Fender Bender

Apologies for my extended absence. Turns out you have to live some experiences to be able to share them, and, boy, have I done plenty of living in the last week.

When you're single and you live alone, you make an effort to maintain a rather busy social schedule. There's something about sitting in your apartment for consecutive nights crying to reruns of Grey's Anatomy that makes you want to kill yourself. I'm rather partial to living, so, instead, I prefer to make plans that get me out of the apartment, and most of those plans just so happen to include severe amounts of drugs, sex, and rock and roll alcohol. The thing is, I tend to do things at one of two speeds: stagnant or Lindsay Lohan. Unfortunately (and fortunately), I've been a bit Lohan-ed out the past seven days, and I'm not talking the good Mean Girls Lohan. Rather, the dark drug-fueled binging-is-my-job lesbian-era Lohan (minus the lesbian, of course).

 

A gluttonous bender with no overarching theme other than "let's see how much my liver can handle," is a great way to remind yourself that although you're no longer in college, you can party with the best of them (it's just too bad the workplace frowns upon smelling of booze at 9am Monday through Friday). Like most 20-somethings, I miss the college days of excess, and attempt to recreate the parties of the past (here's hoping they figure out how to recreate fully functioning livers soon).

You know you're on a bender when you stand naked in front of your mirror, spin around, and find several unexplained men lying in your bed bruises covering your body - the body that hates you harder than the Bloods hate the Crips or fetuses hate abortion. Currently, there may or may not be a bruise the size of Karl Lagerfeld's newest Hula Hoop Bag (→) on my left ass cheek. Okay, perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration, but it is rather large and grossly discolored (I want to take a moment to clarify that it is not in the shape of a hand). It basically looks like a rhinoceroses head-butted my ass. I was on a bender and my fender was caught in the crossfire.

Ballpark stairs can prove to be rather difficult to navigate. They also have a way of sneaking up on unsuspecting drunks people enthusiastically celebrating a great play by Swisher (yes, that was a way for me to blame something other than myself for the ridiculousness that happens upon me as a direct result of the decisions I make, as per usual).  I've learned that it's best I avoid sitting in an aisle seat at any future games. I will, however, continue the ballgame binging - beers just taste better at Yankee Stadium, what can I say?

Thank God I didn't eat shit at the Barclay's Center. Diamonds in the air never look great on clumsy white girls aggressively passionately singing along to "Clique." And what would Jigga have thought? Luckily, I didn't have to find out.

The best part about the bender is that each night of it was spent with different friends. That brings the judgments down significantly.  They can't all know what occurred in my life all week unless they read my blog, or my Facebook, or my texts... Hmm. Guess there is a lot of judging going on - and I'm doing most of it.

I'll be slowly getting my life back on track, so look for that in 2013 - I'm just assuming it will take that long. In the meantime, who wants to grab a drink tonight?