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 |  Ohhhhhhhh. |
| If you read the asinine survey in that last entry, you know that I'll be waking up at seven tomorrow morning, after probably fewer than five hours of sleep, to watch my most beloved celebrity confirm her ridiculously obvious pregnancy on network television. I feel no irony. My hero worship is unabashed. This is me: a file folder for useless celebrity statistics. * Anytime I exceed a single rail drink, my night turns into a series of trips to the bathroom; alcohol apparently shrinks my bladder to the exact size of a shotglass. Those moments, when I'm squatting in a bar bathroom, with the music muffled and thudding on the other side of a door that invariably doesn't close all the way, are my most self-critical. I hate myself for the lopsided way I tottered in; I hate being alone for long enough to pee, so I do it as fast as I can. My brain, in those moments, is as loud and belligerent as the loudest, most belligerent drunk. This is me: a spinning top marking every bar toilet in D.C. as my territory. * If it goes on for too long, I stop thinking about it and start thinking about the lines in his face. As stroke faces go, his is a good one: it's indistinguishable from his pain face, which contributes to my idea that the unending need is kind of torturous, too. It's different, when I'm on top, because he doesn't have to stave off the finish--less pain, more pleasure. It brings my attention full circle--I lose interest, his snarl turns me on again. He says, "You're too good." Too good. It's probably lip service, but it makes me go the extra mile. This is me: the proverbial good lay. * People treat me like some sort of supergenius, but my grades haven't even been above average in, like, eight years. I'm not even sure, anymore, whether I believe it, myself. I'm losing my one unshakable faith. This is me: fooling everyone with standardized test scores and big words. * I forgot to buy my mom a Mother's Day card. In my own defense, this year, for the first time ever, on Mother's Day, she was in Detroit, my grandmother was in Memphis, my aunt was in Philadelphia and I was here. I've never not seen my mom on Mother's Day, so I sort of talked myself into believing our separation meant the rules were different and that I had all the time I wanted. I promised her dinner and a present when she got back, told her I'd drop off the card when I saw her next. I did that today, and she gave me a really backhanded thank you. I don't think she's even going to accept her iPod speakers, when they get here in the mail. Evidently, late gifts don't count. This is me: a terrible daughter. * Chris is going out of town tomorrow, and will be gone "till God knows when." I find myself incredibly relieved. This is me: the two-timing son-of-a-bitch I never thought I'd become. * When I started drafting this entry, earlier today, I was hung over (from celebrating the end of finals with my classmates--last night was fantastic), and thinking the entire thing would be about my headachey, electrolyte-deficient day-after from Hell. Midway through the second paragraph, I realized I didn't want to read fifteen people's most epic bender stories and five essays on Why Alcohol Is Bad, so I scrapped it. I realized, simultaneously, that I didn't want to read fifteen-and-five of anything, please Jesus. Twenty something-differents, please. Please. This is me: a frazzled, procrastinating judge praying for variety. |
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