I came in to work on Monday with a hickey and a sprained ankle.

This is why I am not allowed to start drinking during the daytime.

It all started Sunday afternoon at the Pike. I went down to have a beer or two with the ladies, catch some of the D-Strutters set, and then return home for an early night in. Leaving friends, a good show, and beer to head home and do homework? Yeah, it totally didn't happen.

Two beers turned into three, tequila shots were ordered (by me, of course), and before I knew it I was at a bar down the street at midnight. Lately I've been pretty good about cutting myself off at a reasonable hour, but not this time. I'm going to go ahead and blame my current lack of self control on the fact that I am dating a bartender. He can keep up with me and then some. Pretty much the best decision I've ever made, no?

Somehow along the way I acquired the hickey. It is approximately the size of Texas and totally screams I AM DEALING WITH THINGS IN A MATURE AND RESPONSIBLE MANNER. I know it's gross, but it really couldn't be helped. I'm pale to the point of being transparent so the slightest nick leaves me looking like a victim of domestic violence. Factor in that I'm a whiskey drinker and I think it goes without saying that biting? Totally ok. I just need to get him to work on his aim. (I'm running out of collared shirts to wear.)

And I need to work on my footing. I have reached that age (or more likely, I had reached that level of drunkenness) where I get hurt doing normal, everyday things. I sprained my ankle while walking. In flats, even. (Only slightly less embarrassing than the last time I sprained my ankle.)

It hurt so much that I thought I was going to pass out in the road, just across the street from the bar (the torture!). With some help I made it inside, had a beer, and felt good enough to not only walk to another bar but to then walk the 5 or so blocks to my car. This turned out to have not been a good decision. Upon waking yesterday my ankle was throbbing, making walking near impossible. Last night I had to give in and buy a cane.

This is what happens when I only have one day off on the weekend, people. I feel like I have to make up for lost time, WATCH OUT.

I'm hoping that this weekend doesn't involve any injuries, but I'm not holding my breath. I bought myself an early birthday present that I will be wearing out this weekend, sprained ankle or no.

Cause you know, priorities.

Yesterday a coworker called to tell me that he is now a father. Though born premature, his daughter shows all signs of being on the road to good health. He sounded deliriously happy, probably the result of sleep deprivation and bodily exhaustion mixed with relief and joy. He is the most cheerful, easygoing person that I have ever worked with, and I know that he will make a terrific father.

Another coworker nearly blinded me when she showed off some serious rocks on her finger. Over the weekend her boyfriend proposed. She is that rare blend of smart and beautiful that is so hard to find in most women, and is one of the few people from work that I actually hang out with when I'm not getting paid to do so. I couldn't be happier for her.

And me? Over the weekend I sat at the Red Room and tilted my head back so the bartender could pour Jack Daniels straight from the bottle into my mouth.

So yeah, it was a pretty eventful weekend for everyone.

The fact that I am an emotional cripple was really driven home last night. I sent my friend Lauren a text message canceling plans to go out, and in it I mentioned that I was feeling kind of down. I immediately regretted bringing up my emotional state and sent her another message to apologize for unloading on her. (How considerate am I?!)

I'm genereally not comfortable discussing how I'm feeling, unless the words "buzzed", "drunk", or "shitfaced" are included, because what kind of friend wants to listen to another friend talk about the things that they are going through? (NOT ME.) Plus, all that time spent using your mouth to CHANGE NOTHING could be instead be devoted to drinking whiskey or eating macaroni and cheese, two things that are pretty much guaranteed to make you feel better.

However, not showing emotion when I'm so full of it (among other things) right now has made this week uncomfortable. Not horrible, not unbearable, but uncomfortable, oh yes.

Work has been a nice distraction (especially since I get to yell at kids and make them submit to my will, and that always makes me feel godlike) but I find that lately I look forward to the end of the work day and the drive home, a time which for now is known as The Hour of Crying in Which Much Crying Occurs.

It always starts the same. I feel the physical weight of the bad decisions that I have made, all 5,607,393 of them, building in my chest as I walk towards my car in the parking lot. I unlock my car door with a sigh the size of Texas that has been known to fell the nearby shrubs and drops my shoulders down about two feet. I drive away and join an anonymous sea of people that are too concerned with picking up the kids on time, getting home to start dinner, or returning to their loved ones to notice anyone else on the road. And for a few minutes on the highway, I stop being such a tight ass control freak.

I don't know what it says about me that I'd rather cry alone in my car than to a friend, but YOU GUYS ARE SO WELCOME.

And thank god for my short attention span. About three minutes in to the Hour of Crying yesterday, I saw a puppy trotting along the sidewalk. And it totally cheered me up. Today I'm planning on playing with some tin foil or something else that reflects light and seeing how that works out.

(And by the way: I totally apologize that this breakup is turning out to be less "mountains of coke and naked young men" than "sleeping a lot and taking long night drives by myself" and therefore totally boring. But hey, give it time.)

Just a few days after I expressed joy at being the number one image result on Google for "whore makeup", it appears that I am no longer in first place, let alone a front runner. (Of course I think of this as a competition. Isn't everything?) I don't know how Google determines relevancy, but I have fallen in the results, and fallen far.

My words to Google: DO NOT TEMPT ME. I have all summer to earn back my spot.

As for how the first weekend of singledom after 3 years spent caged in a relationship went, it wasn't quite the coke and himbo orgy you may have thought. Probably because I spent most of the weekend trying to sleep, drinking, and oh yeah, crying.

I have learned my lesson: I am never, ever leaving a dysfunctional relationship again. This breakup shit is awful! (Who knew? Is that what all those people were signing about?!) And yes, I was the one that did the breaking rather than being the one that was broken, but trust me, IT STILL TOTALLY BLOWS.

I don't mean to give the impression that the weekend was all bad, because it wasn't. (I just really, really hate crying. There's no attractive way to do it. I end up with swollen eyes, a blotchy complexion, and sniffles. And who the fuck wants to buy THAT a drink?)

On Saturday I spent time with my friends, did a ton of illegal things (three just off the top of my head, I could probably think of more if I tried), stayed out really late, and didn't even have to call to check in! (Yes, really.) I didn't cry at the bar and I didn't make out with anyone at the bar in a desperate attempt to prove my datability, and I resolve to do neither of those this summer.

Just a WHOLE LOT of looking like a whore.

Last night I lost my best friend.

Because I broke up with him.

For those of you that can end relationships and maintain a friendship, I am jealous. We can't. The relationship, the friendship, it's over.

It was something that needed to happen. There were a number of reasons, some my fault, some his. Be it depression or laziness, I lacked the will to try and change our relationship for the better, and like any long-term relationship left to its own devices, it suffered. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't necessarily unhappy. I just was.

If he someday chooses to, I know without a doubt that he will be a great husband, a great father. We weren't actively planning on either, but they were options, at least. The fear of losing those options, of losing the future roles he might play, kept me around longer than it should have. I realized that I was with him in anticipation of the future, not for the present.

We've broken up before, and have gotten back together in 5 minutes, once it took a few weeks. I think this time it will stick.

It was the right decision, but I already miss him something fierce.

(And dear god, the car. I really miss the car that he bought me for my birthday. I gave it back. At least I stole two of his video games while we were moving. Almost makes it even.)

I'm doing this meme at the request of Tyler, because who doesn't love a rock n roll librarian?

Strangest Search Terms
or, How Really Sick People That I Think I Would Totally Like Find My Site:

Whore makeup (Image Search)
You can not imagine the joy I felt when I found out that I was the NUMBER ONE image result on Google for "whore makeup". I immediately called my mother and told her to forget the cheerleading trophy (yes, really), forget the blue ribbons and school record from track, forget that whole bachelors degree and masters degree thing because this, THIS was my crowning glory.

It can only go downhill from here, really.

Bikini beer server, Orange County
Sorry to disappoint, but the closest I come to this is being a bikini clad beer drinker who used to live and now only works in/occasionally visits Orange County.

Dearhearts Band
Apparently there is a band called Herman and the Dearhearts. I am totally ok sharing a name with any band that counts Barfin' Bob (direct quote: "red wine and jogging don't mix!") among their members. We would so, so get along. (I recommend mixing red wine with pot, a bubble bath, and a solid twelve hours of sleep, but that's just me.)

The Dumb Waiter, Free, Easy
I have worked as a waitress, yes. But I was smart. (And yes, I know they're referring to an elevator of sorts, not an actual dumb waiter. See? I'm pretty much a genius.) As far as free and easy go, well, you're only in your early 20s once, right?

(Unless you lie.)

Spring Break Cucumber (Image Search)
This result came in from Google France, so I applaud this person's passion for learning and applying the English language in such wonderfully creative ways.

Drunk Girls Getting Laid
Boy, did this person arrive at the right site.

Procrastination Works
I love to think that some kid was sitting at his computer, getting nagged by his mother to work on homework, and began looking on the internet for some kind of proof (or what passes for proof on the internet) to back up his procrastinator tendencies.

"Mom, this girl says that procrastination works!"

"I don't care what "this girl" says. I'm telling you to start on your homework now!"

"But Mom, she has a business degree. And she's getting her masters! And she has a 4.0!"

"Let me see this....[peruses web site]...oh dear god, my son is not turning out like this, not if I have anything to say about it! Get to work, now!"

[Laser beams shoot out of her eyes and blow up the computer]

And now comes the part where I tag others. However, I can't bring myself to do this, as (just like in life) I'm a bit antisocial online and don't really communicate with many other bloggers/writers.

So instead I'll just throw it out there for anyone who wants to anyone who wants to participate. Email me if you decide to so I can link to you.

Dropping a class for the first time last semester felt so good that I decided to do it again this semester. Already in over my head only 3 days, it just made sense. And while I hate to admit defeat, I would hate even more to take two classes (while, let me remind you WORKING FULL TIME) and do badly (read: get a B) in either due to the lack of time and attention that I would be able to devote to them.

So, a quitter I am. And I am so, so ok with this. It's in the interest of both preserving my straight A average (which I love almost as much as my car, my shoes, and whiskey) and to ensure that I actually get to, oh, I don't know, lay around on the porch and drink this summer like normal people.

(And maybe do some drugs.)

The best part: now I have an extra thousand dollars to throw about (returned course fee). I could save it (HA), go shopping (after the moving incident of 2007, no fucking way), or just go to the bar and TRY ONE OF EVERYTHING.

Less school, more money, more alcohol...this summer has potential.

This all went down yesterday, on Sunday.

Timeline
7:00am - Alarm goes off. Predictably, roll over and go back to sleep.

9:00am - Alarm goes off. Get up this time. Be a huge, grouchy bitch because you only got 5 hours of sleep and that makes any bad behavior totally justifiable.

10:00am - According to UHaul policy, if your UHaul "reservation agent" doesn't contact you by 10am, then it's up to you to contact them. Go ahead and take a guess if they called.

11:00am - Go get the UHaul. Price quoted on website: $19.95. Price paid: $88.00.

12:00pm - Move.

1:00pm - Get kicked in the face while moving.

2:00pm - Move. Hate life.

3:00pm - Take a lunch break. Beer and cake makes everything better.

4:00pm - Move.

5:00pm - Move.

6:00pm - Clean old apartment.

7:00pm - Fall asleep on living room floor. May have been due to tiredness or bleach fumes.

8:00pm - Leave the Costa Mesa apartment for the last time. Do not miss it at all.

Tally
Number of beers consumed: 3 (Sad.)

Number of illegal drugs consumed: 1

Number of prescription drugs consumed: 1

(I only took part in one of the above. Care to venture a guess?)

Number of knives wielded: 1

Number of UHaul trips: 3, which makes the number of times packing and unpacking it 6. 6!!!

Number of times I said the words "fuck", "hate", "you", and "dumbass": too many, even for me

Lessons
I know I normally extol the virtues of procrastination, but dear god, I am doing this whole moving process differently next time, I SWEAR. There will be BOXES involved, and packing tape, and I won't try to carry the contents of MY LIFE from one city to another in SHOPPING BAGS.

Also on the list of THINGS I WON'T DO EVER AGAIN is listen to someone who says that no, we don't need to disassemble all of the furniture, it will fit just fine! when I know damn well that it won't. Because if I do listen to them, and SURPRISE! the furniture doesn't fit I'll end up taking it apart by myself and in such a rage that I hurl the wrench repeatedly at the wall because the law says that doing so to his skull is a big no-no.

Advice
Some advice to all of you that want to buy me glorious things for my upcoming birthday (45 days away - never to early to start planning!) is this: DON'T. When I gaze around the ruin that is now my room and see throw pillows, decorative candles, picture frames, etc. all I will see is CRAP. Crap that has to be MOVED.

Towards the end of the day yesterday I got so fed up that I just started throwing things away for no other reason than I DIDN'T WANT TO MOVE ANYMORE. Not even one more single thing. Not. One. (Are you getting the picture yet that I can be a total brat?)

So unless the thought of me hurling a present straight at your head in a fit of pure rage sounds like an ideal reaction to you, then don't buy me anything that would ever need to be moved. So what can you get me? How about a drink? (Or two?)

(It of course without saying that shoes and books are not included in my viewing physical objects as crap. Rather, these are holy items that I will always, always be willing to move.)

***

The most hellish day in the history of my existence aside, it was still worth it. Even though I'm not even close to being settled in, even though I've added a good 30-45 minutes to my commute, I'm so, so happy to be back in Long Beach. Happy enough to almost not mind that I start classes full time today. I will try very hard (read: not very much) to not whine about it as much as I did last semester.