What did I snap last night? I will never know…

I am hangoverAs I am writing this, I am hungover. I am hangover. Hangover is a philosophy, a way of being, in which fears and anxieties are either muffled, too heavy with the poison in your blood to run rampant over you, or they are amplified with the urgency of vomit.

Currently, luckily, it is the former right now.

I have missed this inner peace. My mind is quiet, because the party monster’s reign is now over. I move slowly, I am dim. I no longer rage with the fires of the night and the overwhelming need to make out with women who are probably very straight but like the attention, I can tell, because you are laughing too loud and you keep looking at your friends and you’ve only felt me up like once this last hour.

BUT I am plagued by one thought. And that is, What did I snap last night?

Yeah, I went to Flick’s last night. I only had 3 drinks! 3 very “my bartender missed me and also I am at Flick’s” drinks. Also I think they were running out of orange juice.

what did I snap last night

This is what you already saw today if you are my snap friend.

Aside: You guys, you guys, you need to make #whatdidisnaplastnight a thing. I am begging you.

I am telling myself that the majority of my snaps looked like this:

snapchat too hot to handle

Actual snap. Sorry my sweet snapchat bestie, I know I made this just for you, but it is the only evidence I have. Because I clicked the download button. Because I am a narcissist.

But I know in my heart there was at least one like this:

snapchat too drunk to handle

Disclaimer: This is a snapchat re-enactment. That is not my drunk handwriting. I always write that bad.

I am forced to contend with the realities of having Facebook at my drunken fingertips. I am now part of the reality where my work life and my social life intersect in one device. I am an idiot who thought it was a good idea, while drunk, to delete the threads from my boss and my coworker so that I wouldn’t accidentally text them, and now have only black holes rather than hard evidence to appease the anxious feeling that I may have sent one of them something at 3am. I didn’t. I’m just paranoid. So very paranoid.

FYI Handcent SMS has a privacy box that forces you to enter a passcode before you can view texts by specific people, and I DEFINITELY had the time to get around setting that up TODAY.

The hangover is not my only consequence. What happens in my Vegas doesn’t stay in my Vegas when I always have an internet-connected camera in my pocket.

I have also chosen to put my real name on my writing. I have to hope this choice will make sense when I reflect back on my life, that I am right that society will continue to grow toward more honesty as privacy becomes harder to protect and more and more people add to the digital scrapbooks of their lives. Privilege check here (femme, financially secure, white, thin, etc.): it’s easy for me to be ok with decreasing privacy because I have the luxury of being able to live life openly — I have support networks and quite a lot of societal approval for my lifestyle, even with me being gay. Not everyone is so lucky.

I teeter between the reality that my personal experience is lost enough in the fire hose that is social media that I am safely invisible, with the fantasy that I’ll be so famous my “wild” behavior will be permissible. I have to balance the assumption that my boss doesn’t have the spare time to Google my name with the belief that she wouldn’t care if she did anyway. She was young once. She knows.

I used to think (and still kind of do) that my “hangover anxiety” comes from all the dopamine and serotonin and other fun brain chemicals I “used up” the night previous. I am worn out so I am too weak to fight off the anxiety. I also realize I am worried about what I may have done, how I may have bulldozed over someone else’s feelings because I desired the drunken spotlight. “You have no regrets if you never remember,” might be true, but I have a vivid imagination. I know myself, what I can do. So, I chase after the tails that squirrel away from me in the darkness, that disappear into the void like snapchats.

I have to admit, though, a smartphone can be very helpful for my lifestyle.

Beer fridge reminder

If this seems particularly lazy, please know that I meant to say freezer, but under the pressure of having to talk continuously into the mic thingy or else it cuts you off I slipped up and said fridge.


In my new tradition, here is your Flower the Skunk moment of the week:

Flower the Skunk Wish He Said (but Didn’t)….

IMAG0487_1No, your friend is right. You do not get to say the N word. You do not get to say it in a joke, you do not get to say it with a “z” at the end. Nope. You are a white girl and I am a white girl and neither of us get to say it.  This is not a freedom of speech issue, this is a you are making yourself look fucking ignorant issue.  No one is commenting on your post because you have made us all feel uncomfortable.

Map of Hillcrest – San Diego’s “Den of Sin”

My friend hunched over someone’s iPhone. “Drag Queen Fight Dinner Theater,” he said, and laughed. I thought maybe they were watching another La Fuente brawl video. I haven’t been to La Fuente since I ordered an enchilada and got a sauce-drizzled lukewarm tortilla wrapped around dry, unmelted, shredded cheese. I was not drunk, so this was not tasty. But when I was there awhile back I watched one queen push another hard enough to fall — which isn’t saying much as they were both wearing heels taller than mine.

He started naming other places. “Babycakes. Church of the Holy Tank Top.” They were looking at a map of Hillcrest. “Let me see,” I edged in, close.

This map was hard to find the next day until I typed "Hillcrest map gay" into the Google

This map was hard to find the next day until I typed “Hillcrest map gay” into the Google. Click for full res. Or view original source here, on Facebook.

“Gossip Gril is Vagina Stronghold?” I said, unimpressed. “More like where I go to remember I hate lesbians and cigarettes.” My friend replied, “That’s where go to remember I love lesbians and cigarettes.” I laughed.

Cursory stalking suggests Raanan Rosenfeld is indeed a gay man, which might explain this marker on the map he created. I’ve noticed that the kinds of gay men I meet at bars (read: soused) get this mentality of women as walking breasts and vaginas. This is not unlike the inebriated straight men I meet. Though while both groups are thinking, “Yay boobs; omigod I love boobs,” the former either say or imply eww in the direction of my genitals. Once, at Flick’s, a man cooed at me. “Oooooh,” he palmed my crotch, “What chu got down there, honey?” I made this face:

Hi, do I know you, crotch-grabber?

Hi, do I know you, crotch-grabber?

I think he assumed I was straight, so in his mind I deserved a bit of light harassing for coming into his boy bar. I’ve noticed gay men like to test people who enter LGBT spaces. I’ve watched many a straight man be forced to play gay chicken. It’s amusing when it’s not me. Misdirected passive-aggressiveness aside, I love these dens of sin.

Rosenfeld totally missed #1 on Fifth, and I think “Mama Testa. Perverted Tacos.” is a bit of an intellectual shortcut. Still I have to agree with “Shitshow Strip.” So please check out his graphic designer page and be nice and stuff. I am well familiar with that strip of street and its jumbled boozy bodies – and the shouts of, “woo, party!”

My dog died this week, so I looked forward to “Ruining” my “Thursday Morning.” Not to say that I drink to grieve… Monday night Katelyn asked if I’d like to drink and I sullenly replied, “No. I don’t drink to deal with my problems. I drink to give myself problems.”

But by Wednesday I knew it was time for a Gay Gambit. First, go to Gossip Grill and stew in the haze of cigarettes on a cramped ribbon of patio. The trick is to order your drink first, then pass the token to a friend. If you order both drinks at the start, you’ll end up with two tall beers and two bright tokens. Then you’re trapped in a sapphic sardine tin for two drinks instead of just one.

Then graduate to Flick’s, where wells are $2 each. They’re plastic cocktails, so double-fist. I tip on every drink, and by the end of the night when I’m expecting a flimsy screwdriver the bartender hands me a real glass, complete with cherry. I end up over-drinking. Sometimes it hurts your liver to be a regular.

Finally, the gambit ends at Rich’s. It’s the only Rich’s night without cover. I walk the club, determined to prove I am still in control, still able to march without stumbling. Everyone around me is dancing-off the cheap booze they drank for Welfare Wednesday. I think I drank too much, because I woke up in bed at 6am still wearing my jacket and purse…