words

I used to be able to smoke and then read or write or draw. Then at some point I would just smoke and drool on myself. I’m not sure what triggered that. I stopped smoking in 2017 and haven’t really looked back.

The second entry in an ongoing series dedicated to what I imagine living in different cities would be like.

Here’s the first entry, where I struggle to co-exist with writers, shitty improv actors, yoga enthusiasts, and dogshit restaurants: on LA.

I’ve recently come across the idea of “clean sleeping.” Like clean eating, clean sleeping purports that we can all greatly improve our health and wellness by being hyper-vigilant about one day-to-day metric. In this case, “at least seven or eight hours of good, quality sleep—and ideally even ten” a night on the road to optimal living. It goes against every entrepreneur I respect, but is still an interesting idea. Especially because I’ve developed a seriously bad case of baggy, droopy eyes lately.

This site has taken a dark turn as of late. My mom guest blogs in an attempt to right the ship.

I moved to the suburbs a couple years ago. One of the big differences between the city and the suburbs is that you can actually see the stars out here. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve downed a Guinness or two and sat outside, staring at nothing and everything. Makes you think.

This blog certainly is trending towards alcoholism lately. Just hear me out on this one though.

Volatile. Jealous. Erratic. Unpredictable. Showing up to your job demanding why you haven’t responded. I’m allll about it. I love that shit. You know what I mean?

Hey, it’s me, Dry January. The one you pledged abstinence to. Look, I know you had honest intentions. I heard you when you vowed to make up for drinking every day last year simply because time had no meaning. I saw you make your sincere pledge to take the month off after nine months of “I probably shouldn’t, but whatever, we’re in a pandemic.” I believe you thought you could do it.

But seriously, are you kidding me?

I have spent a considerable amount of time at bars for the past few months. This has been the result of 1) me being quite bullish on espresso martinis, in search of the perfect concoction, 2) bars being fun, and 3) not really wanting to go home.

During that span, while drinking martinis that were phenomenal, staying at bars that were fun, and more or less avoiding home life, I stumbled across one particularly intoxicating drink: Ouzo.

Here’s the thing, though: Ouzo Toasts were fun until they weren’t.

If you know me, you know I’m not much of a cheap alcohol connoisseur. I used to be, back when a good time was more of a priority than making a living. I remember browsing the aisles of a liquor store in New Orleans during a 2011 road trip with friends. I had probably $200 to my name, and here I was doing cost analysis on Four Loko’s v Smirnoff. (And I’m talking OG Four Loko. The one’s that took out teenagers left and right, and were quickly outlawed.)

I remember talking to friends about drinking before any of us had even turned 21. We were going to be drinking nice beer and alcohol. The good stuff. Well, here I was, in NOLA at a liquor store at 21 years old sticking to only bottles on the bottom shelf. Life moves fast.

I remember the exact moment it happened. There was a distinctive pop that rattled throughout my body. At first I was confused. I couldn’t stand upright. I remember pain shooting down my leg. What the fuck happened?

I know I’m signaling that I want to leave. I’m inching closer towards the door. I put my coat on 20 minutes ago. I keep checking my watch. I keep saying, “Damn, that’s crazy.” I deny your offers for another beer. I’m sorry. I love you all, but I very much want to leave.

Here, a few excuses I’ve used over the years.

So, you’ve found yourself inside of a museum, eh? Really didn’t think the girl who agreed to the second date would recommend coming here, huh? Or are you on a class trip and maybe a little baked, and you don’t want to make it obvious? Maybe your friends wanted to go since it’s free this month and you don’t want to be exposed as the classless swine you are? It’s all good, I got you.

Here’s your handy guide to museum etiquette. No longer a simpleton, you are now classy, sophisticated, refined. Just like me! Stick to this and you’ll be fooling those art-loving shitbags in no time.

Honestly, the best part is the end. “Oh my god, it’s in.”

Halloween parties are starting tonight. 4 straight days of debauchery are only a few hours away. What’s your strategy this year? Going with the one outfit for the entire weekend, hoping it doesn’t get too stained or torn? Gross. Maybe you have a couple different costumes that you’ll rotate throughout the weekend? Sounds like a waste of money. More money for bar tabs, less money on shitty fabrics hastily sewn together by Bangladeshi children. You know? What I mean?

Thanks for going on my first run with me. Just wondering, are my feet supposed to feel like I’m smashing them into a pit of burning coals?

Yeah? Cool. Because I’m getting a lot of that right now.

Well, folks, it’s been a complete shit show last few weeks. Traveling the state only to get a little too drunk at corporate events, on-a-whim, YOLO-style trips, one too many espresso martinis at speakeasies, going off the grid for entire weekends without warning, long bouts of depression and anxiety. Goes without saying that #SoberOctober and my sleep schedule have both been absolute disasters.