The baseball season hasn’t even officially started and yet the Dodgers are already crushing my hopes and dreams. (Normally they wait until just after the All-Star game to start doing that, but hey, I can’t begrudge them for getting a head start.)

Kuo is “hurt” (I use that excuse when I suck, too), Furcal may or may not play in the opening game, and Repko is out for the season. All of this has happened during spring training, further reinforcing my belief that preparation (for anything) is a total waste of time, and apparently dangerous, too.

Sometime in the next few weeks I’ll be picking my favorite Dodger for the year, who will shortly thereafter be known as “that guy the Dodgers unloaded” (Piazza, Lo Duca, Izturis). I know players come and players go and that's just the nature of the game, but it’s really quite amazing how accurate and timely the Dodgers are when it comes to axing my current favorites.

I fear that the next Dodger to suffer the fate of becoming my favorite and then getting immediately let go may just be Furcal. This has nothing to do with stats (I’ve never used logic and reasoning to back up my feelings and I’m certainly not going to start now) but rather, something much, much more informative: his picture.

Furcal: I mean, does this guy like to party, or does this guy like to party? I'm pretty sure he was drunk when this picture was taken, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find out he was high, too.

Also in the running are the following players, along with the (again, totally logical) reasons why I like them:

Kent: A local boy that comes in and takes care of business. What's not to like?

Schmidt: He’s got his “Ima fuck you up” game face on. And I can respect that.

Garciaparra: I’m not sure why I like him. Which probably means it’s because he’s actually a good player. Oh, and he's a local boy, too.

Penny: He looks pretty tough, but I bet he really likes to cuddle (gross). Regardless, I have a thing for him.

Broxton: He kind of looks like Elvis, especially towards the end there.

Beimel: He looks like he really knows his way around a bottle of whiskey and a pill or two. And I can get behind that.

Hendrickson: He's freakishly tall, good looking, and has beautiful eyes. I hear he plays baseball, too.

Russell Martin: I always seem to gravitate towards catchers, just as I do towards bassists. As long as he doesn't do something foolish like bleach his hair a really unattractive shade of yellow (ahem) I'm down with him.

So fellas please, stop hurting yourselves during spring training. Stop trying so hard. These games don’t even count. Jeez. During spring training you guys should be making daisy chains in the outfield, not causing injuries that end your season before it even starts.

Thank you.

Yesterday I had just arrived at my apartment after work and popped a veggie patty into the oven (see? I eat healthy!) when my friend called me to see if I wanted to go bowling and wait out traffic. We both work in Orange County but live in Long Beach (him, full time; me, part time) and the 405 at 6pm is a bitch. (I was going to wait at the apartment until traffic died down and then drive to Long Beach for the night.)

And while bowling is pretty great (any place where beer and nachos abound alongside something that could very easily be used as a weapon is great in my book) I had just started to relax and wasn’t sure that I wanted to get back on the road, or even go outside, for that matter. I told my friend that I’d call him if I felt like going out, but it probably wasn’t going to happen.

After bath #1 of 3 for the evening (gotta get it while I can) I padded out to the kitchen ready for dinner, which luckily hadn’t started to burn while I was bathing. In fact, it managed to not cook at all. Because I forgot to turn on the oven.

Well, damn.

Faced with utter and total defeat (or rather, faced with having to wait 10 more minutes for dinner, same thing) it was a no-brainer: bowling (and beer and nachos) it was. (And eating healthy sucks. I was more than ready to pass on that.)

When we arrived at the bowling alley we learned it was league night and we wouldn’t be able to bowl for another two hours. Undeterred, we drank beers in the backseat of the car (thinking ahead, my friend had made a pit stop at the market) and formulated a new plan, which turned out to be just as awesome.

There was a family fun center style place just next door, and while I couldn’t coerce anyone to go on the go-karts with me (I know!), I did pretty much kill at the arcade games. I even hit the jackpot on one of those “Win Tickets!” machines that’s pretty much just a less fun version of a slot machine.

It would figure that I win a jackpot of tickets redeemable for cheap plastic toys but have yet to ever come out even a single dollar on top in Vegas. (I know, complaining that I lose when I gamble in Vegas. I am a trailblazer.) Yet, despite the odds, I will certainly be gambling (heavily, in addition to drinking, heavily) when I am in Vegas next weekend. Luck pretty much saturates every other aspect of my life, and I just don’t understand why this area should be any different.

So, to recap, the night went from:

veggie patty + night at home

to

beer + arcade games + jackpot + candy bought with winnings

And I did this all in the time that I would normally be sitting in traffic (or, sitting on the couch waiting out traffic). I can't remember ever feeling more accomplished.

A warning that the following will be incredibly disjointed thanks to the many chemicals battling for dominance in my system right now. And I’m so totally just talking about NyQuil and caffeine.

Last week I mentioned that no one from South America had visited my site. That changed on Sunday with a visitor from Columbia. I cannot even begin to express how excited I am about this. I pretty much just stated a wish on here and a few short days later, it was granted. That's the kind of action I like to see. (A pony. A pony!)

Oh, and Colombia? Pretty much synonymous with drug trade. In other words, my kind of country. So thank you for making all of my dreams come true. (And if you had anything to do with the manufacture of something that went down Sunday, thanks for making sure I had no dreams. Or sleep, for that matter.)

You'll recall that last week I also mentioned that I was going to therapy. And was less than thrilled about the whole thing. But since I'm all about education and shit, here are some tips for visiting a therapist (Or: What I learned not to do on Friday)

1. Do not bring up, in any capacity, the therapist/the rapist SNL skit. Definitely do not do the voice.

2. Do not go in reeking of whiskey. Would it kill you to not drink heavily the night before? (Answer: Yes. Yes it would.)

3. Do not try to turn the tables on the therapist by asking them pointed questions about their childhood. Not that this is hard to do (everyone loves talking about themselves, especially people that have to listen to others do it ad nauseum) but rather, it’s really fucking boring to listen to someone else talk about themself.

And for the Do’s:

1. Do try to cover up any tattoos you may have that feature a whiskey bottle with the words “True Love” over it. I mean, good fucking luck getting the therapist to believe that you're not an alcoholic after that.

2. Do visit your local library and thumb through the Physicians Desk Reference and research a few different drugs that sound like a good time. Commit to memory the symptoms that they are used to treat. Recite at therapy session. Enjoy!

And no, I did not learn anything insightful about myself during this session. No, I am not going back. Yes, my mother is now pleased with my level of sanity for another 5 years. No, I did not get any drugs.

(Not from the therapist, anyways.)

And then there was the weekend. The glorious weekend, in which I went out every single night, as well as both Saturday evening and Sunday day. For those of you keeping count, that makes six separate incidences of drinking, each of which I assure you was magical in its own way. I can’t even begin to describe all that went down (mostly because I can’t remember it all), so here’s the condensed version.

Thursday night: I was drinking Jameson on the rocks and shots of Jack. It’s pretty amazing that no one died or was arrested that night. I was, however, woken up by a cop shining a flashlight in my eyes. So yeah, not a whole lot of sleep that night. (And no, it wasn’t because of my hi-jinx that the police were involved. I was surprised by this, too.)

Friday night: Went out with a coworker and our dudes in an attempt to see The Host. Due to a faulty projector or some other such nonsense we had to scrap that plan and decided instead to (care to venture a guess here?) head to a bar. I bought the first round for just over $40, which is why I generally don’t drink in Orange County.

Saturday evening: I’m still not sure how I ended up drunk by 8pm. One second I was running errands downtown, the next I was pulling up to the bar. I probably would have stayed there until last call, staggering off only to pass out in a gutter and split my head open on the curb (pretty good odds that’s the way I’ll go) but I quit that place by 9. A bachelor party had rolled in and the groom-to-be was shouting “I’m getting married!” And that shit is just depressing.

Saturday night: A last minute call from a girlfriend prompted me back out. (You can imagine a lot of arm twisting went down. Her: "What are you doing tonight?" Me: “Getting drunk with you, sucka! Let’s hit that shit!")

As per usual there was beer, vodka, and whiskey galore. There were also prescription pills (almost totally legal!), Mexican food, and a thwarted attempt to pocket a bottle of champagne. (What, like you don’t like to steal when you’re drunk?) So yeah, a pretty well rounded night.

Sunday day: I woke up around 11 with the kind of headache (a headache – after my weekend? Yeah, I was surprised, too) that only a beer can cure. (And pizza from the place next door to the bar.) Drinking in a dark, air-conditioned dive at 2pm actually made me look forward to summer, when I can repeat those actions in a desperate attempt to escape the sun.

Sunday night: I have given up trying to stay home on Sunday night. You guys win.

Every single one of my friend either has Mondays off or doesn’t have to go in until the afternoon, whereas I have to be at work at 9 in the morning. (Fuck you guys. Seriously.) Last night we all went out. I think I finally fell asleep around 5:30am.

(Fuck. You. Guys.)

Oh yeah, and I'm on Spring Break now. More on that later.

I am going to therapy tomorrow.

…

I am not cool with this.

I’m pretty much the only female I know that doesn’t just love talking about her feelings, and therefore I tend to view therapy as a huge waste of time. I'm not really an emotional type, unless you would call getting drunk and throwing things "emotional" (keys, books, and a phone - all in the last month). And I wouldn't. I would call that "the weekend".

I just don't see the need to articulate and discuss my (general lack of) feelings. I am selfish and impulsive. I do things that I want to do, because I want to do them, and that's all there is to it. (Who wants to bet the word sociopath will come up in my session?) I don’t think about consequences, analyze possible long term ramifications, or weigh pros and cons. And I really don’t need to sit in a chair for an hour second-guessing every thought I’ve ever had.

So why am I going? Because my mother asked me to. (And yes, I am 24.)

Without getting into it, there has been some shit going down lately (not mine, believe it or not) and she wants to make sure that I am “ok”. While I haven't been "ok" since I was 6 (the age at which sweet, sweet alcohol first touched my lips - thanks for winning the World Series, Dodgers! Go Blue!), I’ll do just about anything for my mom. (And it's only one visit. Talk about myself for an hour? Yeah, I think I can handle that.)

(And I may or may not also be going in hopes to score drugs. But that’s totally not the bigger reason why I’m going. Not at all.)

So, wish me luck. If all goes as planned and I finish homework on time I'm going out for a marathon drinking session tonight (I believe the word “contest” was bandied about). And nothing says “I’m doing just fine!” like throwing up in the potted plant in the therapist's office.

Over the weekend someone from China visited this site, bringing the total number of continents utterly conquered by me to a grand total of 5. (If utterly conquered means a single person has read my words, that is.)

South America (from which I have had no visitors, at least this month, that I can remember) you’re really letting me down. I just did a quick Google search and learned that the Amazon rainforest produces about 20% of the Earth’s oxygen. Perhaps you hate me so because I live in Los Angeles, which produces 90% of the Earth’s carbon monoxide. I am at least partly to blame for this, as I insist on driving a car that was made in the late 1960s (doesn’t have to pass a smog test – ha!) and gets 12 miles to the gallon on a good day. So sorry. Let’s make up, ok? (Visit, visit, visit. And send me some of your exports, which are noticeably rich even you though are noticeably poor. I’m probably a bit to blame there, too. Go, capitalism!)

I have to admit that the recent flurry of attention the site has gotten lately (changing the font into something that is actually readable may have helped with this) is kind of freaking me out. Now, people I know are reading this. The most popular response, by far, is “Wow, you’re funny!” While I generally lap up any positive attention, I’m not quite sure how to take that. Haven’t you known me for the past 3 years? Didn’t you already know that? Are you really surprised by the fact that I’m hilarious? Where the hell have you been?

Sigh.

Anonymous visitors, I love you, too (and quite possibly more, as you don't know me in real life, which I am apparently not funny at all in). Take this email conversation with my mother, for instance. (For background, I had just checked my site stats and noticed that someone had just visited from Cal State Long Beach, my alma matter and also where my mother works. I naturally assumed it was her, because at that point, no one really visited my site except for a few people that loved me. And only then because I threatened them with bodily harm.)

From: Joey
To: Mom
Seriously, you probably do not want to read my site. I curse a lot. That’s why it’s my little creative outlet.

From: Mom
To: Joey
Is that a passive-agressive invitation?

From: Joey
To: Mom
You weren’t on it today? Someone from CSULB was. (I know many magical things.)

From: Mom
To: Joey
Well it wasn't me, surprise!

From: Joey
To: Mom
Oh my god! I actually have a fan that’s not my mother! I have made it!!!

So yeah, thanks everyone, for providing a much needed source of love and validation that’s not my mother.

(And yes, I know that there are 7 continents. Genius, remember? But I'm not really holding out for Antarctica. Althgough penguins and fur seals are cute, I doubt that they have the highly developed brain functions that are totally necessary to appreciate this site.)

(Oh, and Mom? You're still totally number 1. But stop reading. You too, Dad. You've both seen the hangovers. Heard the puking, even. You know what it takes to get me there. Please don't make it worse for all of us by knowing the details - let's just keep it hazy. Thanks!)

Last night, being Sunday, would have been a great night for me to head home early to get some rest for the upcoming week.

Of course, this did not happen. (You’re getting to know me well enough not to be surprised by this, surely.)

I mostly blame my friends (not myself, of course) for their cunning strategy in the field of drinking. When I got to the bar they were buying rounds left and right, pretty much ensuring that I had to stick around to return the favor/get more free drinks.

Apparently more than enough of those free drinks were in my system by midnight, at which point I began explaining to my friends all of the ways in which I am just like a unicorn (white, shiny hair, magical). The night progressed intellectually from there (I believe I made a horn/horny joke at some point) until last call, when we went our separate ways.

I went home, proceeded to do everything humanly possible to get to bed, and eventually passed out a bit after 4am. While I ruined my shitty sleeping streak with a solid 12 hours on Saturday night, it looks like I am back to tossing and turning all fucking night long.

Happy Monday.

I always thought it would be a scorned lover brandishing a broken whiskey bottle. But after last night I can say with some certainty that it will be my iPod that kills me.

Continuing my week of little sleep, last night I got a grand total of 4 hours. (To let you know how much this hurts me, let me point out that it is 9am right now. On a Saturday. St. Patrick’s Day, even. And I am at work.) For some reason this entire week my brain has decided not to shut down immediately after dinnertime, as it usually does. (All it takes is food and beer. I’m a girl of simple tastes.)

Normally when I’m up later than I should be it’s because I’m on my fifth shot of tequila and all logic and reason went out the door with the third one, or because I’m in the middle of a good book. It’s seriously hard for me to put either one down until I’m good and done. So it was with an amazing show of will that last night around midnight I closed the book I was reading and decided to have a go at sleep. Tossing and turning for a good hour, I finally got up, noticed that my iPod was fully charged, and decided to use it to lull me into sleep.

This plan did not work. This is all homework’s fault. (Fucking homework.) I have a huge paper due Monday, so trying to be all on top of shit I decided to start it last night (Friday). And I had every intention to. I had coffee. I was sitting at the computer. And that’s where it all went bad.

I had an iTunes gift card to use up, and also just discovered LimeWire (I should point out that I just started downloading music/listening to music online this year). So yeah, it was a busy night for me.

When I tried listening to my iPod to go to sleep I was way too busy enjoying all of my fabulous new music to actually, you know, go to bed. By 3am I seriously felt like dancing. (I actually was kind of wiggling around in bed, but that's just sad.) And it’s not like I was listening to rockin' music, or anything. Turns out (and this was actually a bit of a surprise to me, though it probably shouldn't have been) I like really fucking depressing music. Which brings me to the other way (besides severe sleep deprivation and possible strangulation by sheet as a result of serious bed dancing) that my iPod is out to get me: it's trying to get me to jump.

About 4 songs in I was just about down to slit my wrists. Check out a few of the songs I was listening to last night and tell me if you don’t want to throw yourself into a well, too. (Though maybe not the first one. I think I may be alone on that one.)

Thousands are Sailing – The Pogues
I think I may have to listen to this song upon waking every morning for the rest of my life. Sure, I think it’s depressing as shit but it’s got this amazing upbeat sound.

I don't know anyone else that thinks this song is depressing, but for some reason it just hits me that way. It reminds me of the kind of feeling you get when you’re out drinking and you remember an old friend that you used to love and haven’t seen in awhile, and know that you won’t get in touch with because you’ve both moved on and besides, you hate making telephone calls, you’re really lazy, and you’ll probably forget all about it when you’re sober. (It doesn't hurt that my first boyfriend got me into this band, and his name is mentioned in the song.)

So ok, probably not depressing to anyone but me. Don't worry, the next song is a killer.

Ballad of the Broken Seas – Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan
A fucking brick wall of sadness. And also one of the most beautiful things that I have heard in my entire life. It was recommended in passing, and it took me longer than it should have to give it a good listen.

Isobel Campbell is a cute Scottish broad (formerly of Belle and Sebastian) and Mark Lanegan sounds like a slightly less rough Nick Cave and kind of resembles Tom Waits. (If none of this inspires you to check out this song, you’re dead to me.)

I bring you a tale of the broken seas
and I'm drowning in whisky and beer
My doctor reports if I don't stop soon
I'll drown in an ocean of tears

I looked to you and saw my desire
went from the frying pan into the fire
Surrendered to sorrow and was undone
Now I'm praying that it won't be long

Wow. And if that doesn’t get to you, the cello in the second half of the song will. Seriously, it’s pretty much the aural definition of despair, but it’s so beautiful I can’t stop listening to it.

The rest of the album (by the same name: Ballad of Broken Seas) is in the same vein. I highly suggest the songs Revolver, Deus Ibi Est, and Ramblin’ Man (you have not heard this song until you’ve heard Isobel Campbell whisper “I'm naked daddy just for you” and somehow make it sound all innocent and sweetly sexy, not whorish. Good god I’m jealous).

I’m Going to Stop Pretending that I Didn’t Break Your Heart – The Eels
Already somewhat a fan of this band (I Need Some Sleep – gorgeous) I hadn’t heard of this song but picked it up from Mulgrew’s 6 songs list. (Thanks. My blood? On your hands. Please allow me to return the favor by suggesting Ballad of the Broken Seas, above. Bastard.)

I originally decided to give this song a listen because the title is pretty awesome. It’s honest, brutally so, and something that would really only come out of the mouth of a narcissistic asshole. So, totally something I would say.

I did not count on the song actually coming off as honestly remorseful. The music is lush, but pretty minimal, and doesn’t distract from the pure fucking pain and regret of the lyrics. Even worse, it’s not one of those “I fucked up, take me back/let me fix it” songs, rather it’s one of those “I fucked up and there’s nothing I can do but sit around and think about how I fucked up” songs. If you’ve been careless with someone's emotions, or a lot of someone's emotions (get that fucking spotlight out of my eyes!) this song may actually give you a bit of a conscience (don’t worry, you can drink it away).

After listening to these songs while laying in bed, wide awake at 4am and thinking about how I had to work the next day at 9am, on St. Patrick’s Day (did I mention that already?), death was pretty much a favorable option.

It's probably a really good thing that I only abuse fun pills, seeing as how I had to take a sleeping pill to finally put myself down. The little blue pill did its job, I got about 4 hours of “rest”, and now I’m here. At work. At 9am. On St. Patrick’s Day.

I think I need to go download some Jackie Wilson (the happy stuff) to counter this mood.

I have not been having a very good week.

Normally a sleeper extraordinaire (I’m way good at it), I’ve been getting an average of 4 hours a night this entire week. And I’m still sick. (Although I’m finally at that stage where I still sound and look like crap, but I feel pretty ok. All of the sympathy, almost none of the pain. How sad that being ever so slightly less sick has been the bright spot in my week.)

On top of that I’m working a ton this week (I’ll be here on Saturday. St. Patrick’s Day) and homework has come crushing down on me the way that only something you’ve constantly ignored and put off for months on end can. (Seriously, you're weeping for me right now, right?)

It all came to a head last night around midnight when I was rooting around in the fridge for my mid-homework beer. And there weren’t any. I was the camel, the (lack of) beer was the straw, and I was sobbing and broken. I tried to console myself with an Exotic Berry wine cooler (oh yeah, I was at my mom’s house, not mine - the wine cooler should have been a big clue), but that actually made me even more depressed.

And then something amazing brightened my day: Cats to the Rescue: True Tales of Heroic Felines. I came across this book the other day at the library and was driven (by my barely latent crazy cat lady tendencies) to check it out. I took a break from homework (I'd been at it a solid 15 minutes) and began reading. I can’t even begin to tell you how much it warmed my heart (or chest cavity, rather) to read about cats that had saved their kittens from burning houses, trekked hundreds (even thousands!) of miles to reunite with owners, and even nursed abandoned chipmunks and raised them as their own. Seriously, I was so full of emotion after reading this book that I felt almost human.

The best part of the book was the mention of a small town (in the Pacific Northwest, I think) that actually elected a cat to be mayor. When the Cat Mayor was eaten by a wolf, another cat ran for the position but was defeated by a dog (a golden retriever – the cat didn’t stand a chance). From that election two new political parties emerged: The Democats and the Repupicans.

…

Just let that sink in. The explanation “these people have way too much time on their hands” doesn’t even touch what’s going on there. Seriously, there is a whole lot of crazy going on in this town. Someone should check the well.

(While reading I also learned that the Frisky’s cat actually ran for President, as in President of the United States, under the Finicky party. I can’t picture a single social event where this would be an appropriate conversational tidbit, but I plan on frequently “impressing” people with it regardless.)

Oh, and I’m not really as sad or lame as this post indicates.

(I totally swear.)

I really don’t even know where to start.

First things first: the site. It was down for a few hours on Friday night, which I was aware of and knew would be happening about a week in advance. However, I didn’t know that “site maintenance” meant “we delete your shit”. When I checked it this morning I noticed that the links page and the facts page were both gone. It wasn’t just an error in being able to view the pages, as I at first suspected (stupid computers), they were actually gone. The links page only took a second to reproduce, but the “facts” page is still blank, for now. It will be up shortly. But I make no promises. Talking about myself takes time, you see.

And talk about myself I will. (They say confession is good for the soul, no?)

I’m pretty sure that I set a new personal record on Saturday. (Funny, in high school “new personal record” usually involved health and fitness – I ran track – but now it means pretty much the opposite. Take that, growing up!) On Saturday, I drank for a pretty awesome 12 hours. (On and off. But mostly on.) Even by my standards, that's pretty impressive.

And it all began with an attempt to study. I met up with one of my friends at a coffee shop around 5pm, and within about an hour we were at the bar/restaurant down the street, two pitchers of beer and one shot in. Neither of us meant to get the "getting drunk" ball rolling, but sometimes wonderful things like that just have a way of happening.

By the time we quit that place and hit another bar, it was maybe 9pm. So yeah, with that much time on our hands the night was pretty much destined to get messy. And did it ever.

The events of the night are spotty, but here are a few standouts:

My girlfriend and I invented a new physically abusive game that revolved around not touching our own breasts. (Ladies - you think this doesn't happen a lot? Watch yourself. It does. And yes, "I just brushed them" counts.) Each time we accidentally did touch our titties, we’d get hit. The fact that this happens, a lot, when we’re drunk (both the touching of our own breasts and the punching of each other) should show you just how amazing we are.

Carrying on with the “we’re amazing when drunk” theme, we also somehow started a hula-hoop team that night. I have a pink, sparkly hula hoop in the trunk of my car (a girl’s gotta have something to do when her car breaks down) and for some reason (I assure you, it made perfect sense at the time) we broke it out while we were outside smoking and began to work on our “moves”. (Nothing says "we're healthy" like smoking and hula-hooping.) Turns out, after 16 or so years, we were a bit rusty. But we did manage to pass the hoop back and forth between us while twirling it around our arms. Sure, that's like the easiest move there is, but the fact that we were able to do this at all, as drunk as we were, it pretty magical.

Both of the above scenarios happened while at bar #2 of the night. (There were four bars altogether, though we ended up back at bar #2 for last call, so you could almost call it five.) By the time we made it to bar #3 we were ridiculous. Even our wallets were trying to get us to stop drinking, as at this point we all ran out of money.

Therefore it was no small miracle that just as I had spent my last twenty dollars, a guy came over to our table with a round of drinks, said "Cheers", and walked away. He didn't try out a lame pick up line, make an awkward attempt at small talk, nothing - just bought us drinks and ran. (Maybe he thought the better of it as he got closer to our table. We are pretty cute from far away.) Whatever his motive, this guy is pretty much an angel in my book.

Of course, once those drinks were downed (about 1.2 minutes later) we were back to being poor, in both money and alcohol. It was about this time that I remembered my credit card was back at the second bar, in my car. (Since I had originally set out to study that night, I swear!, I wasn't carrying a purse and had only grabbed my car keys and a handful of bills to carry on me. I should have known better.) A very long, drunk hike later we were back at Bar #2 to do a good $60 worth of damage (between the two of us) in about 20 minutes. Beautiful.

So really, after all of this (and with a few more drinks thrown in for kicks) is it really any surprise that the night ended with one of my patented storming-out scenes? When I drink it’s kind of a fun little grab bag of “which of Joey’s personality traits will get magnified tonight”? Usually it’s my devastatingly hilarious sense of humor, and while I’m sure this was at least partly the case Saturday, some other slightly less positive aspects of my personality also showed up. I won't go into it, mainly because it makes me not look good, but everything ended up just fine (meaning, no one died. And in my book, that's a good night).

For some horrible reason I wasn't able to sleep through my hangover like I usually do, and found myself awake after only a few hours of sleep. Hurting too much to go outside, or even get dressed, I instead turned on the shower, laid down, and spent the next 2 hours breathing in steam and coming up with names for the aforementioned hula-hoop troupe. (The names I came up with were Hoop Dreamz or The Ka-hulaz. I'm not really a big fan of Kahlua, but that was the only name I could think of that involved alcohol.) So yeah, a totally good use of time, there.

I was all set for an early night (meaning, I was all about chugging enough NyQuil to ensure ten hours of sleep) on Sunday, but I had to soldier on and go out again for a friend's birthday. I achingly got ready (what normally takes me 10 minutes took about an hour), picked up a gift (a 6 pack of beer and a light-up painting of the Virgin), and was on my way.

At some point en route, unbeknownst to me, one of the bottles of beer worked its way out of the bag (that I had so carefully tossed on the floor) and rolled underneath the seat of my car. I had no clue this occurred until much later in the night, after I had given the birthday girl her goody bag, so it appeared to her that I gave her a 6-pack with only 5 bottles. Classy.

I don't know what to make of it that my friend didn't question me about the missing beer. On one hand, she just figured that I love booze so much that she let it slide. On the other hand, she figured that I love booze so much that I would drink her birthday present. I guess I'll never know. (Though if I had to venture a guess, I'd go with the latter.)

Partying aside, I actually got home at a decent hour last night (around midnight) and proceeded to sleep like crap all night. Now I'm sick (did I mention I had a sore throat all weekend and still thought it a fabulous idea to smoke about 20 cigarettes despite the fact that I'm not a smoker?), it's Monday, and it's hot as hell outside.

So now I just have to make it through one more hour, and then it's back to my bottle of Nyquil, the bathtub, and Fables.

And I swear (!) I am going to take it easy this weekend. If only not to alienate any more people. Seriously, I won't have any friends left if I don't stop being such an asshole.

(By the way, if anyone wants to take bets on me "taking it easy", or "not being an asshole", let me know. I'm not against betting for myself to lose on one, maybe two of those.)

So I guess this is how it’s going to be. Alcohol-soaked posts on Monday recounting the weekend’s festivities, and boring crap about school and (gosh, it’s even hard to say) eyebrows during the rest of the week.

This is largely due to me not actually being an alcoholic, despite what you and my parents may think. I tend to stay in when I have to work early the next day (because I can control when I drink, mom and dad!), though I do manage to screw this up on a grand scale roughly every 3 months (because, well, I can’t control it that well).

Staying in during (most) of the work week generally happens because being tired has got to be the worst feeling in the world. I know I may occasionally employ hyperbole on this site, but dear god, I am speaking the truth right now. There have been times I would have been willing to lose a pinky finger through violent means (piranha, chainsaw, nail file) if only I could have been asleep in bed at the time in question.

But now I’m coming up on a three day weekend. So for you, dear reader, I promise to get drunk and do stupid shit. It will be way different from last weekend.

Cheers!

I don't want to spoil you guys with two posts in one day, as this will certainly not be the norm. (Remember my once-every-three-months schedule that lasted from about 2005 to 2006?)

But this is so incredibly exciting that I can't put it off. I can't even dedicate a bit of effort to make this post funny (correction: try to make this post funny - ha! I said it before you could) or to try to make it cool, because I am just that excited.

After 24 years of not being a complete person, I now am. Mere minutes ago I was washing my hands in the bathroom at work, and while admiring my reflection in the mirror ("I am beautiful. I am worthy of love") I made some kind of face that resulted in only a single eyebrow being raised!

I used to practice doing this for hours (ok, minutes) in front of mirror, because it always looked so damn condescending when I saw other women do it. Of course that immediately made me jealous. I thought "That's what I want! To make other people shrivel up into small, shivering, shadows with a mere arch of the brow!" And (cue the violins) I never, ever could do it. It's not like this was some silly childhood obsession, either. My friends can tesify to my obsession, as I've solicited their opinions many, many times: "How about now?...Now?....Dude, just look, one more time. I promise I'll stop asking" (but I don't). And I've tried to do this as recently as last month (sadly, I'm being totally serious here), and once again cried over my inadequacy.

But tonight? Tonight magic happened. And sure, I need some work (it's not a very noticeable difference in height, but it's there) but dear god, I can do it!

So enemies? Beware. I'm going to eviscerate you with facial hair.

(Good god, I'm never getting laid again after that one.)

I think I’m going to do it. I am going to (deep breath) drop a class.

I have never done this before. Not in grad school, not in undergrad. The closest I’ve come to dropping a class was when I made my junior high school guidance counselor switch me out of the normal math and English classes into accelerated ones. (Because damn it, my genius can’t be measured on standardized tests!)

So why now? After following through with most things, way past the point of where I should, why now? After all, I’ve invested $1000 (nonrefundable) dollars into the course (not counting the $90 textbook), have completed all of the mandatory and voluntary homework up to this point, and there’s only about a month and a half left in the semester. Considering all of this, why am I so willing to walk away?

I think I can answer that in one word: Friday. I had a homework assignment for this course due that night at 11pm. I had already started on it and only needed about an hour to finish. I got off work at 6, with every intention of heading home to start plugging away.

But then my friend called to invite me out to dinner. Images of beer bottles and nachos (there ended up being plenty of both) begun dancing through my head. I mean, between sitting in traffic on the 405 and getting drunk somewhere that has twinkling chili pepper lights…it’s pretty much a no-brainer. (And this wouldn’t be the first time, or even the hundredth, that I’ve put off homework in favor of going out, so I didn’t even stop to think maybe I shouldn’t do this…)

And here’s where it may have started to go bad. Normally a snacker extraordinaire, I only had about two chips, instead preferring to devote my mouth almost entirely to alcohol consumption (despite arriving half an hour after my friend did, I lapped him in beers - how much do you want me right now?). This wasn’t a problem then, as I was feeling that nice, gentle beer drunk, but it was a problem about an hour after I left, when I was attempting to do homework and realized that I was not going to sober up any time soon.

Add to this that when I got home, the internet was down. All of the reference files that I needed were online, and I had to submit the assignment online as well. So, I was pretty much fucked. And when I realized this, the clock started ticking. I had a very limited amount of time to not only solve the getting online problem, but to actually, um, do the homework, too.

I drove to a Kinkos like a mad woman, but all of the stations were full. No picture of patience normally, by this time I was about to rip someone out of their seat and throw them through the glass window. (And in my drunk mind, this could have worked, when in reality it would probably look more as though I was just tugging on their sweater and heaving, while the person didn’t budge an inch.)

Kinkos out, I headed back home. I have a ridiculously slow laptop (thanks, viruses from porn sites!) and attempted to complete the assignment on that. It actually worked out ok, too. Turned it in at 10:59 and everything.

Oh, and somewhere in the middle of all this, after finding out that the internet was down and before Kinkos, I may or may not have ripped a phone out of the jack and thrown it against the wall. (I am so funny when I’m drunk and frustrated!)

So, the kicker? I got a B on the assignment. A fucking B! I have not gotten a B on anything in grad school, ever! Not a paper, not a homework assignment, nothing. And I’m sorry, but this is fucking unacceptable. I didn’t earn a B! Do you know how hard it is to leave a restaurant, with nice, frosty beer, at 9pm on a Friday?!? It was a Herculean effort, and in return I get a B? I don’t think so.

(I know this makes me sound like a grade Nazi, but I’m actually not. If I got a B in another class, one that I actually like and don't mind doing the work for, I’d likely just shrug and think, “Well, now the pressure’s off. Party!” Plus, I really, really hate this class. Taking it was a very rare error in judgment, as it is a completely optional course. D’oh.)

Instead of challenging myself to try harder (won’t happen), study more (no), or go out less (I tried it for a week and a half and ended up sobbing in the bathtub at 3am), I think I’m just going to drop it. Working full time and going to grad school full time sounds impressive until you realize you may actually need to sober up a bit for it. And fuck that shit.

Today marks my one-year anniversary at the library job.

…

To recap, some of the highlights from the past year (well, mostly the last two months, because I have a bad memory and on top of that, I drink to forget):

1. While walking up to my apartment one day after work, a guy got out of a party bus (aka heaven on wheels) that was parked at the curb and waved to me. Startled when neighbors attempt eye-contact or anything that even begins to hint at friendliness, I did the eyebrow-raise of acknowledgement, combined with a slight head nod, really more of an up-tilting of the chin (a very bro gesture that I can not stop doing for the life of me). Seeing this as an invitation, the guy (whom we will refer to as "God" from now on) came up to me and pulled the “You look familiar” line that I've heard oh so many times. (I'm not saying this to flatter myself. I’m a girl, am not horribly deformed, and I go to bars a lot. It just happens.)

It ended up not being a line, though, as this guy recognized me from my work, where I had apparently saved his day by dispensing a tad of the knowledge that I am so full of. Still not realizing that this guy was God, I attempted to get out of the conversation until it suddenly became interesting, namely because he started talking about what he, God, could do for me.

Turns out he owned a party bus company. As in, a veritable fleet of party busses. And should I ever need his services (I need! I need!) he’d be happy to help me out and would *wink* make sure that I was taken care of.

(Sadly, I did not end up taking this guy up on his offer. I think there was more implied in the “taken care of” than I felt ok with. Or that the boyfriend felt ok with, to be honest. God, he ruins everything fun. Hi honey!)

2. A few weeks back while working late, a coworker came up to me and dangled a shopping bag in front of my face, asking me “Guess what’s in here?” I was thinking along the lines of books, some tasty treats for the break room, or maybe a new pair of kicky heels (mainly, things that I would buy). Nothing could have prepared me for her answer, as she gleefully shot down my guesses and responded with “No…shit!” Not as in “no shit”, but as in “No, you’re wrong, in this flimsy paper shopping bag that could break in any moment, and that I’m actually waving to and fro mere inches from your face, is feces! Ahahaha!”.

Turns out someone left a present in one of the back corners of the library, sitting on one of the shelves, just like a bookend. While there are so many, many questions (Why? Who? How?), the one that still haunts me is “Why in the hell did my coworker feel the need to dangle a shopping bag full of poo in front of me?” I mean it’s what I would have done, but I don’t generally expect people to have as fucked up a sense of humor as I do.

So yeah, my coworkers are pretty fucking awesome.

3. Carrying on with the "awesome coworkers", last month a group of us went out to see another coworkers band play at a nearby bar. Where we (ok, I) decided to break the cardinal rule of drinking with people form work, which is: don’t do it. Or if you’re going to, and you probably are, don’t overdo it.

(We know where this is going, right?)

Overdo it I did. And then some. (Triple digit bar tab, thankyouverymuch.)

But other than forcing shots down everyone’s throat, I think I did ok (all part of my "if I'm getting drunk enough to do a lot of stupid shit, I'm getting you drunk enough to blackout and not remember it" plan). I watched one coworker fall suspiciously mute after a couple of drinks (likely thinking “Just play it cool. They won’t know you’re wasted. Yeah, stand just like that against the bar...get the "lean" working for you. You can pull this off”) and witnessed another coworker treat a random bar patron like a stripper pole and grind all over him (thank you so much, by the way, for getting the spotlight off of me long enough for me to go out to the car, unnoticed, about three times. I plan to take you out with me much more.)

While most everyone that went out had the next day off, both the booty-dancer and I had to be at work at 9. I went home about 2am and passed out shortly after completing my anti-hangover ritual (Gatorade and Excedrin – bottle warning, schmottle warning). I didn’t feel stellar the next day, but I made it through fine. The booty-dancer threw up at work and ended up going home sick about 2 hours into the day, so I pretty much won that round.

4. I caught a homeless man in the library drinking from a bottle of tequila. When I did the “shame on you” hand gesture (it’s pretty much my favorite), he offered me a sip. Seriously, that’s probably the most touching thing that has ever happened to in my entire life.

(And no, I didn’t take a sip. Though if you thought that I did, I wouldn’t really blame you.)

5. Just yesterday, a little girl (about 7 or 8) hugged me, or rather, used her surprisingly strong arms to encircle my legs, and smiled up at me beatifically. (Renderring me immobile for a good 5 seconds - the vice-like grip, not the smile.) And instead of thinking Purell! Where's the damn Purell?! Dear God, I'm about to die from contamination here! like I normally would, I instead thought Gee, this worship thing is kind of nice. And it felt good.

I generally like kids fine (meaning, not a whole lot), as long as they’re not mine (I have none, mostly because I really like taking pills), don’t look like me (makes me think of the future, consequences of my actions, etc.), and don't stare at me too long without talking (creeps me the fuck out. Just say something. Even if you don't know words, make a fucking sound. Let me know there's something going on up there).

All of that aside, one thing that this job has really exposed me to is children (and all of their germs). And I thought I would dislike this aspect (the kids, not the germs. I was pretty sure I'd hate that bit), or at best, be indifferent about it. Rather, I’m finding that I actually really like kids. (I am as shocked about this as you are.) I know it's been said before, but they really are just like little drunk people, in that it’s really hard to tell what they’re saying most of the time, they fall down often, and their only concern is for themselves. In short, they’re just like me. (And fuck, what's not to love there?)

While I’m not ready to sign up for motherhood yet (9 months of no drinking? I’m not even joking here. Seriously. You know how many things happen in 9 months that would make me want to drink? Going out with friends, seeing bands play, going to the movies, waking up in the morning…that shit happens a lot in a 9 month time span.) I’m not ruling it out, either.

***

So we’ve got: party bus, shit, drunk (-er than me) coworkers, the homeless, and little (yet still very strong) girls. Not bad for a year’s work.

(And I didn’t even mention all of the porn. Seriously, way too much to talk about.)

Ok, about ten minutes after I posted that little ditty below, I’m back. Drunks are unpredictable, what can I say?

So, last night.

I don’t know why, or how, I’m still naïve enough to believe that whole “one drink” line. (You know it: “Come on, we’ll just meet up for one drink”.) I know that one drink will likely turn into two or three, but I really didn’t plan for it to turn into 4 drinks and 7 shots (yeah, I like getting shitty quickly - what’s up?).

If you read the last post, you know that, in true drunk fashion, I mixed it up last night. (I forgot to add beer to the list, too.) Generally, this is not a problem for me. Without exception, I am a very good drunk (Sean, that time that I threw keys at your head while you were sleeping was just for kicks. And I only did it because I knew that I wouldn’t hit you. I throw like a girl.)

When I drink, I get way funnier, much better looking (if you’re drinking with me), and very happy (because I’m drinking, duh). Doesn't matter what I'm drinking, or what combination of alcohol, it always adds up to pure fucking magic.

However, not everyone is as skilled in this department as I am. This became apparent last night when I was trying to order a round of shots for our group. While I shouted “Patron!” at the top of my lungs and all but rubbed limes over my nipples in anticipation, one of my friends quickly nixed that idea, saying that she “doesn’t do tequila”. (Well duh. It does you.)

But this got me thinking about different types of booze, and how it affects people. And since I’m a narcissist (hi, you’re on my website), how it affects me. The run down:

Whiskey: My go-to drink, and actually my first shot, ever. When I was 19 and first started going to bars I didn’t want to come off as “that underage girl” and order a Cosmo or some shit, so I did it right with a Budweiser and a shot of Jack. This turned into a love of Jack and Cokes, although I’ve since lost the Coke (trying to be healthier!).

If we’re drinking whiskey on the rocks, I can out-drink you. Easily.

Tequila: I’ve never had a tequila horror story, but it seems as though most everyone else has. (I’ll try harder.) It does turn me into an 18yr. old girl on spring break, however. With a couple of shots of Patron in me, I want to sing, I want to dance, I want to flash cameras and show you how very, very sexy I am. As you can imagine, it’s not pretty. Not at all.

Vodka: The gift that keeps on giving. A couple years back I was a drinking a shitload of vodka/cranberries (call it a Cape Cod and I’ll break your fucking hip) at a friend’s house and had reached my limit. I was supposed to meet my friends at a bar, and en route, I got sick.

Any other booze? Done. But with vodka? I walked in the bar, threw back a few more vodka/cranberries, and was fine. None of that ”Oh god, I can’t even smell that drink right now. Get it out of my face. Seriously”. This is the only alcohol that I can do that with (get sick off of and immediately return to drinking it - cause, you know, that shows good judgement). So that earns it a special place in my heart.

Rum: I like sugar. A lot. Sugar on anything, in anything, is good. For some reason though, I don’t drink a lot of rum. Some fucking pirate I am.

Gin: Earns the distinction of being the only booze that I could not drink for awhile, after getting horribly sick off of it. I think I’ve been away from it long enough for some make-up drinking.

Beer/Wine: I grouped these two together because I pretty much only drink beer or wine when I’m eating, and they both have the same effect on me. I get this lazily contented feeling that always sort of catches me off guard and surprises me with its gentleness (I don’t think my body knows what to do when not getting drunk at 90mph).

Despite the sweet, loving caresses that beer and wine lay on me, I don’t partake of these two all that often. I tend to view drinking as a race, and damn it, I’m out to win.

…

God, I’m thirsty. And I still hate Mondays.

Three reasons why you probably won't be getting a decent post out of me today:

There's a new look, and even some new content. (If you didn't notice, shame on you for not visiting more often.) Some changes:

I'm actually too busy to drink.
Life is horrible right now.