Take a sheet of lined paper. Write every letter of the alphabet, one per each line, and the recipient’s name, last. Think of 26 words. Crumple the paper and throw it near, not inside, the wastebasket in your kitchen.
Peel a tangerine. Draw a portrait of the recipient with a leaky ballpoint pen on the inside of the peel. Take a picture and send it to your 2nd best friend. Sit on the floor.
Lay on the floor. Count backwards from 9 on your fingers. Count the letters of your recipients name. Sing an awful rap you make up, spelling her name.
Get a box. Get a stack of magazines. Cut out every picture that reminds you of her. Put the best ones in the box.
Go to the liquor store. Buy a cheap pair of sunglasses and an iced coffee. Go home. Drink half of the coffee. Write her name backwards in the the lenses of the sunglasses with a dry erase marker, and wear them. Put them in the box.
Grab another sheet of lined paper. Write, “I want to get to know you better.” Draw a Christmas tree and a cat. Sign it, “Secret Santa.” Put this in the box, too.
I’m pretty sick. I hoped I could make up my post today, but I just don’t think that’s going to happen.
Also, I didn’t want to distract from the traffic to You’re not introverted, you just have problems which has already exceeded my all time record by almost double. I mean, holy shit. That’s a lot of views.
I wasn’t going to write about this here until multiple people, as a response to the news, said, “Can’t wait to read your blog about it!” Well, fine. I’ll blog about it. I can’t think about anything else.
Friends have been asking have I gone or will I go to “the burn” for about 2 years now. Yet, I’ve never been. In 2012 I was offered a ride and a ticket (well, I’d still have to pay) and I said no. I said no to Burning Man. I regretted this such that I said yes to Electric Poncho in Mexico, a treacherous adventure filled with scorpions and heat (and oh my god I have never witnessed so much assault). I’ll probably have to do that one again, just to be sure that I hate it.
Cue 2014, and the usual questions abound;
Hey Sami … are you burning this year?
nooooooooopeeee
:(
unless it fell on my lap on a silver platter
which it did 2 years ago and i said no b/c i’m an idiot
IDIOT!
gonna miss you there!
The thing is, if you invite Burning Man to arrive on a silver platter, it will arrive. My phone rang when I was still in bed, late, on a Sunday, like noonish. Last Sunday. Friend (quoted above) called with a chance to test if I’m an idiot, again. “Hey Sami, I know someone with a ride and a ticket for you at face value. Want to go to Burning Man.”
“Umm,” am I awake yet? “Ye–ess?”
Turns out, this ‘someone’ has a non-split-able will call ticket, and needed to find a trustworthy adventurer to both buy the ticket and ride with him through the gates. So yes, I am hopping in a car with a guy I don’t know to camp in the barren desert of Nevada for the first time, and with only 2 weeks preparation. It sure sounds bad when I put it like that.
The night after “Hmm, maybe I’ll go,” turned into “Yes, obviously I have to go,” I felt like my chest was split open, my ribs pulled apart. My blood was cold and it drenched me from the inside out. I began foreseeing the emotions that I will have out there in the dust. Raw, grateful, alone, together, crying tears of joy and sadness. The ghosts of future feelings have landed in my lungs and are growing, growing to burst.
I am lucky this is so last-minute. I don’t have time to do anything but prepare. So I make a Koozie spaceship.
So I adorn a rabbit fur coat with EL wire.
So I take on the role of Art Director for this 8-foot tall monolith.
So I make my loved ones write me letters.
I am crossing my arms over my ribcage. I am holding it all in. I am telling myself, Do Not Open Until )'(
Meet Flower the Skunk. Flower has lived his life by the aphorism, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” This wasn’t so hard of a statement to live by when he lived a mostly solitary lifestyle in the meadow and met each wandering critter with a stoned bashfulness meant to disguise his wretched desperation for critter contact in his lonely neck of the woods. I mean, how do you think he got the name “Flower” — did you think he was trying to fuck the gender binary? Cuz he’ll pretend that’s what he’s doing if that’s what’s punk rock and cool these days but he really just let some deer-in-the-headlights type give him the wrong name at some kickback Thumper was throwing and was too timid to offer a correction.
ohmigosh forget blog posts I should just draw cute skunks all the time
Anyway, his pathetic approval-seeking habits didn’t have him feeling so worthless about himself until right about the time social media and Facebook came out. He fit in for awhile until Upworthy and Buzzfeed became so painfully popular along with things like Reiki-pet-healing and conspiracy theories about the water. He wants to be respectful about a diversity of beliefs, and hell, he used to smoke a ton of weed when he was young, but he’s into the scientific method, dammit, and is he just a soft-bellied phony because he’s too afraid to really speak his mind??
And actually, Flower, yes I would like to fuck your gender binary because I feel like a lot of my self-censorship comes from my performance of a resiliently feminine personality. I say resiliently because I fantasize about chopping off all my hair and/or tossing all my sequin dresses for white button-downs and bow ties.
I just really want to be Claire Moseley but my voice isn’t sexy raspy enough. Seriously how many cigarettes do I have to smoke before I can sound like that? Oh, fuck, guys I think I realized why I am fatally attracted to trying to smoke cigarettes.
Anyway.
I’m wondering how many of the posts I abandon are due to:
My own insecurity about my grip on reality as an ex-alien princess, ex-christian, and ex-heterosexual
Trying to act like a friend around my so-called Facebook Friends and avoiding needless negativity and criticism. And of course, to keep getting invited to parties. Um, I need to write a post on FOMO paranoia because is it just me or am I not being invited to everything there is to be invited to??
Gender fuckery telling me my opinion is less valid than my conformity to to feminine ideals, lest I get labelled a Mean Girl.
One of my most recent attempts to speak my mind got sparked by an article share on the ol’ newsfeed by some guy who throws pretty awesome parties. I don’t know if my snark-level registered as high to him as it did to me, but I’d like to give you some insight into the spiraling self-doubt that occurs for me whenever I say something remotely divisive on these social media channels. Here’s my personalized paraphrase of the exchange:
I’m left feeling like I didn’t get my point across, I caused unnecessary conflict, I don’t know how to express myself when I have an opinion that does not match the rest of the thread, and if I say what I really think people are going to label me a bitch and not invite me to parties. The last fear is true insanity, because I know plenty of jerk-dudes who say rude things all the time and still get invited to parties, but it’s something I really do worry about when I’m posting.
While regret whorls inside me like a wet pile of snakes, I’m also thinking of all the things I would have liked to say. All the things I would have liked to say if Facebook didn’t live inside a briar pit of social layers in a format which collages baby pictures with instagram food photos with rape culture blog posts with Masaru Emoto water studies with beach trip photos with radiation scare articles. How can I begin to fit my thoughts in alongside that mess?
Don’t read all of this, but here’s an example of all the things I’d like to say.
..But I daren’t write these essays and hit “post” on actual Facebook. It’s strange, as a young’n I did pretty well with being one of the “too smart” ones, but I’m letting anxiety over that get to me today. Back in middle & high school I was made less aware of how such intellectualism in girls is generally put down by society and more aware of how awesome it is to get me in your group for class projects. Nowadays, I find myself biting nails over whether people will be annoyed if I go on a diatribe both on and off the webpage.
I think it’s because I’m finally in the attractive league. I was always cute as a little ginger could be cute, but as soon as I got taller and longer in all the right ways, my first serious boyfriend snatched me up and took me out of the social awareness of being a hottie for 4 years — meaning I wasn’t paying attention to all the attention since I was a super monogamous relationship and I’d never even had the chance to learn how to flirt.
So now, I’m meeting people; I’m learning how to fit this “beautiful” thing into my understanding of my self. What there doesn’t seem to be a lot of room for in my new, feminine, pretty persona is this rude little bulldozer that lives inside me and tells me to chew on people’s feelings for a snack. Ok, no, it’s not evil, it really just wants me to honor the truth and the strength of my own intellect. Yet my self-doubt prevents me from ruffling feathers.
I am going to honor this self-censorship to some extent until I fully understand it. If nothing else, it’s useful to avoid facebook comment wars because it’s a fucking pain to unfollow a thread on mobile and, while I tried to turn it off, the green, pulsing, never-ceasing LED on my phone pierces my skull with each new notification. I hate that thing more than I hate not being invited to parties.
I asked my brother to draw a real fucked up looking skunk for me. He didn’t get to it, so I drew about what I expected he’d draw anyway.
I will need an outlet, though, where I can learn the risks and rewards of speaking my mind. Therefore, meet Flower the Skunk. I will create a place for him in this blog to share all the things he wish he shared. I will take screencaps of the nasty just-woke-up I-hate-everything thoughts. I will gather evidence of my drunken malcontent, my late-night lust, my frustration with the unspoken. Let us start a trend of acknowledging these thoughts, and laughing at them together when we realize how common they are. Why were we so afraid, why did we say nothin’ at all?
I keep trying to give these words a second chance. I try to smile, to feel warm and a bit serene. I am beautiful, and I like to be noticed. These words, said to me right, can be a little treasure I clutch beneath my pillow before I fall asleep at night.
Yet, when I hear this sentence from a stranger, I steel myself for what’s coming next. It is almost always….bullshit. Last time I heard these words (Halloween @ Rich’s), he put his hand on my shoulder, then as he ushered me past him, his hand slid down my back. If I hadn’t known better and placed my arm as a blockade, his hand would have slid across my ass.
Earlier that night, a boy said these words to my friend from LA. “You’re so beautiful,” he repeated. She was and is — stunning dressed as a vampire and one of my favorite people to look at. She thanked him and smiled genuinely. Then, he asked her if she was from South Africa. “Fucking people from San Diego!” she said after she turned away. First of all, wrong Africa, and second of all, go die.
It’s not just strangers that ruin “You’re so beautiful” for me. You may have heard about my “friend” Chuck. The one who was ‘helping’ me by forcing affection…
Do these people feel entitled by telling us that we’re gorgeous? I just dispensed one compliment coin in you and now I have earned the right to further objectify you! It’s like we owe them our gratitude, and with that we owe them patience or friendship or smooches.
I’ve noticed I get this less when I wear black eyeliner and shimmer eyeshadow (which is seldom). I don’t think that I’m necessarily hotter sans makeup, but I’m definitely more approachable. I think some people read “no makeup” as naive, not-yet-jaded. They think they’re telling me something I don’t believe. They may or may not want to exploit my insecurities, but do operate under the assumption that I have them and they are doing me a favor by saying something “nice” to me.
That’s where I got the idea for my number one defense against “You’re so beautiful.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
I say this: “Tell me something I don’t know,” with eye contact and a playful smirk….or a sneer if they have been gross.
It disarms. They can no longer assume I’m deeply insecure and need their praise-food like a puppy dog needs to eat what the people are eating. They have nothing to say to that. The nasty ones don’t have enough imagination or awareness to answer, and if they dare to try, I simply repeat, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
The beauty (ha) of this defense is in its inherent diplomacy. It’s subversive enough to stun, but gives space for the more innocent offenders to recover. In friendlier situations it can be a flirty challenge. I’m letting you know I’m not easily impressed by the standard compliments.
Some people do just want to say something sweet. Some people think “You’re so beautiful,” is an acceptable way to initiate flirting, but had no intention of getting creepy on me. Some people are stupefied by my glorious hair and can’t think of anything more creative to say. I don’t want to punish these people.
Yet, I do crave original thought. Give me something with more substance. Notice my efforts, not my freckles. Engage my intellect, not my vanity. Make yourself memorable with a fraction more thought given to the compliments you choose…
I just want people to tell me something….well, you know.
The z-pack should be called the zzz-pack. I can barely stay awake, and when I do manage, I’m confused and vaguely nauseous. (Or, currently, really nauseous.) I’m back on antibiotics, and the strong stuff, because I seem to have relapsed. The strep is back from the dead. Zombie strep.
Zombie strep is re-animated by heat and debauchery. I have the sun/rugburns to prove it.
Naturally, after two weeks of staying in and minding my health, I poured a little liquor on my wilting party monster. It scrapped up and bared a smile of disorganized, razor teeth. More? We drank Jameson that wasn’t Jameson (I’m a little concerned no one would tell me what it was in that bottle), lost a game of darts, avoided the hot tub (!), lost our white rabbit ears… Party monster started to feel alive again.
Then, after 1 hour of sleep, on Sunday, I co-hosted The World’s Worst Yard Sale. When the other host switched from Saturday, I knew we’d miss out on all of the churchgoer traffic. Since I dislike most churchgoers, I thought we might get a more interesting crowd. True, when we did have ‘customers’ they were ‘interesting.’ A woman who said she just got out of a 20-year coma grabbed a chair between us and told a slew of cow jokes:
What do you call a cow with no legs? Ground beef.
What do you call a cow with one leg? Steak.
What do you call a cow with two legs? Lean beef.
What do you call a cow with three legs? Tri-tip.
What do you call a cow who just gave birth? Decaffeinated.
There were more, but, as if she wanted to make up for a quarter-of-a-lifetime of silence, she spoke too quickly for me to catch them all. Her brother bought an Masaru Emoto book and they left.
Then we mostly sat, drank beer, and overheated. Beer helped. Beer helped a lot, but it did not make me invulnerable to the rage of the sun. No one, by the way, ever tells you to put sunscreen on your feet. They started burning first, and as the sun crept under the shade of the garage door, my sleep-deprived effort to slap on sunscreen revealed itself in red patches on the inside of my upper arms, weird lines on my thighs, and the tops of my knees. I crawled off with my 5 bucks (I think we made $20 all together) and slept in feverish discomfort. Literally feverish, probably, but I didn’t know to suck on a thermometer at this point.
When I woke up Monday morning with a sore throat, I opted to work from home. By 2:30 I signed off. (I started work at 11. I didn’t make it 4 hours.) I tried to ignore my building fear. I peered down my nose at the numbers growing on the digital display. First reading: 100.9. No. Not. This. Again.
Look guys, weathered wood. This could be an Etsy listing.
Desperate, I allowed a doctor’s appointment at 8:30am the next day even though that is an hour I meet only in the stupidest of circumstances, like a yard sale on a Sunday morning. Because I fear known enemies more than novel experiences, my inner hypochondriac started to bargain for something more exotic than strep. What if it’s Toxic Shock Syndrome? My sunburns became rashes, my next temperature reading confirmed I’d be up to a deadly fever in a few hours. 911, I need an ambulance, I’ll be in the pool trying to lower my temperature… It’s not like I really wanted this, but my fever brain likes to trip on weird scenarios to keep itself entertained.
I eventually maxed out at 101.5 but by then had given up on taking pictures.
But it’s the strep. It’s the goddamned strep all over again. I guess debauchery has its consequences.
I wish mac ‘n’ cheese had all the essential nutrients and vitamins, because it’s the only thing I’ve been able to eat since Monday. I’ve been coughing much, much longer than that, and had made a doctor’s appointment for Tuesday to see what rattled in my lungs. Monday my health rapidly plummeted from a disgusting yet livable cough to hellfire and a throat full of barbed wire. I measured my fever at 101.2 degrees Fahrenheit. This was after I’d taken a cold shower, convinced that my brain was boiling in my skull.
Fortuitously, my mom tele-worked on Tuesday, so she took a long lunch and drove me to the doctor’s. I’m pretty sure I would have killed myself and at least 2 other drivers if I’d tried to use a car that day.
The receptionist asked if I wanted to add my picture to the file; they had a camera right there and the doctors use the pictures to…. I made my face into a disgusted shape and she understood immediately that I don’t normally look like a 14 year old boy with hygiene problems and bad hair. “Not today.”
The doctor poked the flashlight-hammer thing into my facial orifices and asked me symptoms-questions, putting an emphasis on fatigue. I knew she wanted it to be mono. They always want us to have mono, because everyone who is young and promiscuous deserves mono. But she said my throat bumps or whatever medical term she used for them were so “red and beefy” that it could be strep. She darted two cotton swabs in my throat at the same time so she’d only have to gag me once. How kind.
“What if my girlfriend doesn’t get hers treated,” I planned to ask, “will she just pass it back to me when I’m done with my antibiotics?” This would be a white lie – my girlfriend seems to have skipped this round of contagion. I wouldn’t have been asking for her, not exactly. Although I can count on just one hand the number of women I made out with during last Saturday’s party, any number felt like too many to confess in that white interrogation room. How do you tell your doctor that you may be responsible for spreading a nasty disease with a Jameson fueled make-out binge? (Forgive me, for there was a dimly lit bounce house on premises.) But when the doctor popped back in and announced, “it’s strep,” she also told me she’d be giving me a shot and I forgot all my questions.
“I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to be a bee sting. But you’ll feel better faster, and the swelling in your throat will hopefully have gone down enough by tomorrow to make it easier to swallow these horse pills I’m prescribing.” Welp. I numbly rubbed my shoulder. I felt my arm getting heavier, willing itself to die so it wouldn’t feel the pain. I practiced not clenching my muscles.
The nurse came back, told me the shot will actually be going in my butt. She didn’t say Gluteus Maximus, she said butt. A shot. In my butt.
“It would hurt too much if it went in your arm,” she explained, as if that would actually make me feel better. I think she noticed my eyes flaring and my head wobbling on my neck like a ship listing in the waves. “You can be lying down for this.” I started to think it wouldn’t be so terrible until she added, “I just need to get someone else to help me position the needle. The anatomy of the body changes when you’re lying down.” She told me to pull my pants down to my crack. I laid face-down on the table, waiting for them to return, sure that she sought a helper to pin me down so she could harpoon me with the syringe on the counter next to me. I felt like the albatross from the Rescuers Down Under, my shame exposed to the cheery nurse mice, who almost seemed to look forward to my suffering.
(Watch the first two minutes for a scene re-enactment.)
When the other nurse came in, there was no time to reason with them. They wiped me down with an icy square of disinfectant – higher up than I expected – and I think the shock of yet another surprise location and the idea of the needle potentially hitting my hip bone made me start to panic. “That’s not my butt?” I said into the pillow, and quickly they shot me, and I whimpered and freaked out. “Don’t touch it!” I gasped, because my nurse was grinding it in with her fingers. I started to cry a little. She pulled my pants up and rubbed through those, and started talking science to me, which calmed me down a bit. 1 minute of this, and she’s done, and she didn’t even stay to cuddle.
I think they gave me this purple dinosaur band-aid for being a big baby. Also note how it is very much not on my butt.
I stayed on the table for a little longer. (I had to wait in the room for 20 minutes to make sure I didn’t have an allergic reaction.) Once I overcame my feelings of degradation and self-pity, I moved to the chair and actually felt a little better after that adrenaline rush. My ass is still numb though.
“14 going on 40,” my dad called me, because I liked to think I could fare well in conversations with the adults. I did; until I got older and more conscious of my words and the gaps in my knowledge and experience. And, of course, I was a really delusional person from age 7 to age 21 – see last week’s post. Before the Christianity there was 7 years of alien princess nonsense that I’ll have to get into sometime… I’d say I’ve only been interacting directly with reality for the past two years. So, it is with great hesitation that I call someone a peer, especially if they have some years on me.
By that, I mean, I tend to assume people have their head together better than mine, and that I am totally out here to learn from them how to be a semi-functioning “normal” human being. I’m easily impressed by the folks who can figure out the difference between Ben Affleck and Tom Cruise and other famous white guys (seriously they all look the same to me how do you even keep track of what’s going on in this movie). I defer to people’s superior knowledge of pop culture and geekery and national news.
This makes me gullible, to a fault. Of course I’m going to take the word of someone I trust, even marginally, over my own perception of reality. 3 years ago I was so out of touch I was yanking the e-brake to stop my perfectly functioning car, thinking it wasn’t working because in my dreams I skidded on roads like a wet dog on soapy linoleum. You can tell me it’s a Tuesday on a Wednesday and I will believe you.
But I’m having to come to terms with the fact that older =/= wiser. People I call friends think homeopathy is a real thing. And they’re paying attention to when the moon shadow is in the Aquarius Capricorn Libra or something. I’m having to fine-tune my bullshit detector so I can both enjoy the variety and personal insight from the circus of people in my life and still, you know, not let the pseudo get all up in my science.
But, like, I’m young and I don’t know everything and some people really like to point that out.
Category 1 of Old People: Know-it-Alls
For the purposes of this section, anyone over 30 is an “Older Person” — not because I think 30 is old, but because 30 seems to be the magical number that makes people think they can dispense words of wisdom to me. I get it, I really do. I, for example, am a whole lot smarter than a 13 year old.
I would definitely sit down 13-year-old me and have a talk.
By the way, little Sami, you are not really an alien. But that’s fine, it’s not the craziest thing you’re going to believe in your life. Unless you stay out of the Church. STAY OUT OF THE CHURCH. Also, you should kiss as many boys as possible because that is going to suddenly get way less fun in a few years.
Normally I seldom think about how young or old my party-pals are, but occasionally they won’t let me avoid the topic. Yes, I know I’m only 23; I had to prove it to get into this club… I do often act in age-appropriate ways – binge-drinking, flirting, wearing garish clothing, running around in the woods, notching up and down the Kinsey scale, mooching off my parents… I’m not delusional that I’m responsible or something.
I’m spoiled, though. I’m used to the gayborhood; guys find out my age and squeal that I’m a baby and tell me I’m sexy. They know youth is fleeting and they’re still chasing it. In my hot-head I start to think Older People should treat my presence at their “potluck” as a favor. You should be so lucky I grace you with my energy and my anti-gravity lady-lumps. So, when someone gives me the “when I was your age” speech, I get a little cranky.
“When I was 23, darling, I was an idiot. You have so much to learn…” Some bearded 38-year-old goes on about the folly of youth. And he really said darling. In his defense, he says he uses all sorts of pet names with women all the time. Don’t really see how that is a defense and not a very real sign that he has unconscious chauvinistic tendencies…
“I try not to treat people like they’re typical.” Oh. Geez. Did I really just say that? I try to sit on my rage, but he calls me ‘sweetheart’ and I go inside, aggressive. A woman is about to talk about Masaru Emoto’s touchy-feely water crystals and the power of resonance. “Bullshit!” I interrupt her. She looks hurt. “Sorry, maybe you’re talking about something else. I didn’t mean to jump on you.”
“But you did.” Touché. She continues. Definitely Masaro Emoto. Okay, sorry I’m not sorry. I let her finish, then explain why frozen water crystals with emotional signatures are about as real as Big Foot. Oh dear, looks like she built half her spirituality around that paper she read… I try to be nice, say something about the power of human imagination, but I’m pretty sure when I leave that a lot of the stress in that room leaves with me.
Ah crap. I’m that stubborn young woman who doesn’t like to be told what to do with her life and doesn’t have respect for people’s personal beliefs.
Category 2: Everyone Else
Again, I normally don’t think about this. My friends are my friends, and I forget that I’m the young one until one of them points out that I look ‘especially teenage tonight.’ Yes this happens a lot.
But there are plenty of advantages to having “older” friends:
The wisest of them let me live my life while opening up theirs to me. I am addicted to people’s stories, and these people have more years of them.
They have zany clothes from years of thrift-store collecting and aren’t afraid to wear them. Fuzzy paisley hats and zebra stripes and big furry coats and tutus and corsets, the really nice ones.
Better taste in booze. They give me Horny Devil and Bullet and Laphroaig like they’re some kind of alcoholic evangelists. Obviously, I do not complain.
They are living proof that you can still have fun past your 20s. So. Much. Fun. Can’t keep up with all this fun.
Sometimes a fat grin streaks across my face at the thought that I default to “happy.” My depression has only been in remission for about two years, and I’m still incredulous. I think I try to kill off all this bliss with alcohol. I’m just not used to it.
“Guys, we won’t get hangovers if we drink tiny beers.”
When I was still recovering from my depression, I used a 10 finger system to indicate my emotional stability to my dad. 10 fingers would represent the kind of happiness my Pollyanna mother achieves daily. 1 signified abject misery. He’d hold up his fingers and I’d mirror with mine less a digit or two, and he wouldn’t have to ask me how I was doing. That question was met with a blank stare, a grunt, a painful sigh. I rarely presented above a 5.
So, without further ado, let me present my 5 levels of hungover:
5 Fingers – Not too bad, not too good
Bleh. Everything is Bleh. I think I used up all my dopamine last night. After a cold root beer I’m mostly healed.
4 Fingers – I feel blue, but I cling to a shred of optimism
I pick through boxes of microwave meals and look for something with a high caloric content, like pizza. I need something fatty to absorb my suffering.
3 Fingers – My happiness was a red balloon and it escaped into the endless sky
This one lingers, even past dinnertime. It’s almost enjoyable, because it gives me an excuse to complain all day. I tell everyone I see that I’m hungover. PITY ME.
2 Fingers – I wish I could sleep all day, but I’m in too much pain to sleep
I’m so desperate for relief that I resort to watching television. But then everything is too loud so I sit in a dark room. Everything is too dark so I move to a dimly lit room. My blood is uncomfortable.
1 Finger – Suicidal
I keep a running monologue in my mind to distract me from the horrible feeling that my organs will slide out of my body. I can’t even choke down mac n’ cheese, so I sip a can of Jumex (25% juice, 75% sugar water) and contemplate sobbing. But that’s too much effort and requires too much liquid that I don’t have in my dried up face so I stare stoically at the cluttered coffee table and feel sorry for myself.
Hangover cure: beer and mayo. 1. Put the mayonaise in the pantry. 2. Drink a beer. When I bought these, just these, the cashier told me, “I think you’re the winner.”
So I wake up with yet another hangover and wonder why I do this to myself. It’s not just about having fun. I was having fun at swig three. I didn’t need to polish off that pint of Jim Beam (don’t worry, I had helpers). I really do think I need the hangover in a way. It helps me remember the sadness buried under the fog of memory, and continue to value the happiness that I have earned. In other words, life is pretty great if the worst thing I have to deal with are my gnarly hangovers.
San Diego Survival Guide 