THE UGH OLYMPICS

You know, sometimes I think I don’t want to blog, ’cause I’m all like “man, this is so hard and difficult and complicated.” There’s some jpegs and basic html involved. I have to type with my outgrown manicure which has barely gotten easier over time. I have to hit “save draft” regularly so I don’t lose my “work.” It’s basically exercise.

I think I’m just feeling stressed because something is wrong with my kidney again (last time this happened I went to the hospital and vomited all over an old woman in the waiting room, lol), and because I’m coming down with some kind of weird summer cold, AND because…this past weekend was rly hella stu.

It actually started two weekends ago with a really fun but really destructive set of events involving Brenmar at 285 Kent where I stayed up until 6 throwing shade at Williamsburg only to wake up there bleary eyed and pants-less the next day; Machinedrum at some random warehouse that I walked to alone in like .3 of an item of clothing,  something I’m starting to get really used to; and a day at the beach with 7 boys, 2 blunts and 1 warm bottle of Bacardi. I spent all day Monday in bed detoxing, and by Tuesday night we were back out again for Le1f’s show at Westgay. Patrick flirted with some dudes wearing blazers (???) to get free drinks and pass them off to me, so that I could prance around drunkenly and see if any of my new NY friends remembered my name.

(officially only wearing bras as tops from now on. also it’s really hard to take a picture of your own outfit. fuck it)

The next night we chugged Four Lokos and did finger dips with the rats in Washington Square Park before ghe20 g0th1k. I started a tab at the bar and spent 40 dollars of my rent money on double gin and tonics when I was already wasted! I flirted with every girl I saw and was met with pure, unadulterated shade from every one! I met Solange Knowles who, non-plussed and dipped in salt, was there for reasons neither she nor I understood. I WAS LIVING THE FAB LIFE. NO ONE COULD STOP ME.

(how do you guys feel about all the gpoys? are you sick of me yet? hope so.)

And then the weekend happened. We kicked it off with Aaron’s birthday celebration where, Peach Four Loko in hand, I was prepared to have the time of my life. By the time the can was empty I had successfully become inappropriate and obnoxious, just in time for 12 cops to ransack the place, arrest two of my friends and give everyone trespassing tickets for being on the roof next door.

(here i am in a state of shock after my friends got arrested and i had to wander home wasted rapping Fabolous to myself)

(here i am posing with my trespassing ticket and Da Diva Miss Gonny. the tissue is because i have tuberculosis. you may recognize my BRITNEY: TOXIC shirt from last year’s mugshot.)

After spending the next morning in a typhoon of my own alcoholism-induced drama all I wanted to do was…get drunk again. I woke myself up at 11:30 to go to the Bushwick Block Party down the street from my house and waited in line alone in the rain to get free pizza. I was super bummed out in the wake of the previous night and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to eat my feelings. When that was done and I took another nap, I pulled my unshowered ass into my Slutty Miami Bridesmaid strapless dress and pulled my trampy, greasy hair back with as little effort as possible. After all, I was going to Hotel Chantelle, a place I have already come to abhor with a passion in just my two months here. But invited by my new friend James (who has to be one of the only attractive regulars at HC) with the promise of vodka and whiskey, I figured I might as well pop in to pregame. To call it the mistake of the century would be a gross understatement.

(i’m just trying to be quietly fabulous and listen to 80s music without killing anyone. why you gotta go and fuck that up?)

Moe and I were casually waiting for the bathroom when some guy I’ve never seen comes OUT of the restroom, accuses us of cutting the line and refuses to let me pee.  In a grand gesture of misogynistic vigilantism, he bars the door and starts calling me a bitch and a cunt on repeat for about five minutes. Naturally, my response was to say “? DA FUCK?” and promptly poured my drink on him. Before I knew what happened, the dude had taken his glass and slammed it into the side of my face, leaving what is now a small gash and a swollen jaw. I got punched by a dude that looked like Alexis Mateo from Ru Paul out of drag wearing an Affliction T-Shirt and a FUCKING VEST. Are you kidding me? I was so in shock that rather than beating the mother fucking shit out of his ass, I just stood there holding my face laughing and crying. Clearly at that point my friends had no choice but to take me to the nearest Popeye’s for some soul food. I served one last hair flip and ate my feelings for the second time in a day. I’m not sure if the cut on my chin or the cole slaw hurt worse the next morning.

(luckily i wasn’t too butthurt to instagram my wounds. I would have fought back, really, but my new year’s resolution was to stop head-butting people in the face.)

On Sunday, Reid, who didn’t have the best weekend himself, had the brilliant idea to go get tattoos and bar food as therapy. Since, as you know, I hate to struggle with meaning, I also hate tattoos that have stupid emotional stories behind them. So I got the thing that felt most relevant to my life, ate a plate of potato skins and called it a week.

And that, my good friends, is all I can really say.

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