life is just like jr high school forever and ever amen*

A week earlier, I’d pretty much lost my shit, and in front of a lot of people.

Since what’s the point of having a full-bore meltdown if it isn’t public?

I ask you.

I guess I’m just soft. But when I saw her (shudder) flirting—with guys—some of which I like, know...

Well. Suddenly, the bottle of Jim Beam in my hand made perfect sense.

The shittier part is that it ruined what had been a fanfuckingtastic night and was on par to being one of those watch-the-sunrise epic mornings that you talk about in quiet, reverential tones many years from right now.

I’d already seen a sweet show with friends. That’s right, the lone motherfucking ranger went out with other people. A pretty old friend at this point, and his kind of staggeringly awesome girlfriend.

We hung out, and drank and chatted and laughed and even made small talk with the two Latinas in front of us that knew like every single factoid about the Strokes imaginable. Good. Times.

Onward to the birthday party. And it all goes to hell in a purple basket.


First, it was hot up in there. Then, the (shudder) flirting. At least I got to have my moment with the birthday girl, as lovely as ever. Sigh. 

I let the whiskey take over. I was restless. I couldn’t leave, but I couldn’t stay. I did laps. I tried to talk to people. A friend asked me if I was OK. “Because you don’t look OK.”

Awesome. Getting better all the time.

I try to leave, but just drink more and go back inside. I run into (REDACTED). Oh, great. This is beyond perfect. The one (REDACTED) always gave me shit about. 

“You want to fuck her. I know you do. Don’t deny it. Do you think she’s pretty? Do you think she’s hot? I fucking hate that cunt. She’s so stupid. Did I tell about the time she…”

I’m looking at a pretty girl. She smiles and touches my arm. I calm down just a little. We actually talk, and somewhere in there make a date. Like, a date.

Dazed, I stumble towards the door. Only one person between me and an early morning spent driving aimlessly around L.A., drunk out of my fucking mind, smoking the remnants of the night’s joint. (REDACTED). But of course.

I tell her I’m leaving. She gives me a hug and a strangely hard kiss on the cheek.

I make it to the bottom of the stairs without falling, crying or crashing into anyone jammed onto the staircase leading to sweet, blessed freedom.

Well. Two out of three ain’t bad.