a single drop of poison in her system, and we all gave her mad propz, yo.

During this conversation, the idea of a “cleanse” was brought up.  Part of this cleanse involves a two-week abstinence from all the things I love, like coffee and cigarettes and alcohol (don’t tell my parents.  Oh wait, I DON’T HAVE ANY).  It also involves exclusively eating fruit and vegetables for a fucking week, which sounds like a really stupid idea, but WHATEVS.  As I was lying in bed, contemplating how my night of substance abuse was immediately followed by a strong sense of don’t-give-a-fuck-about-life, the concept of not doing terrible things to my body for a couple weeks didn’t sound so bad.

And that’s when another thought occurred to me:  Do I do terrible things to my body because I don’t care about living, or do I not care about living because I do terrible things to my body?

Well, boys and girls, we’re about to find out!  Please join me on my adventure into Not Having Any Fun At All.  Since I started writing this, I’ve done a bit of research and I apparently need to do a lot of planning to buy/prepare the right foods and shit.  It’s not as simple as just eating fruits and vegetables.  But, you know.  I’m fucking determined.  I will spend my lunch break making a grocery list, and I will buy some shit and then I will go home and tomorrow I’ll get up and drink pureed broccoli or some shit and probably instantly vomit on the floor.  All in the name of discovering what I might feel like when I’m not constantly pumping my system full of chemicals to stay awake, fall asleep, and exist without crying.  I JUST CAN’T WAIT, Y’ALL.

I’m also partially not starting today because I am hung over and have a metric fuckton of stuff to do.  Also I have no acceptable food with me, and the thought of seeking it out makes my body go, “Uuuuuuugggghhh, really? Without coffee? How do you expect me to even walk that far?”  I won’t smoke, but the rest of this shit has to wait until morning.

P.S. All audience-proposed challenges are being postponed until I stop hating myself, which will probably happen in about 14 days.