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I am going home in a few months for a week. I am bringing a boy with whom I sleep. I am also thinking of going to my old high school, looking up my old guidance counselor, and punching her directly in the throat. Connecting those dots is no easy task, but I'm up to it.
Back in my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Niskayuna High School days, I was told by this system-fucking she-bitch, that college was the only way to get ahead in life. Go to a good college, get a good job, meet a good boy, have a good life. So, like the good little sheep I was successfully brainwashed into being, I went to college. FOR 8 MOTHER FUCKING YEARS. One would think, in that amount of time I would have found the best job, and the best boy. One would be wrong.
What I did accrue in my collegiate carrier was a series of bad romantic decisions, and the ability to better analyze and articulate the ways in which society is consistently ass-fucks us all. And I have a handful of diplomas to back that claim up.
Now I am working a job that makes water boarding seem like a fun alternative, and am dating a guy who I trust about as much as I should have trusted that butt-pirate guidance counselor.
I do both, daily. Why? Because when you connect those dots, la la la la, they make a dunce cap. Now wear it proud, and get ready for work.

i am so zick im getting godsmacked as we speak

I came to the realization today that, because of the way I act, I can never be sick. "Oh don't be ridiculous, the fuck?" you might be thinking...but it's true. I have been coming down with the sickness (owwahhahhahhahh) for a few days now, and today I have reached my functional limit. However, when I went to work this morning and told my co-workers I was feeling ill; they suggested coffee and fast food....to which I replied, "I am sick, not hung over." Those doubting fuckers looked at me much like Mrs. Bloomberg did in the 4th grade when I said my dog ate my homework.
I left anyway. Fuck them. I have been sober for a month today, and gods way of patting me on the back is by giving me lung AIDS and a crew of coworkers who have about as much faith in my word as I do in the above referenced deity.
A month ago today I was so fucked up that I had a 20 minute conversation with a house plant. And it was the best god damned conversation I'd had in months. Unfortunately for sobriety, it remains the best god damned conversation I have had to date. "So what is the point, the fuck?" Good question. What the fuck is the point?
I woke up today feeling and looking like the bottom of your shoe after you've tip toed through some electric boogaloo. Why? I've thought about this question long and hard...for at least 13 minutes...and the only explanation I can come up with is this: I must have killed a pope in a past life. Quite frankly, I wouldn't put it past past me to be capable of such dumbassary. Past me was probably all yacked out of my mind and drunk on christ's blood and thought the pope was the house plant from little shop of horrors.
Anyway, I'm still sober. I'm still zick. And I'm still employed. Two of these things had better change soon...for my plants sake...I think she's lonely.

I decided today that I was put on this earth to

hate. I do it so well. I read somewhere that depression is anger introverted. Therefore, I suggest to you, my interwebs friends, that I am leaps and bounds ahead of the average cry-ass-vag-face out there...emotionally speaking. If you disagree with me, we can fight about it. I'll kick your ass with my well polished aggression, and you'll cry about it...cause that's probably how you do.
A lot of my friends have noticed, and pointed out on several occasions, that I raise my voice about 12 octaves when I am speaking to strangers...at the bank, at work on the phone, at a mcdonalds drive thru...game-face, my besties brother calls it. And that would be the best way to describe exactly what I am doing. Playing a game. The riveting game of communication...it's a lot like operation but instead of that annoying buzzer noise, I hear prolonged idiotic conversation that will eventually make my ears bleed whenever I fuck up and get too close to the edge.
If only it were as easy to lose the pieces to the game of social communication as it is to lose the wish-bone in operation. But noooo...human interaction keeps popping up like a ouija board in a bad horror flick. How do they end up getting rid of that portal that brings hell to earth? Burn it, right? Just sayin...

well hello there, boys and girls

I have officially bored myself with my struggle to stay sober. Therefore, I will talk about all the grand mistakes I have made with the opposite sex. Well...not ALL of them...that would fill up 12 collections of encyclopedia BROtannica.
This still has a great deal to do with my lack of ability to stay dry, because most (if not all) of my run-ins with dudes I have been black-out (or wished to god I were black-out) drunk. As a disclaimer, I will now suggest to all the blips on my morality radar to stop reading immediately. For those of you with whom I still speak...congratulations, you're retarded.
While I am on the path to self-discovery-land, I figure I should find out why I am such a raging bitch. In order to do that I can't avoid the one thing that life seems to be centered around...and trust me, I dry heave a little when I admit this...love.
I was in love once. It feels like a decade ago...probably because it was. Ever since then I have never felt anything even remotely close to what I felt for him. This isn't because I was emotionally slam danced on, which I was, nor is it because he is my one-and-only and someday, 50 years down the line, we will run into each other in a Piggly Wiggly and hold each other in a silent, all knowing old people hug...it's because I was fucking 17 years old and had more hormonal charge than some poor kid who tried to OD on his moms birth control pills.
So I dated this fucktard for a good 3 years of my young life, and I fell out of love. That was the worst pain I had ever felt in my 20 years of life. I felt drained. I hated myself. I hated him. No, I hated myself. I took this poor guy, I built a life with him, and then I took it apart and left him with the rubble. Literally speaking, apparently when I go through bad break ups my coping mechanism is hidden somewhere inside my furniture...and the only way to get it out is by hurling everything liftable towards my most recent ex.
Don't feel too sorry for him, kids. I later found out he had cheated on me with a fat chick who looked like her face was feeling immense amounts of force from both above and below her face...like her nose had it's own gravitational pull that only effected her forehead and chin(s). That fat broad, who had the personality of a wet mop, was my best friend. Ouch. Why was she my best friend in the first place, one might ask? Well, obviously I am horrible judge of character.
I'd blame my binge drinking on this very event, but I was a well seasoned drinking champ well before I met bloke and bertha. Perhaps I was training for the drunk asshole Olympics, and I was going for the gold in the furniture throwing event. Regardless, that was the first time I learned I could walk away from anyone and be just fine.
With the amount of walking I have been doing ever since that day, you'd think I would have an ass that could make j.lo blush. Fortunately for the boners I've stepped on in the process, I don't. And if one of you numbskulls are reading this right now, I have something to say to you: I am not sorry.

today i felt...

up a statue of a small boy. But, I also felt normal. Never thought I'd write those two sentences back to back...

Forgive me dark father, for I have sinned. It has been a week and a day since my last use of illegal substances...and substances that should be illegal but aren't because we all know that the average person isn't interesting unless at least half your brain is swimming in vodka. Bringing back prohibition would be asking for the second civil war. Straight edge kids vs...well, vs my friends, and just about every chode who ever stepped foot in Hollister.

It was my day off. I, being almost completely Irish, had the day after St. Patricks day off, and I did not touch a drop of what has been coursing through my veins since before birth. I'm surprised I wasn't struck by lightening by good ol' St. Patty himself. But I did it, and he didn't.

The poster child for inbreed trash kept staring at me while I ate lunch today. After consulting with my luncheon partners about the situation I showed a little cleavage, winked to the point where she probably assumed I was having a stroke, and went back to eating my delicious samich.

Now, if that same situation had occurred 2 days ago I would have most likely flipped the table over and set the eatery ablaze. What I'm stabbin at, kids, is that I think I am getting better. Who says you can't teach an old dog to stop humping guests?

So lets all raise our vitamin waters and repeat after me..."here's to hoping I didn't just jinx myself, and if I did, here's to hoping I have my ski mask on me when I actually do snap."

i've been sober long enough to know...

that hangovers are not what makes life suck. Actually, life is better when you're hung over. At least then you have something to blame (other than your own lack of drive and intelligence) for your life sucking so hard.
This morning I woke up, and in an attempt to be productive in my new found sobriety, left early to sell old clothes to a local consignment shop. While I was in route to my car, foolishly smoking a cigarette, I was accosted by a hobo who frequents my stoop. Normally, I can be fake nice long enough to excuse myself from the impending nonsensical conversation, but today...with the fog of my consistent booze fest finally lifted, I couldn't even muster up the will to hide my complete disgust for these people.
"I'm late for work!" I shouted, not because he was too far away to hear my normal tone of voice, but because I wanted (with no real reason) to punch this guy directly in the head. When his hobo hag side kicks started mocking me I proceeded to yell at my closed car window, "Stop hanging around my fucking house! Yeah, I have to get to work! Someones got to buy the fucking cigarettes you assholes keep bumming!"
Where the hell did that come from? I normally lie and sweetly say "oh, sorry, it's my last one." Regardless of whether or not I have a full open pack in my other hand, waving around in their face, I still try to act as sincere as possible when I'm rejecting their hope for a nic fix...probably driving them deeper into their mental-illness driven depression and consequently their addiction to crack. I used to try to be nice. Why? I'm not sure. Possibly because I saw a lot of myself in them, those loud, drunk, annoying hobos picking through my garbage and napping in my dogs shit in the tiny patch of land to the left of my stoop. But the glimpse of me in them is gone now, the mirror shattered by a full bottle of mikes hard lemonade. If that bottle were empty, it's contents happily sloshing around in my bloated belly, the mirror would still be intact. But I am denying myself the right of comfortably numbing myself into submission, societal acceptance, whatever it is that's keeping me up at night.
For hobos everywhere, I should probably remain the raging alcoholic I have always been. Hell, for the average human being, I should probably run like the wind to my local watering hole. But I can't be thinking about you assholes all the time. I have to find what's making me so unhappy that only chemicals make me feel safe, calm, agreeable.
But what if I stay sober long enough to finally have to face that it is you, humanity, that drives me to drink, and not me? What if my complete lack of respect for your rules and norms does not come from some dopamine imbalance caused by years of substance abuse, but from that tiny part of functional brain I have left? What then? Is this sobriety the worst idea my retarded head has ever housed? Is this the beginning of my path towards a tiny hut in the middle of the woods?

If I start growing facial hair, and develop a deep appreciation for large hoodies and aviator sunglasses I am getting fucking hammered, and I think we can all agree on that.

no pain, no gain? no wonder i've gained so much weight.

i dont think that cliche means what the average person thinks it means. what a mess, everywhere i look. life isn't like a box of chocolates, it's like a box of vomited up chocolate. it's like a game of slip 'n slide, except water is replaced with urine and theres a shit brick wall at the end. i can pretty much bet my left ass cheek that i would rather stick my face in a blender than go through my day tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, without the aid of heavy drugs...but i will. why? because i can't stop hoping that some day life will be like a box of chocolates. oh...that's right. im a fucking diabetic.