Thanks to the one and only time we will ever hang out with ex-boyfriend A again, he kindly pointed out my repetitive alcoholism, and told me that I’m no longer allowed to blog it. What a God Amongst Men. So, dare I ask: WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO WRITE ABOUT?!
Good thing I stopped taking what he said surriously in 2009. ANYWAY. Sorry about the lack of posting. Big things have been happening, and in the arena of doing them versus writing about them, doing it always wins.
Since we spoke last, I’ve been broken up with, gotten back together with, fell asleep on a wooden bench in the Financial District, epically embarrassed myself on the beer pong table, regained a bit of beer pong dignity with each subsequent pitcher, left my phone in a cab, retrieved said phone, re-burned an already incinerated bridge, gotten 12 hours of sleep for the first time since 1999 and celebrated Chas’ 80th birthday!
Try saying that 10 times fast, Peter Piper!
In this long stream of events of the past week or so, I’ve had quite an opportunity to reflect on what’s truly important in life. Channeling Mr. Stratford, I’m pretty sure I don’t know what’s actually important and won’t know til I’m 45, and by then I’ll be too old to use it, but bare with me. This will be fun.
I’m no longer upset about not being in college anymore. Sure, it’d be fun to rage all day and all night without caring when your hangover would end (Saturday? Is that you?), or sleep through work like it was Dr. Harris’ Congressional Politics class. If all of life was like college, sew me a pair of plaid shorts and call me Asher Roth…I’d be in love.
Sadly, however, one must move on. To the real world. Neither Mommy, your roommates, nor the waitress at Swallows (sup KATH) can hold your hand forever.
At first this growing up scenario used to make me scream bloody murder and duck for cover. But I think that’s the key ingredient of growing up: realizing that it’s an okay thing to do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m only 22, and I will be for another 3 months and 21 days (who’s counting?). But 22 isn’t 17, and we’re slowly learning that.
Happy Monday! Go get some cocktails on my seemingly never-ending tab 
