poor excuse for a final post

Another almost-eleven-hour workday under my belt. Cheers (or not) to that. Luckily, today marks the end of this crazy NaBloPoMo business, allowing me some much needed anti-internet time (to commence as soon as this post is published).

And though I’d like to celebrate my completion of this daily blogging challenge with an eloquent and insightful farewell post, I’m simply too tired to do so effectively. That said, I must now conserve what little energy remains for the lifting of the glass and the drinking of the Mark. I can’t wait.

my bank teller is a genius

During my work-related bank visit this afternoon, I received some excellent advice from the ever-so-brilliant teller assisting me with my deposit-dropping duties.

“If you’re not having sex, you might as well make some money,” she suggested, while reflecting upon the many hours she spends working each week.

At the end of an almost-eleven hour work-day, I comforted myself by recalling the words of this wise, wise, clearly overworked woman. Perhaps the extra income (incurred as a result of extra hours worked) will actually offset my general lack of sweet, sweet lovin’, I thought.

And then I remembered . . . I’m salaried. Working overtime ceases to be (optional and) lucrative once manager status is achieved. Remind me again why I applied for this job?

Also: did I really write “deposit-dropping duties?” Seriously. Someone give that girl (see: me) a drink.

even better than a third nipple

One of my coworkers has a friend born with two uteruses, four fallopian tubes, and, yes, even two vaginas (one external, one internal).

In spite of all the difficulties I imagine this condition might cause, I must admit my first thought upon hearing this news was: “Gives new meaning to the phrase multiple orgasms.”

While this poor woman is stuck having excruciatingly painful periods and her husband has to choose nightly which direction (left or right) he wants to go during sex, I’m busy contemplating the double your pleasure, double your fun aspect of having too many female parts.

It’s a good thing I already purchased (and began outfitting) my handbasket, because I’m definitely going to hell.

my life has come to this

My sister and I just stayed up until 11 p.m. (which, for us, is way past bed time) to watch the season finale of The Bachelor. And this morning on my way to work, I sang (if you can call it singing) along to Whitney Houston’s eighties hit “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” These two incidents, combined with my current inability to extract myself from my seemingly-glued-to-my-ass grumpy pants, have me feeling slightly concerned about the state of my affairs at the moment. Because, seriously, Whitney was sort of the highlight today. That, and watching The Bachelor break down (thrice did that man cry for the camera).

Conclusion: I need to find the Happy (or the Mark), and fast.

temporarily sidelined (or, i know i said i wouldn’t do it, but preying on the depravity of friends is fun)

Recently, a friend of mine—who will, for her own protection, remain nameless at this time—confessed to me her crush on a much older (see: thirteen years her senior) man. Would I think less of her, she wondered, on account of said crush? Would I frown upon her decision to continue dating him in spite of his age?

My answer is HELL NO! And, also, KISS HIM, DAMMIT!

Which she did last night, after receiving a gentle push (by way of text message) from yours truly, urging her to lay one on him at the appropriate moment. It’s nice to know my ability to be a bad influence is not at all diminished by the distance—2500 miles of it—between us.

I would like to dedicate this post to my first-move-making friend (you know who you are) for throwing caution—and age—to the wind for the sake of some sweet lip action. I am so effing proud of you. In fact, if I wasn’t so busy cozying up to my quietude (see: being boring) I’d probably get after it, too, so inspired am I by your actions.

Oh well. Being a spectator to scandal is the perfect way to wait out my current hiatus from kissing (and that to which kissing inevitably leads). So, bravo, my friend. Bravo.

life is like a box of boring

Two weeks ago, I made a three-pronged promise to 1) live a more scandalous life, 2) compose well-written recaps of all questionable behavior on this here blog, and 3) tell outright lies to compensate for my generally tame (see: uninteresting) existence. It seems I have failed to fulfill any of my obligations in regard to the promise made, opting instead to 1) kiss no one (in spite of all inhibition-eliminating whiskey consumed), 2) write mostly about being inexplicably sad and/or inebriated, and 3) post old poems to fill the empty space. Not really what I had in mind.

I wish I could say I have plans to get after it (and by it, I mostly mean it), as that would provide me with the scandal about which I so enjoy writing and about which—I can only assume—most of you enjoy reading, but I don’t. The quietude—with its oatmeal-eating holidays and its many, many books and its (possibly too much) time spent alone—is just what I need right now. And, unfortunately, this mostly solitary lifestyle sort of excludes the lip-locking and the doing it and the behaving badly in general.

But have no fear, dear readers. I will prey on the depravity of my friends to cultivate content for my posts (not really, guys, don’t worry). And, when that fails, I will channel the ghosts of scandals past and exploit the folly of my former self for the sake of a decent story. College me better watch her back.

Plus, me without the kissing is like T. Cruise without the crazy. Temporary, at best.

wherein i rely on the intelligence of others to fufill my posting obligations

Among our egocentric sadsacks, despair is as addictive as heroin and more popular than sex, for the single reason that when one is unhappy one gets to pay a lot of attention to oneself. Misery becomes a kind of emotional masturbation. Taken out on others, depression becomes a weapon. But for those willing to reduce and permeate their ego, to laugh—or meow—it into submission, heaven on earth is a distinct psychological possibility.
- Tom Robbins, “In Defiance of Gravity”



Now, if you'll excuse me, I think my cat is trying to tell me something.

i ate oatmeal for thanksgiving dinner

I spent last Thanksgiving drinking wine and getting high (on life, of course) with two of my equally family-less friends before indulging in stuffed shells and Tofurky with a table full of also-intoxicated strangers. It was sort of a surreal experience, and a far cry from the more traditional Thanksgivings of my childhood.

This year, I worked a short shift serving coffee to generally ungrateful (in spite of the day) customers, then returned home to spend the remainder of the afternoon in the silence of absolute solitude. I was invited to several Thanksgiving dinners by friends and coworkers, but opted for isolation instead, preferring quiet reflection and quality time with my cat over awkward socializing and overindulgence.

The truth is, I’ve been feeling a little unhappy in recent days. Irritable and anxious and not like myself. And frustrated by my inability to identify the reason for my discontentment and eradicate it altogether.

I’m no stranger to this place, these emotions. They seem to come in cycles, arising unexpectedly, without warning or adequate cause, and disappearing just as suddenly after a stay of several days.

I used to believe the sadness would break me. It won’t.

So, this year I’m spending Thanksgiving alone, and I’m loving it. For the loneliness, for the solitude, and for my faith in the impermanence of emotion.

The unhappiness will pass. Eventually.

In the interim, I reserve the right to be anti-social. Or drunk, if it comes to that.

probably not the best idea

In the weeks since Daylight Savings, I have taken to running in the dark, as the sun’s shortened winter hours and my deep-seated dislike for the gym—with its gym people and its too many mirrors—have left me with no other choice.

My sister hates that I do this, as she generally carries the burden of worrying about me while I’m gone (though she no longer tries to stop me from running, realizing in recent weeks that her efforts to do so are futile). So far, I have encountered minimal harassment and very few sketchy characters, fearing for my safety only on account of my embarrassingly bad night-vision, more afraid of falling than of being hassled or attacked.

But last night I learned that a friend of a friend was mugged at knifepoint while out for a late night run earlier this week.

This news should probably have me thinking twice about the nighttime running routine I’ve adopted, but, in all honesty, it doesn’t. A combination of my defiant attitude and being called burly last week is keeping any potential trepidation at bay. In fact, within the next hour, I plan to hit the (cold and wet and) darkened streets for a quick five-miler.

Unless, of course, I am tempted by Tyra and America’s Next Top Model, and forced to tune in for tonight’s soon-to-start episode. (Seriously, this could happen.)

Either way, wish me luck.

because old poems make excellent (and totally legitimate) posts. either that, or i'm exhausted

BODY AT REST

when i die, my body will be
bedded and buried, or burned
and scattered, and forgotten,
i hope. when they remember
my life it won’t be for my sex
and no one will care
if my stomach stood stiffly atop of my hips
or my belly lay lounging,
undisturbed and untamed.
they’ll forget that my body was
imperfect and messy, that some days
it seemed to be softer
than others. they won’t dwell
on the way my weight shifted around,
the way sometimes my shape
took up way too much space and sometimes
my flesh was reduced to
concave. i hope when i die
my body can rest, free
from the life it endured in my care.
and i hope when i’m gone
i’ll have given the world
something more to recall than
the skin i was in.

mark, let’s make out

Because drunk posting worked out so well last time, I couldn’t pass up this I-am-drunk for-the-first-time-in-weeks-and-I-deserve-it opportunity to once again grace you, dear reader, with the pleasure of my somewhat-intoxicated presence. You’re welcome.

Unfortunately, my life has been fairly uneventful in recent days, leaving me little material out of which to compose a decent post.

I would, however, like to thank a former and long-time (non)boyfriend (Hi G!—if, in fact, you still read this) for introducing me to Mark—an enchanting addition to my short list of favorite alcoholic indulgences.

I’ve decided this delightful adult beverage should come with a warning, of the “May Cause One to Compose and Send Ill-Advised Text Messages to Former (If Somewhat Challenged) Lovers” variety.

And a “Might Arouse Actual Emotions” disclaimer.

Damn it, Mark. You’re delicious. And surprisingly thought-provoking.

And I’m certain I’ll regret this when I’m sober.

Or something.

More of the almost passing out. (I have to wake up when?) Goodnight, friends. Go and get after it. (Leah, this means you.)

metaphor, schmetaphor (or, a poorly-employed literary device)

I rearrange furniture like it’s my job. I’ve been doing so since childhood, when—in spite of my parents’ wish that I just LEAVE THINGS WHERE THEY ARE FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY—I spent at least two days each month moving my furniture around my too-tiny-to-do-so room to satisfy my need for variety, leaving dented walls in my wake as proof of my compulsion. Two weeks was about all I could take of a particular bedroom set-up before boredom would set in and the need for a new layout would take over.

These days, the rearrangement of my home furnishings happens less frequently, as my maturing sensibilities stave off boredom for far longer than those of my youth. Or something.

But now I’m thinking there’s a metaphor in here somewhere. Like maybe men are like furniture for me. More than a few days of consistent behavior (see: liking me, being nice) and I get bored.

Stay with me. I’m serious.

My junior year of college, I dated a very sweet guy who (for some inexplicable reason) couldn’t get enough of me. How long did that last? Five dates, people. Five. And I actually patted myself on the back after that one, so effing proud I’d made it to five before bailing.

Apparently, being liked is synonymous with boring.

My longest relationships (or, non-relationships, as the case may be) have been with men who couldn’t make up their damn minds about whether or not they even liked me. I’ve wondered why that is, and how never knowing if I’m even wanted could possibly be appealing.

The truth is, I can’t make up my damn mind either. And I like a little variety (like me today, hate me tomorrow, see if don’t want you more for it). Dating men who don’t know seems to somehow excuse my own clueless condition.

Or maybe it’s my fear of intimacy.

There’s a metaphor in here somewhere, I swear.

not how i planned it

Some days, I feel inadequate. As I consider the lives of friends—with their consistently-forward motion and their big-life-decision-making—I can’t help but feel that I’m falling behind.

Some days, I breathe a sigh of relief, and settle in to the freedom my life affords me.

Lately, it’s been more of the former, an overwhelming anxiety about my uncertain future and a sense that I’m not where I should be right now.

My friends are engaged, or they’re married already. They’re soon-to-be-lawyers and soon-to-be-teachers. They’re mothers. They’re pregnant. They’re actresses wowing the world (or Chicago, as it were) with their talent.

Sometimes it seems like I can’t quite keep up.

And the truth is sometimes I’m not sure that I want to.

Marriage and children. Courtrooms and classrooms. I know I’m not cut out for any of it. But, in spite of that knowledge, I feel pressure to impress, to legitimize my seemingly meaningless life somehow. Because writing about kissing and cake and whiskey consumption—fun as it is—doesn’t do much to justify my existence.

The frustration lies in not knowing what I want, in feeling paralyzed by uncertainty and apprehension. In the fear that I’m taking too long to decide.

bad relationship karma

When I was a wee fourth grader, I called my best friend’s crush to ask if he would “go out” with her (which, in elementary school terms, does not include actually going anywhere and, in fact, entails little more than awkwardness and humiliation for both parties involved. Still, the excitement of having a boyfriend—even one to whom you are too embarrassed to speak—outweighs the ridiculousness of the arrangement). To the disappointment of my friend, her request was unequivocally denied by the boy in question.

Approximately ten minutes later, this same boy called back—in an undeniably bold move—to ask if I would “go out” with him instead. I’d like to say I hung up on him, or told him to fuck off (in language more befitting an eight year-old, of course), or, at the very least, adamantly rejected his offer.

The truth—and it shames me to admit this now—is that I actually (and unbelievably, I know) said yes to his request.

I had forgotten all about this long-ago betrayal (on account of the shame is almost unbearable still) until recently, when—following last week’s naked break-up—I took a closer look at my relationship history, and found that the past is, well, not pretty.

After attempting to identify what I’ve been doing wrong to inadvertently and frustratingly repel men (emotionally, at least), I realized that my dating destiny may actually be beyond my control. I am being punished—and rightfully so—for the now infamous fourth grade incident, during which I appallingly chose the boy over my best friend. I’m lucky to have gotten laid at all after that.

(Which, if your name is Mom or Dad, I didn’t.)

let’s recap

Yesterday, the NaBloPoMo bandwagon passed the halfway point on its daily-posting journey, and—to my surprise and yours—I am still aboard said bandwagon, continuing to compose (or, at least recover long-ago-written poems) and update my blog EVERY DAMN DAY. Cheers to that.

In honor of fifteen consecutive posts published, I thought we should review what we’ve learned so far from my obligatory blogging experiment:

1. I am a proud and lifetime member of the English Nerdery. (Hi Frans!)
2. I am a former Mormon who abandoned her childhood faith in favor of (sometimes excessive) alcohol consumption and scandalous bedroom behavior.
3. I fear failure and commitment and showing emotion.
4. I’d rather be kissing (preferaby a cute boy) right now.
5. My talents are threefold: apple eating, prolific perspiring, and seriously bad singing.
6. When the tequila arrives, the pants come off.
7. I am the Cheese.
8. Did somebody say whiskey?

Conclusion: My internet alter-ego is awesome.

wishing the timing had been different (or, a poem i wrote last year, posted now as proof of change)

AT WAR

even though i know he’s next
to me, i lie here
alone,
ignoring the feel of his skin
on my skin, his lips
on my lips, and
when the tips of his fingers
slide over my flesh,
when our tongues intertwine and i take in
his breath,
i try not to notice his taste
or his touch, his thickness
and tangibility.
this body is armor, my way
to stay safe,
like his hands might be weapons
instead of just hands, like this sex
is a war that we’re fighting.
but it isn’t the fight
that bloodies me up,
it isn’t his fault
that i’m broken and bruised,
it’s a simple relation of
body to blade,
and i’ll bleed from these cuts
that i’ve made, like i’m breathing
instead of surrendering life,
like blood from this body might obscure
his advances and cure my desire
to taste him and touch him, to feel more
than the sting of metal
on skin, my desire to leave
this safe place
i am in.

wise words

“I am a writer because it’s how I interpret the world.”

I heard these words spoken by this wise, wise woman during a reading she gave at Powell’s—the official headquarters of the ever-so-awesome English Nerdery and my personal literary paradise—last year. I doubt Faith would even recall making this statement, but I was struck by the profundity and truth therein contained, and I have carried that truth with me ever since.

Writing is how I make sense of my life. Maybe that’s enough to make me a writer.

Maybe not.

Either way—and in spite of threats to the contrary—this site is here to stay, as the People (two of them, in fact) have requested the posting be perpetuated. And who am I to disappoint the fans?

I love you guys.

best decision ever

I come from a family of recovering Mormons, and after over a decade of freedom, I’d like to believe we’re pretty much cured.

I know plenty of individuals who have left the Mormon church on their own, without support from family members who can’t quite comprehend their decision to ditch The (as they refer to it) Church. And I sympathize with these friends, whose religious choices have often been made at the expense of familial relationships. I admire them for their integrity, for refusing to act the part when pretending seems the easiest option.

I’m lucky. I’ve never had to pretend, as my decision to abandon my religious upbringing was met with virtually no resistance. My dad—who had already made the same choice for himself—said nothing. And my mom—who would later leave the religion as well—never pressured me to reconsider. I was afforded the freedom—in spite of my surprisingly young age (see: fourteen)—to find out what I believed, to reformulate my faith outside the context of Mormon doctrine.

It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve had to restructure my experience of spirituality, my conception of morality, my expectations and aspirations for the future. I’ve struggled with uncertainty, and I’ve confronted guilt on numerous occasions, even when I know (intellectually, that is) my actions to be blameless. Eradicating lingering moralities (and the unnecessary shame they can sometimes cause) has been a challenge. And only in recent years have I (finally! and) consistently felt uninhibited by such stubbornly repressive instincts. It’s an amazingly liberating feeling.

Abandoning the religion of our childhood has been nothing but beneficial for my family. Escaping the often suffocating world (at least in my experience) of Mormonism has brought us closer, allowing us to be more genuine in our interactions, more candid in our conversations, and more drunk in our celebrations.

My family has scandal in our blood. I’m so happy we’re finally embracing it.

currently pondering

Reasons to stop blogging:

1. Lack of entertaining content (see: I’m still not that interesting).

2. My site has still not been added to the list of NaBloPoMo participants, thus eliminating one important motivator behind this post-a-day endeavor: prizes. I heart prizes, but seeing as how I am apparently ineligible to receive them, I am feeling somewhat uninspired to continue with the daily updating.

3. No one reads this sh*t anyway.

4. It interferes with naptime.

5. The kissing has ceased to occur. There is no telling to be told.

6. I need a drink.


Reasons to keep blogging:

law of unavoidable nudity

A good friend of mine once pointed out that the drinking of tequila is always and necessarily followed by the removal of one’s pants.

I tried to recall an incident of tequila consumption from my past during which my pants stayed securely affixed to my person, but after several frustrating minutes, I was forced to admit to failure.

Conclusion: tequila drinking and pants wearing are, indeed, mutually exclusive.

That said, I would totally take my pants off for a margarita right now. Half-naked boozing might be the only way to salvage what’s left of today.

let them (and by them, i mean me) eat cake

In the past, the ending of a relationship (or almost-relationship, in this case) would have sent me immediately into self-evaluative mode, searching for which shortcomings of mine could possibly be responsible for my date’s unexpected and seemingly unwarranted departure. Luckily, I am done blaming myself for every bad ending, particularly those in which the “I’m not the guy for you” exit strategy is employed by the (still cute, but clearly somewhat crazy) boy in question.

So, instead of wasting valuable time identifying a potentially man-repelling personality trait and chiding myself for failing to remove it from my repertoire, I will embrace my now completely single status wholeheartedly, and indulge in the much-less-complicated life my lack of romantic attachment affords me. After all, pursuing a guy who wants (by his acknowledgment) to date me but won’t, is not my idea of fun.

I will, admittedly, miss the kissing of the cute boy, as I do enjoy that activity more than most, but I am confident that other, equally as cute boys do, indeed, exist in this city, and I will most definitely engage in some sweet lip action with one (or, most likely, more) of them should the opportunity present itself. Because, let’s face it, I’m sort of a lip slut, and I like it.

I will not, however, attempt to enter into any sort of relationship with any future kissing buddy, as endeavors of this kind are, obviously, not my specialty. And I urge all (six? Do I have six readers yet?) of you to remind me of this post next time I decide that limiting myself to dating of the One Man At A Time variety is a good idea. Because, clearly, it’s not.

The kissing? Good. The relationship (pretend or otherwise)? Not so good.

Now that I’ve chosen the kiss-but-don’t-commit route, I’m prepared to focus my attention on more important things—like contemplating my professional future by identifying talents and interests outside the realm of excessive apple consumption, profuse sweating, and painfully-off-key singing on which I can build a potentially successful career.

I also plan to spend a lot more time reading, sleeping, and eating cake, occasionally over-indulging in alcohol, composing more entertaining posts for this here website, running and playing soccer (to compensate for the cake), calling my long-distance friends to leave obnoxiously long-winded messages on their voicemail (sorry, guys), watching America’s Next Top Model (don’t judge) with my equally-addicted sister, flirting shamelessly, and overcoming my social anxiety by, well, being more social.

This is going to be awesome.



Also: the cheese—with her recoiling and her walls—is a genius.

good news, everyone

Regularly scheduled (see: obligatory, on account of I agreed to participate in this) posting will no longer be interrupted by the kissing of the previously mentioned cute boy, as the kissing of him came to an abrupt and unexpected end at 2 a.m. this morning.

Also: I have officially mastered the naked break-up. Sweet.

wherein i cheat (but only because i'd rather kiss than blog) by posting a poem written three years ago

WITHOUT WORDS

at a safe distance, where
the having of you is a discourse
of bodies not minds and my weaponry
of words is silenced. sometimes
i like the silence of sex-
ual slants as they dance
overhead, begging us
to breathe them in and sometimes
i like that our hands
do the talking, walking
us through. it’s easier
with eyes closed to be flesh-
to-flesh, mouth-to-mouth with
the taste of you on my
tongue and my breath on
your lips, your hands
on my hips. sometimes i like
to be speechless. and, of course,
i like the next-to-me
of you.

the cheese

When I visited the website of my dearest Frans this afternoon, I was surprised to find her links page recently reorganized, with my insignificant web endeavor (see: this site) listed all by itself, in its very own category. Needless to say, I was flattered, and somewhat befuddled as to what could possibly convince Frans that I deserve an honor such as this, when clearly my writing leaves something (read: worthwhile content) to be desired. But being the attention-craving kid that I am (or NOT), I will not argue with her decision, and will, instead, bask in the glory of my (no doubt undue) recognition.

Frans is right about one thing, however. The cheese—or me, as it were—does, indeed, stand alone on most occasions. The cheese fears commitment and, as a result of said fear, tends to isolate itself intentionally—particularly if the alternative involves interaction with members of the opposite sex for whom the cheese may or may not have more-than-friend-like feelings. And when cute boys cook dinner for the cheese while she sits around lazily sipping on whiskey and not helping with the meal AT ALL, or they send her sweet text messages of the I’m Thinking of You variety, the cheese instinctively recoils from the clearly emerging relationship and puts up walls for protection. The cheese is bad at monogamy and emotional attachment and letting herself be loved. She’s selfish and she’s scared, and she likes standing alone most days.

The cheese goes well with wine.

And the cheese would totally let Frans date Tommy first. Totally.

The cheese understands that standing alone carries with it the added burden of composing decent posts on a more consistent basis, and she’s prepared to fulfill her self-contained dairy item duties in three important ways: 1) living a more shockingly scandalous life, 2) writing relatively eloquent recaps of all morally-questionable occurrences, and 3) fabricating elaborate lies to compensate when 1 and 2 inevitably fail.

The cheese would like to thank her RLBFF, Frans for (inadvertently, but also awesomely) presenting her with this Be Better At Blogging challenge. And for being so super. And for reminding the cheese that she doesn’t always have to stand so alone.

making me proud

On Sunday evening, I went out for a celebratory break-up beverage in honor of my coworker’s recently ended, long-term relationship. Said coworker is unabashedly happy about the split with her ex, as demonstrated by her midday, pre-drinks-with-us date less than forty-eight hours after the initial break-up took place.

And by date, I mean doing it.

One more reason I love my friends.

the Happy, part II

Happiness is a tricky bitch, elusive and complicated and veiled at times. And it’s easy to get stuck in a state of discontentment, unaware of exactly why we are so unhappy, and unable to escape the sadness we so frequently encounter.

This has been my life on far too many occasions, weighed down by a sorrow I’ve struggled to even define, with a source I can’t quite identify. I’ve been frustrated and exhausted and disheartened, discouraged by my inability to JUST BE HAPPY DAMMIT.

But over the past few weeks, my day-to-day experience has felt decidedly different. I’ve been sincerely and consistently happy. In spite of long work days and bureaucratic bullshit and feeling physically unwell too often.

I’m lucky. Things changed without my permission. Things I might never have had the audacity to change myself. And I refuse to ever enable my unhappiness again.


I also promise more alcohol-infused posts in the future, in the name of hilarity and of yum. (Because, the whiskey, it is delicious.)

make mine a double

I have never composed a post in a semi-intoxicated state before, but it’s rapidly approaching midnight and the inebriation brought on by my whiskey consumption this evening is not fading as quickly as I might have hoped. As a result, the information herein contained should be read with the understanding that its author is currently under the influence of mind-altering alcoholic beverages. Thank you, Mark (Maker’s, that is).

Alcohol generally affects me in three ways: 1) it makes me want to kiss boys, 2) it makes me tired, and 3) it makes me have to pee. At this moment, I am experiencing all three side effects of my earlier indulgence. Unfortunately, I do not have the means to appease myself on the first account, as sitting at home, alone in bed is not particularly conducive to getting some (see: doing it). Thus, I have resolved myself to my reality, which consists of using the bathroom—preferably in the near future—brushing my teeth, and retiring to bed, where I will hopefully at least dream of getting fresh with my ManFriend.

I almost passed out just then. I must sleep.


Note to self: write better posts.

and it seems my performance was impressive, indeed

A former coworker and current friend of mine recently (and reluctantly) confessed that she’d had an embarrassingly inappropriate dream in which I played a prominent—and apparently underdressed—role. That’s right. This happily-married-to-a-man female friend had a sex dream about me.

Is it wrong that I find this flattering?

currently impeding my daily posting ability:

1. Perfectionism. I fear the poorly-written post almost as much as I fear this.

2. Finding out earlier this week that I’ve been an (unknowingly, yes, but still) uninsured driver for the past three months, and attempting to reconcile my unfortunate—and also illegal—insurance situation in a timely and financially-acceptable fashion.

3. Exhaustion. All work and no sleep make me a dull boy. Or something.

4. The cute boy, and the kissing him.

5. I’m just not that interesting.

not as young as i used to be

My senior year of college, I wrote an eighty-page thesis on very little sleep, very little food, and far too frequent (over)intoxication. Two and a half years later, I stand in awe of my former self and her ability to remain almost fully functional in spite of minimal rest, slight malnutrition, and blatant drunkenness. Especially since I find myself sitting in bed at 7pm on a Thursday night, still recovering from Saturday’s overzealous alcohol consumption and Tuesday’s near-all nighter, trying desperately to stay conscious long enough to compose something worthwhile for blog posting purposes. I fear my efforts may be in vain.

I promised to post every day in November as a way to relight that once-sparked fire under my formerly-literary ass. Unfortunately, my previously-nonexistent social life has unexpectedly reappeared, providing me with myriad opportunities to stay up late and behave irresponsibly (see: kiss cute boys—or boy, as it were). And, apparently, my post-party recovery time is just not as impressive as it once was. Thus, the tiredness and the excuses and the embarrassingly-lame beginning to my month of continuous posting.

Consider this my These Posts Will Get Better guarantee. Seriously. Because so far, I’m admittedly disappointed in my failure to adequately represent the English Nerdery, and fearful that my membership in said nerdery will be (justifiably) revoked when its other members learn of my literary deficiency. That, my friends, would be tragic. So, look forward to twenty-eight days of posts that are at least more fabulous than this.

In the meantime, a cute boy awaits me. I must go and kiss him.

excuses

Today I worked ten hours on only two and a half hours of sleep. So, while I’d like to post something fabulous and insightful in honor of this, the first day of NaBloPoMo, I’m simply too effing tired to be creative or coherent or inspired.

Either that, or my dog ate my blog post.