I'm awake.
I shouldn't be.
BATS!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Please Wine Gun, may I have some more?
The French get it right about a lot of things. Especially their wine. Minneapolis should conveniently distribute these innovative vending machines throughout the city. I know I'd have a lot of intriguing stories to tell involving them. If our beloved city would just get on the ball...
Monday, September 20, 2010
Apple Wine? Um... YES. yadaya
We, being those who frequently imbibe have all been babes in the woods to the seemingly harmless sways of too much alcohol’s brilliant idea to seek out others and communicate with them.
There are a multitude of ways we execute our connections; blogging, status updating, texting, dialing. Sometimes we even go so far as to physically approach people and speak. The direct contact avenue is usually accompanied by wild hand gestures and our own distracted fish eyes. I admit, this is my preferred style of engaging.
When we’re out at the watering hole or a friendly house party, we do not notice our inept remarks or ridiculously embarrassing dance moves. Why? Because nobody else does. Nobody really cares about your hooch glazed character. Your ungracefully inebriated friends don’t point at you and say, “Hey, you look like you’re lacking some balance and you’re ranting on about senseless stuff.” No, no they don’t. They say something like, “You remind me of Bambi, you know, when Thumper and all the other bunnies are trying to teach him how to hop over it.”
Everybody is in the midst of their own sloshed meadowlands, splashing in their own amaze lakes without judgment. They don’t judge you, they don’t judge themselves. Every sober person knows judgment is the first thing to astral project itself as far away from your body as soon as you are in the process of spirit indulging. The next time you see your friends after that karaoke mishap, you’re greeted with giggles and double high-fives, not sighs and shaking heads.
The reality arrives while washing your face in the morning and you notice the illumination cast from the fixture above the mirror. Still covered with suds you dash to the phone. Where is the phone? “Where is my fucking phone?!” It takes less time than you think it feels to find it. Once you remember what you wore last night and that you woke with one pant leg still on, and where did you kick your pants off, aha, oh fuck! The phone is dead. Now you’re frantic to find the charger. Alas, you were responsible, you had a full battery before your booze fest and the charger is waiting in the outlet. Your device is plugged in.
This is the deer-in-headlights moment. You knew you sent something regrettable, you just didn’t know until right now that the comment your friend made about Bambi really affected you in your muddled state. Over the next few minutes you delete what you can, and draft apologies concerning your use of the words twitter pated and elaborations on why you sent that photo of road kill at three a.m. Then you go about your day, mentally revising everything you feel you think you need to elucidate.
Assuming you associate with fairly wise and hopefully humorous people, they know when you were drunk when they are sober, and mostly likely will laugh off and brush aside your floundered messages.
There are a multitude of ways we execute our connections; blogging, status updating, texting, dialing. Sometimes we even go so far as to physically approach people and speak. The direct contact avenue is usually accompanied by wild hand gestures and our own distracted fish eyes. I admit, this is my preferred style of engaging.
When we’re out at the watering hole or a friendly house party, we do not notice our inept remarks or ridiculously embarrassing dance moves. Why? Because nobody else does. Nobody really cares about your hooch glazed character. Your ungracefully inebriated friends don’t point at you and say, “Hey, you look like you’re lacking some balance and you’re ranting on about senseless stuff.” No, no they don’t. They say something like, “You remind me of Bambi, you know, when Thumper and all the other bunnies are trying to teach him how to hop over it.”
Everybody is in the midst of their own sloshed meadowlands, splashing in their own amaze lakes without judgment. They don’t judge you, they don’t judge themselves. Every sober person knows judgment is the first thing to astral project itself as far away from your body as soon as you are in the process of spirit indulging. The next time you see your friends after that karaoke mishap, you’re greeted with giggles and double high-fives, not sighs and shaking heads.
The reality arrives while washing your face in the morning and you notice the illumination cast from the fixture above the mirror. Still covered with suds you dash to the phone. Where is the phone? “Where is my fucking phone?!” It takes less time than you think it feels to find it. Once you remember what you wore last night and that you woke with one pant leg still on, and where did you kick your pants off, aha, oh fuck! The phone is dead. Now you’re frantic to find the charger. Alas, you were responsible, you had a full battery before your booze fest and the charger is waiting in the outlet. Your device is plugged in.
This is the deer-in-headlights moment. You knew you sent something regrettable, you just didn’t know until right now that the comment your friend made about Bambi really affected you in your muddled state. Over the next few minutes you delete what you can, and draft apologies concerning your use of the words twitter pated and elaborations on why you sent that photo of road kill at three a.m. Then you go about your day, mentally revising everything you feel you think you need to elucidate.
Assuming you associate with fairly wise and hopefully humorous people, they know when you were drunk when they are sober, and mostly likely will laugh off and brush aside your floundered messages.
celery soup is pretty exciting too
After a night of bad decisions at the CC Club, I was home in the bathroom reading an article in Vanity Fair from a year ago that was contemplating our obsession with things that are cute. Why oh why do we love cute things? Are we so horribly grotesque that we love what we are not? Are we monsters? Yes we are. good night.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
I drink alone
I have a confession. I like to drink alone. They say only real alcoholics do this and if that's true....well, at least I'm high functioning. It started when I lived in my tiny efficiency "apartment" and I had to be at school at an ungodly hour every morning (7 am). I couldn't go out and have fun, so I would pick up a bottle of wine on my way home from work. At first it was just a glass or two with a few cigarettes and some TV, but soon I was able to finish the whole bottle. I felt so French with my wine and my cigarettes and my self importance. It took me a while to get the hang of drinking alone with internet and cell phone access, but I soon trained myself to only look at Facebook; no commenting, chatting or changing my status. There were a few mornings I had to go back and delete delete delete. I also learned its best just to forget I have a phone than to drunk text people.
School ended and I was free to stay out all hours of the night and do as I pleased, but there was still something great about a few drinks and my own company. Now I have a roommate and I really like her, but I relish the time I get to enjoy in the apartment alone with a nice bottle of wine. Now that I can't smoke inside, I've branched out to drinking different things that don't make me want to light one smoke off of the other. For instance, tonight I'm having a white Russian. Yes, it's Saturday night, but as I mentioned, I drink alone.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Things That Woke Me Up This Weekend.
Friday night we danced. We danced like nobody was watching - we danced like everyone was watching. Do I want another $9 mango martini? Fuck yes I want another $9 mango martini! Just keep bringing me more alcohol, I need to dance. Dance dance dance drink drink drink sober ride to the hotel blur of drunken talking pass out.
Cut to Saturday morning. I was in the unconscious space between dreams and awake, likely drooling on my hard-as-a-rock hotel pillow, when I was jolted into reality by an awfully loud sound. I kept my eyes shut, trying to recognize the sound. My first thought was that there must have been a bird perched on the edge of the mattress because the sound was basically at my feet. I turned over, trying to hit the bird with my feet, but when no contact was made I realized that my instinct was wrong.
But I was sure the bird was close. I rolled over again to face the window and cracked one eye open. Sure enough, there was the fucking bird, perched on the window, screaming its stupid fucking bird head off. In the brief moments of silence between the horrible horrible sounds it was making, I heard its friends hollering back from quite a distance away.
"GO TO THEM!" I wanted to yell. "STOP YELLING AND GO TALK TO THEM AT A REASONABLE DISTANCE LIKE NORMAL FUCKING PEOPLE DO!!"
But the screaming continued. I pulled the rock hard pillow over my face, trying to smother myself to death so I would never hear that awful sound again, but alas, my life continued, and so did that horrible bird.
---
Saturday night we celebrated late into the night. More dancing, more drinking, more laughing, singing, and merry making. Late night fast food and then we hit those godawful beds, ready for a good night's sleep.
Of course, this wasn't meant to be. I was shocked into an incredibly groggy consciousness by a sound that I couldn't quite recognize. Music? Yeah, that's music. A guitar. And... a harmonica? Yes, definitely a harmonica. And hippies. Hippies singing at the top of their fucking lungs. I peeled my eyelids apart and glanced towards the window, shocked to see that it was pitch dark outside. As I rolled towards my phone to check what time it was, I vaguely remembered passing out around 2am. This couldn't have been a decent hour for this kind of hippie jackassery. Sure enough -- it was 4:30am.
I remembered earlier in the day hearing the hippies sitting on their patio directly beneath my window, shirts off, being gross and talking shit. Those douchebags were interrupting my sleep, and they were messing with the wrong probably-still-drunk girl. I laid in the darkness, staring at the ceiling trying to decide my next move. Jackie was miraculously still sleeping through all of their fucking harmonica b.s., and if that wasn't waking her, I didn't want a sudden profanity-laced outburst to be her first moments of 4:30am consciousness. (I try to be a considerate bedmate.)
I did the next best thing in my inebriated and dazed state of half-consciousness/full-on-rage - I would show them the universal sign of annoyance by slamming the window shut. The hippies would realize that they had woken me up, and they would scurry back into their stupid little house and change their ways. They would put down their instruments, shave and shower, do a load of laundry, and sleep like decent people do at 4:30 in the fucking morning.
Of course, the windows were only able to be closed by turning a ridiculously outdated crank, so I cranked that fucker shut as angrily as I could. That would show them. The window creaked closed at an embarrassingly slow pace, but I cranked it as fiercely as I could. FEEL MY ANGER, WINDOW! TELL THOSE HIPPIES HOW ANGRY I AM WITH EVERY SQUEAK!
Twenty minutes later, nothing had changed, except for a) the addition of a fucking banjo, b) it was about fifteen degrees hotter in the hotel room, and c) I WAS MAD AS HELL. I somehow managed to drift into an uncomfortable and bitter sleep, a murderous rage filling my dreams.
The next morning, the four other girls in the hotel room asked me how I dealt with the seven-piece Phish cover band outside my window. When I told them that I had angrily cranked the window shut, I was first laughed at and then bombarded with shock that I didn't threaten or insult them at the top of my lungs. Be thankful, Jackie Richmond, that I am a courteous bedfellow, otherwise you would have been woken up by what would have most likely been a most ridiculous shouting match two floors up through a dusty screen between a handful of drunk hippies and an incredibly enraged half-asleep probably still drunk girl.
The lesson in all of this?
Don't wake me up. Ever.
Cut to Saturday morning. I was in the unconscious space between dreams and awake, likely drooling on my hard-as-a-rock hotel pillow, when I was jolted into reality by an awfully loud sound. I kept my eyes shut, trying to recognize the sound. My first thought was that there must have been a bird perched on the edge of the mattress because the sound was basically at my feet. I turned over, trying to hit the bird with my feet, but when no contact was made I realized that my instinct was wrong.
But I was sure the bird was close. I rolled over again to face the window and cracked one eye open. Sure enough, there was the fucking bird, perched on the window, screaming its stupid fucking bird head off. In the brief moments of silence between the horrible horrible sounds it was making, I heard its friends hollering back from quite a distance away.
"GO TO THEM!" I wanted to yell. "STOP YELLING AND GO TALK TO THEM AT A REASONABLE DISTANCE LIKE NORMAL FUCKING PEOPLE DO!!"
But the screaming continued. I pulled the rock hard pillow over my face, trying to smother myself to death so I would never hear that awful sound again, but alas, my life continued, and so did that horrible bird.
---
Saturday night we celebrated late into the night. More dancing, more drinking, more laughing, singing, and merry making. Late night fast food and then we hit those godawful beds, ready for a good night's sleep.
Of course, this wasn't meant to be. I was shocked into an incredibly groggy consciousness by a sound that I couldn't quite recognize. Music? Yeah, that's music. A guitar. And... a harmonica? Yes, definitely a harmonica. And hippies. Hippies singing at the top of their fucking lungs. I peeled my eyelids apart and glanced towards the window, shocked to see that it was pitch dark outside. As I rolled towards my phone to check what time it was, I vaguely remembered passing out around 2am. This couldn't have been a decent hour for this kind of hippie jackassery. Sure enough -- it was 4:30am.
I remembered earlier in the day hearing the hippies sitting on their patio directly beneath my window, shirts off, being gross and talking shit. Those douchebags were interrupting my sleep, and they were messing with the wrong probably-still-drunk girl. I laid in the darkness, staring at the ceiling trying to decide my next move. Jackie was miraculously still sleeping through all of their fucking harmonica b.s., and if that wasn't waking her, I didn't want a sudden profanity-laced outburst to be her first moments of 4:30am consciousness. (I try to be a considerate bedmate.)
I did the next best thing in my inebriated and dazed state of half-consciousness/full-on-rage - I would show them the universal sign of annoyance by slamming the window shut. The hippies would realize that they had woken me up, and they would scurry back into their stupid little house and change their ways. They would put down their instruments, shave and shower, do a load of laundry, and sleep like decent people do at 4:30 in the fucking morning.
Of course, the windows were only able to be closed by turning a ridiculously outdated crank, so I cranked that fucker shut as angrily as I could. That would show them. The window creaked closed at an embarrassingly slow pace, but I cranked it as fiercely as I could. FEEL MY ANGER, WINDOW! TELL THOSE HIPPIES HOW ANGRY I AM WITH EVERY SQUEAK!
Twenty minutes later, nothing had changed, except for a) the addition of a fucking banjo, b) it was about fifteen degrees hotter in the hotel room, and c) I WAS MAD AS HELL. I somehow managed to drift into an uncomfortable and bitter sleep, a murderous rage filling my dreams.
The next morning, the four other girls in the hotel room asked me how I dealt with the seven-piece Phish cover band outside my window. When I told them that I had angrily cranked the window shut, I was first laughed at and then bombarded with shock that I didn't threaten or insult them at the top of my lungs. Be thankful, Jackie Richmond, that I am a courteous bedfellow, otherwise you would have been woken up by what would have most likely been a most ridiculous shouting match two floors up through a dusty screen between a handful of drunk hippies and an incredibly enraged half-asleep probably still drunk girl.
The lesson in all of this?
Don't wake me up. Ever.
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