Showing posts with label drunkblogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drunkblogging. Show all posts


The only way to top Drinksgiving with friends is to come home and drunkwalk yr. favorite dog (mine is Chaucer) through quiet city streets, softly singing songs he doesn't understand though seems to like anyway.

The neighborhood is empty but strangely cheerful. Christmas lights strung on trees. A tiny, temporary ice skating rink. Everything peaceful and still. No security guard at the library tonight because of the holiday, so Chauc gets unclipped and can roam free, sniffing to his heart's content. Two slinky black shapes scatter but not before he sees them. He gives half-hearted chase for a few steps before remembering that it's pointless. Dogs can't catch cats.

Meanwhile I hang back, wrapped up in the warmth of the evening, buzzy with wine and reflecting on the mysterious cement that is friendship. I'm stuffed with food and laughter and a bit melancholy at the thought that all good things must come to an end.

But nothing good ended tonight.

If I was truly committed I would have stood on the table to get a better shot, I know. But had I done that, my friends would have had me actually committed, so. 


The first thing I want to say is that I am drunk. That is the first thing.

The list of categories in my sidebar tells me that this is the not the first time I have done something like this. I do not know what to make of that. Whether that adds legitimacy (?) to this post, or whether it just makes it more pathetic, I am not sure.

In any case, that is the first thing I want to disclaim: I am drunk.

The second thing I want to say is that I love my friends. I mean, fuck do I love them. I can say that it is not exaggeration or hyperbole when I declare that I am alive because of them, because I am. They do not like when I tell them this (I do not blame them), but it is true. I am alive because of my friends. When I am at the absolute end of my rope, the thought of good times and laughs with my friends is the only thing that keeps me tethered. It is the only thing that keeps me from letting go.

All my life I dreamt of having friends like I have now. I don't know what I did wrong, in high school and college and the years afterward. I don't know if I was just a complete asshole, or if the people I was choosing as friends were complete assholes. But I have never ever had friends like I do now. People who save my life without knowing it, with their humor and grace and kindness.

Tonight I went out with mah girl Kerrbear. She is a lovely, wonderful, huge and beautifully hearted person. She has a job she hates, but she works very hard at it. She commutes every day, driving for hours each way. She deserves better, and I have every faith in her that she'll get it, soon, because she is spectacularly dedicated and has a thing which I lack, which is an eye on her long game.

Kerry's long game is amazing. It involves living in Italy. I hope I am allowed to visit.


Tonight, Kerrbear and I went out. We had drinks at one bar, and then another. Lots of drinks. (Also, lots of fried food.)

And I told her. I said, "Kerry, I think I'm going to end it with the dude I have been seeing."

And she made the appropriate face, which was something between sadness and surprise, with understanding thrown in. Because she knows I have liked this dude, and am disappointed that it is not working out.

But I explained to her the thing that I will now explain to you, which is that it could not be clearer how not into me this dude is.

Alas. It sucks, but it is true.

What do you mean, Ellie? you say. How could he not be into you? You are so cool and funny and smart, albeit slightly ridiculous and rather self involved and oh yeah, you're thirty-eight years old and sort of mostly jobless and divorced, and that doesn't exactly recommend you to members of the opposite sex BUT OTHER THAN THAT how could he not be into you?

To which I say, I don't know. It is a thing I have puzzled over for the better part of six weeks, as I have rode the roller coaster which is His Interest Level, which waxes and wanes depending on how close it is to the weekend (i.e., how close it is to the day in which he will be sleeping with me).

I do not know, I tell you verily, but it makes me sad. It makes me sad that at first he seemed very interested in me. Texts and wine and making me dinner and stolen kisses and you know. That sort of thing, which made parts of me (which I will not name lest I embarrass myself further) swell up and feel full of promise.

It makes me sad that despite my doing everything I could in my power to communicate my interest in him, it was not enough to win his interest back.

What do you do? he asked me, understandably, and I tried to explain. I write, I said weakly. I told him I'm writing a novel (which I am! I really am!) and do you know how many times he asked to read something I've written? Any old thing at all?

Zero. He asked zero times.

One day not so very long ago he told me the name of his favorite book, and said I should read it. So do you know what I did? You know, yes. I bought it and downloaded it the very next night and read it. And do you know what he said when I told him I'd done so?

Nothing, basically.

He didn't ask me what I'd thought of it, or express any surprise or appreciation that I'd spent three hours of my life trying to better understand him.

There are, apparently, dudes who will sleep with you, spend an afternoon with you, and then not talk to you for three, four, five days at a time. You can reach out to them and send silly texts to say hello, or just to lob the ball over to their side of the net to say Hey! It's me! Just letting you know you're on my mind, and I'm interested in getting to know you further! - but they will not do the same.

And if you let them, these dudes will continue to do that for weeks on end, under the guise of being OMGbusy.

But it does not take very long to send a thirty second text. In fact, I timed how long it takes to send a thirty second text. It takes thirty seconds.

Also? The only times he ever picked up the phone to call me were to ask for my help with his fundraiser. So that sort of sucked, as well.

Christ I am drunk. Probably screenshot this if you hate me, because it will not stay up long. Or maybe it will. Fuck, I do not know.

This is the saddest thing I have ever written, but also maybe one of the funniest, because I am totally okay with it. I am okay with the fact that some dude is not as into me as I would like, and here I am on the internet being sad about it, like a teenager. It is okay because it is a thing that happens to all of us in our lives. Boy meets girl. One of them likes the other more. Sadness ensues. It doesn't mean I'm not worthy or awesome, or that I won't find someone who CANNOT BELIEVE I haven't been taken already.

Still, I think it's kind of dickish to never even ask to read anything I've written.

I mean, it's what I do.


Now everyone is up to speed. Ellie was seeing a dude who was only half-heartedly interested in her. She realized on Thursday how much that sucks, and decided that she's done with being the object of half-hearted interest.

But she still has fucking awesome friends, and that is something.


I love Nate Silver

Two confessions. 1. I am drunk. Obviously. 2. I am eating a celebratory donut. Which, actually, I don't think is a donut at all, but some kind of cruller thing. And is not very good, I am noticing. So strike #2. One. One confession.

I just walked strode across downtown from K. and R.'s, with whom I had dinner (risotto! brussel sprouts!) and three bottles of wine, and watched the election results. We got shitty, ate cheesy carbs, and talked about the craziness of their bosses, the craziness of wingnut Republicans, and the craziness of the fact that while visiting Italy, R. and K. obtained Italian citizenship by tracking down the birth records of R.'s paternal grandmother. HOW COOL. Now R. has an Italian passport and K. will get one in a couple of years, by virtue of their marriage.


I was so elated, so relieved, so inspired when I left, that I couldn't even walk at a normal pace, like a normal person. I stuck my hands deep in my hoodie (it got surprisingly cold while I was in their cozy loft, getting drunk and playing with their cats), put my headphones in, queued up I.D.G.A.F.O.S., and practically danced home to Famima to get a donut cruller.

How about that acceptance speech? Christ I love that man. I love today. I love Nate Silver. I love getting choked up, handing in an election ballot. I love watching people Instagram their "I voted" stickers. I love watching conservatives melt down and eat crow.

Heaping helpings of crow.

And I love, love, love that Elizabeth Warren won.

And now, some cats!

Edith and Jumper are the most politically savvy cats I've ever met, and that's saying a lot.

And if you're wondering whether I'm the sort of dinner guest to help out while my host is slaving over a hot stove - or the kind to lay on the floor, play with the cats, and watch, well, wonder no more!

Four more years, e'erbody! Gooooooobama!


I would like to disclaim, first and foremost, that I am drunk, drunk, drunk. Drunk blogging. An experiment. Because why not?

I haven't told all of you why I blog, and maybe someday I will. But I'll tell you right now, drunk as I am, part of how I try to blog, anyway.

Can we pause to give Ellie credit for managing to find the italics button, just then, drunk as she is? Thank you. Ok, continuing.

When I was in college, don't remember what year, kind of dragged the whole thing out to be honest, one of my creative writing teachers told me something that stuck. She said, Your writing should be a gift. You should always be giving a gift. No matter who your audience, or what your purpose. You should give something of yourself, she said. Or just find a way of expressing your idea that's particularly fresh, or funny. Innovate. Work hard to give a little extra, to your reader. Be vulnerable. Be smarter than they expected. Reveal something. Teach something. Share something beautiful.

That's what she taught me.

And for what it's worth, whether or not I'm hitting the ball, that's what I'm aiming at, people. I want to give. God, I fucking love writing. Do you know, that when I'm not writing, all I'm doing is thinking about writing? All day. That's all I think about. Things I want to write.

I'm drunk. And yet, all I want to do is write.


My friends.

I love them so much I could just cry. I am so lucky.

WeHo. Silliness. Laughter, so much laughter.

My dearest, darlingest Benji is going away to Bali soon, in just a week or so. I've not told you much about him, but he's amazing. He came to LA from Vancouver, looking to get work as a clothing designer, and do you know what he did? He basically walked in to the company he wanted to work for, bearing nothing but an incredibly intricate leather jacket that he'd created, and said, This. I can do this. Want to hire me?

And they did. And that's how he came to be here. He's so goddamn talented. And now he designs their clothing line. He also oversees production of it, in Bali.  And he designs high-end leather pieces for celebrities, which? Fun! Also, I get to sometimes be his fit model, which is far less glamorous than it sounds. It just means, lately, that I trek my ass over to the shop in the 90+ heat to try on some piece of clothing, hoping I'm not sweating too badly by the time I get there, so that he and his boss can see it on A Real Live Girl.

God I am so drunk.

Tonight. WeHo. Fubar? Micky's. The Abbey. Eventually, Akbar. Silliness and laughter and dancing. I love my friends so much. Benji is going to Bali until January, and I don't know how I'm going to survive without him. Already missing him like cray.

I want to be more coherent right now, I really do, but I can't. I'm exploding with feeling and thought and love and gratitude for the life that sometimes kicks my ass eight ways from Sunday.

And now, to reward those of you who slogged through this mortifying mess of a post, I'm going to get up, find my charger, and upload some absurd pics from tonight, before I sober up/lose my nerve.

Not that. That's not absurd The only thing absurd about that pic is how my dress is blousing out to make my breasts look like lactating double Ds. Here we go:

Yes, did you enjoy that? That's your blogmistress, hanging off of a light pole, in West Hollywood tonight, for laffs, just before the bus came to take us --- fuck, I don't remember where. Are you as shocked as me that I remain single, in spite of these obvious skills? UPDATE: Oh goody. Ben just sent me a third pic I didn't see before, best by far. Going to add it and size these bitches down, though, because good grief.

I make so many mistakes, every day. I do so, so much stupid shit. Constant self-sabotage. But the one thing I am really goddamn good at is making and keeping amazing, loving, brilliant, funny, and wonderful friends in my life.

I have to pass out now. Huzzah.