Update.

I’ve been vegan and alcohol-free for four whole days now. Crazy.

So that means no more*:

- drunken make-outs/hook-ups

- drunkenly being asked to be in a threesome, because, “We like you. We think you’re strong enough to handle it…to be the guest star.”

- drunken photo texts from guys…with pictures of their dicks

- crawling on my hands and knees to vomit in my friends’ bathroom, only to be mercilessly slagged by them the next day [and they're all guys, so that's ALL I HEAR from them]

- meat, cheese, milk, ice cream, eggs, candy…so basically I’ve been eating rice and vegetables

-fun.

Twenty-six more days, and I’ll be back with a vengeance.

* This was just a brief recap of my August. Yeah. That’s how I roll.

Never Enough Time…or The Panic Was So Far-Reaching It Could Be Described As Widespread

You know, there’s just never enough time to do all the things I have to do and all the things I want to do. So I either put off the former, stress out, get anxiety-ridden, and feel like a loser…or put off the latter, and feel unfulfilled and like a loser. Both results in me feeling like a loser. Why, oh why, can’t I just be independently wealthy, and spend my days reading, writing, crafting, drinking coffee, and enjoying the great city in which I live?

One of the things I want to do on a regular basis is write. Since I made the decision to actively do so [in my quest of becoming a "writer"], I’ve made leaps and bounds in my prioritizing “writing” and putting it near the top of the list [even above "laundry" and "gettin' money from my hoes"]. But I haven’t enough time in the day! I don’t even get it. I work all day, come home, watch a tiny bit of television, check my email, then all of the sudden it’s time for bed! No time to write, unless I drink massive amounts of coffee and/or alcohol, and don’t sleep…which I’d do, but my youthful face would suffer, I fear. And I like being 25, yet still passing for a teenager. It gives me hope for when I enter my 30s [which a jerk I work with reminded me is not too far off].

So, specifically, I wanted to write about my most recent experiences at a concert. I began writing the story a couple days ago, so finally, here it is:

The panic was so far-reaching it could be described as widespread…

The concert tonight exceeded any of my expectations, the few that I had. I met Steve, the tour manager [or so his business card read] at Fenway on Wednesday. He offered me tickets to see Widespread Panic on Thursday night, so how could I refuse? Free concert = awesome. My roommate and a friend said they’d come with me, and we met at the Bank of America Pavilion down by the Boston Harbor at 7:00. Will call didn’t have me on “the list” so I called Steve, and he brought the four tickets up [and my roommate called the situation "dodgy"]. I only had two friends, so there was an extra ticket that my roommate promptly sold for twenty bucks. I said we couldn’t sell a free ticket, but he’s Irish and doesn’t follow normal rules.

When we got inside, the scent of marijuana wafted through the air. With ten-dollar beers in hand, we laughed, joked, and chatted while Widespread Panic jammed on stage. Upon drinking the second alcoholic beverage, and as the sun finally set, we stood up and joined the throngs of hippies dancing in the aisles of the pavilion, moving their bodies without inhibitions. There was no way we could refuse the call of the music [especially a ten-minute jam of Bill Withers' "Use Me"] and soon we, too, shook and gyrated like the white people we are. The dancing was contagious! And actually, quite fun. Even the cute four-year old girl with glasses was running up and down the aisles, jumping and shaking about. In the bathroom, my friend and I encountered the ballerina-turned-hippie, who demonstrated her years of ballet study with a glissade and an arabesque before flitting her way back to her seat.

At 10, a we finally departed and made our way to Hennessey’s near Faneuil Hall for an awesome 90s rock cover band that jams there on Thursday nights. The bar was so hot that during the band’s break, I turned the fan that cooled them off to me and stood in front of it. Unfortunately I got too close and my hair got stuck in the fan. A helpful bystander cut off the fan and we dislodged the majority of my tresses, leaving only a small chunk of my blonde locks in the fan — I told the band’s singer it was a special gift from me. Some Sam Summers, shots, and shaking it later, and we were on the move again to J.J. Foley’s for more drinks. At 3am, we were finally in a cab to go home. All in all, a good night of music, dancing, drinking, friends, and fun.

See, if I had more time in the day, I’m sure that story could be better. But at this point I’m just happy to have a minute to sit and recall it, let alone the time to type out my memories about that night.

Maybe one day I’ll either: 1) win the lottery, quit my job and have time to write all day, or 2) meet a hot, rich, amazingly sensitive and brilliant older man who will pay all my bills and I’ll quit my job and have time to write all day.

I’m pretty sure that I have a better shot at winning the lottery.

Drunken Ramblings.

I heard the siren in the distance from the living room of my apartment, and also from the other end of the phone. I called Sunrise Chinese for sesame chicken and crab rangoons. Apparently the restaurant is closer than I imagined, if we are hearing the same emergency sounds. Sipping my third glass of wine, surrounded by jazz, the smell of summer rain and candlelight, I sat alone. Opening Microsoft Word, I thought, ‘If I’m going to make a baby, I better get to fucking.’ That’s an analogy, for sure [not mine, but I have stolen it] – the baby is a book. Or even in the more present tense, just a story. Time to get fuck—I mean, writing.

Sometimes taking stock of one’s life is crucial.

There’s a centerpiece of candles and rocks on a metal tray that adorns the middle of my bar table. I never allowed my ex to light the candles – I always wanted them to look pristine, untouched, perfect. Now, in my semi-drunken state, I want to burn those fuckers. Maybe for light, sure. Maybe for something else. Maybe just to burn something.

Guess I am over my anti-pyromaniac stage from the other day.

He messaged me last night. Don’t know why. I think he might want to be friends, although when we had lunch before he left for Arizona for the summer I informed him that I wasn’t really interested in being his friend, and was unsure if I’d ever see him again. “But we live in the same city,” he said. “Are you going to delete my number?” Trapped, I said no, although I secretly knew I would probably not answer if he called. That’s a big “if.” He barely paid attention to me when we lived together. What would make me believe he’d actually want to keep in touch? Well, besides the obvious – that’s he’s a fucking moron douchebag and obviously doesn’t know shit about shit.

This has gotten really random. Happens with wine in my bloodstream. And Chinese food. Sesame chicken = truth serum.

I have so much to write about. I see everything. My life is a collection of hilarious, heartbreaking, wonderful stories.

Maybe one day all these tiny pieces and particles of stories will form a big picture, like a jigsaw puzzle. I’ll just keep picking up the pieces I find every day, put them in my pocket, and try to make them fit.

I just hope at the end that the puzzle pieces come together and don’t look a mess, like some insane clown eating a puppy.

That was over the line.