Irish Drinking Song

"And Mary MacGraegor, well she was a pretty whore
She'd always greet you with a smile and never locked her door
But on the day she died all the men in town did weep
For Mary MacGraegor finally got some sleep." --Dropkick Murphys

From one whore to another, happy St. Patrick's Day!

Bad Habits

One month with no cigarettes (drunken ones don't count) and here I sit on my porch, enjoying the psuedo-spring weather, happily puffing away. What is it about bad habits that make them so addictive and endearing? Cigarettes are like old lovers in that way. Early on, the experience of being with them is so amazing that you can't walk away. Every second that you're not with them, that's the only thing on your mind. Five minutes of action dominates 23 hours and 55 minutes of compulsive thoughts. Over time, the intense need eases. But it's still there. In the back of your mind, with thoughts of cherry pie and other vices. A one-time thrill now becomes part of the everyday. Integrated into the routine of life so much that it becomes as consistently expected as air.

One day, seemingly out of nowhere, the pleasure level isn't as high. The thrill is gone, baby. Out of habit, you continue to engage in the same behavior. Eventually, the disappointment wears you down, wears you out. Sometimes ceremoniously, but more often without fanfare, you cast your vice aside and allow the memory to fade into obscurity.

No matter how long it's been since you last indulged, when presented with your former bad habits, nostalgia surrounds you. You can remember every feeling of joy associated with it. Every moment of misery eased by it flows back too. Suddenly, it's more desirable than ever. There is uncommon intimacy in our bad habits, as they've seen us at our best and through our worst.

Indulging isn't the same once you've quit. Your likely hasn't changed, and maybe you haven't either, but your relationship to it has. It's like trying to wear your shoes from 8th grade--they don't fit quite right anymore in style or size. Still, the memory of intimacy calls you back. It's almost as good as it once was, and in the same way, almost as bad as it once was. But it's never the same.

Just Say No

I should not drink. Drinking means consuming empty calories that my body does not need. Effects can be minimized by choosing a less caloric beverages, like hard liquor mixed with diet soda. I do this. Additionally, drinking impairs ones motor functioning. I always metro or cab it if I'm drinking, so this is not issue. My motor functions while sober are, at best, questionable so this is even less of an issue. Drinking lessens cognitive functioning, and is, in essence, brain damage. Decision making capabilities are limited. As noted by The S and every one of my friends, I already make bad decisions all the time, particularly when it comes to men. Obviously, this is not the reason why I should not drink.

Although it is a depressant, alcohol overly stimulates and enhances the most chaotic functions of my mind. Rather than feeling euphoric or sleepy, I become overly anxious. Operating at an already elevated base level of anxiety, escalations produce thoughts that would appear to be totally insane to anyone else. Many people experience regret and guilt in the wake of drinking, but I experience it while drinking. Yet I continue to engage in this most self-destructive behavior.

Tonight, I am drunk. Focusing my brain's compulsions on writing is somewhat of a relief, here in the pitch black of my living room. Earlier, when no such outlet existed, my mind ran away with itself. Thoughts raced like so many intoxicated drivers on St. Patty's Day weekend. But not normal thoughts. Not "I wonder if I'll get to fuck tonight" or "I hope Joe Dirt isn't on Comedy Central again tonight." It is, by the way. Those kinds of thoughts, even those exact thoughts are there, to be certain, but the fun doesn't end there.

In the train station, I silently judge the girl who repeatedly says "fucking-a" as though replaced "ass" with it's beginning letter lessens the impact of the cuss. Or because it makes her appear cooler--"I'm so badass that I don't have to prove it by saying the entire swear word." Stupid cunt. I am superior because I say "ass" as freely as I see fit. I am inferior because she is thinner. I dub myself ultimately superior because she is with a short, fat-ish man in a blue striped button down shirt. Oh and the stupid couples I hang around with. UGH. I am superior because I am not so insecure that I require a relationship to validate my life. I do not need to express affection publicly to remind myself that I am attractive and that others should desire me. Clearly this is evident without any effort on my part. I am inferior because I will go home alone tonight, and spend this entire trek on public transportation wishing that I had someone to split designated driver duties with. Wishing that someone would wrap his arm around my waist and reassure me. Wishing that I would not return home to find an empty and dark living room, void of reassurance and comfort. Fuck that. I can self-soothe. I don't need anyone else. All I ever have for certain is myself, and that's more than ample. My pants keep falling down but every pair a try in a size smaller has a major design flaw and fails to fit. The hips are always too tight, or the calves. Why am I cursed with such big hips and calves? No man has ever commented favorably on these attributes. That girl at work has big hips, but when she walked in yesterday morning, the Friend of a Friend said that she looked like Jackie O in her sunglasses, whereas he told me that I resembled Harry Caray in mine. I wish I had some Cookie Crisp at home. I shouldn't have eaten so much at dinner, and even though I wrote every single thing down and know that each item was well within what I should have had, I regret every bite. Every bit of joy I felt swallowing that delicious ginger sauce is now morphing into self-berating. I'll walk home from the metro, rather than take a taxi. Burn off a few calories before I pass out. That's the ticket. But oh, one block off the metro, my new shoes begin cutting into my feet. Of course it's raining, and now my new shoes will be ruined. Don't spring for a taxi, just ruin the shoes I purchased only three hours ago. My feet are wet too, which pisses me off. In a way, it's always raining. Why would someone text me to say "I'm in Adams Morgan" and "Maybe we can meet up" and then not respond when I say I'm downtown? That makes no sense. Was the birthday message I wrote in that card for a coworker in December appropriate? Maybe I shouldn't have written "Enjoy those days off." That was stupid. I need to stop biting my cuticles because they look disgusting. No one will like me with fingers like this. If I had a cat, I'm sure that it would be staring at me as I write this. Wide-eyed, it would be judging me with its animal innocence. In a sense, every relationship and one-night stand I've ever had was intentionally committed on my part as fodder for a novel I will probably never write and a blog that I write poorly. These are a portion of the thoughts speeding through me now. I could go on all night, listing them as they appear and fade almost faster than I notice them. These thoughts will keep me awake tonight, and cause me to spend most of tomorrow lying face down on the couch staring at a Law & Order marathon without seeing it. And there are rocks in my shoes.

Did life Just Happen?

If life is what happens while you're busy making other plans, I must have the greatest life ever! The past week, perhaps even few weeks, have been so absurdly busy. When it rains it pours, and while I spend no less than 49 lonely Saturday nights per year on my couch wishing I had a real life, all the social events I want to attend are clustered on three or four dates. How do my friends, without knowing each other, all plan events for the same nights? Nights that aren't even holidays?!? Irrelevant. Crazy incidents have ensued, and I shall briefly highlight them here. Now.

Like a Bandit

Making out does not count as hooking up! As a real hussy, I hated it when I intently listened to people's stories about their "hook up" at a bar/party/frat house/bus stop, only to find out that by "hook up" they meant kissing and I will not be getting any of the torrid details I anticipated. How dare you disappoint me with your non-sluttiness?!?!

Since I haven't had sex since Thanksgiving, and even nuns get more ass than me, I am now most disappointed in my own non-sluttiness. Time to unleash my inner make out slut. In the past month, I've made out with at least five people. Prior to the past thirty days, that never happened to me. I haven't made out with someone that I didn't end up fucking since the 11th grade. What the hell is going on?

Drinking is Bad; Jenny Eat Something

Nothing encourages me to make out with strangers like booze. An obvious pillar of self-control, I lose most of the characteristics people normally associate with me when I drink. Expletives spew from my mouth, followed mere hours later by vomit. Okay, the first part of that is the same when I'm sober. Or is it the second? Moving on. Normally reserved and quiet to everyone who does not know me intimately, I morph into a cliche drunk girl like a werewolf.

On Sunday night, I met up with friends at what is, in my humble opinion, the greatest bar in history. First, it has no sign. Telling someone you've been there is like bragging that you know how to find it. I dig this form of elitism. Second, their beer list is significantly larger than their menu. Third, most of these beers cannot be found at other bars. Forth, their menu, though small, features fried pickles! Fifth, they have Velvet Underground and Magnetic Fields on their jukebox. Wow. Just wow. Try as I might, I could not find a single flaw in this establishment. Even though I left before the chef gave my friends free fried pickles, I'm not bitter. That's how incredible this experience was. Now no one must ever find out about this bar so that it's not ruined by asshats in argyle sweaters and hipster jeans.

Monday night, I attended a pub quiz. I think I got every single answer wrong. I also yelled "whore" at some poor man walking by on the sidewalk. I hugged the bartender because I forgot to tip him last time I was there. Hugs are almost as good for currency as dollars. I also created the greatest nickname of all time. Special shout out to my good friend Jew Box. Go me. I also managed to get so drunk that I ate four Fig Newtons, which I despise. Then I went home, sent some drunken text messages, threw up Fig Newtons, and passed out on my bed. Kneeling in front of my toilet and staring into the abyss, I realized that the most significant relationships of my life have been with a man who just moved to another state, a man who never loved me even though he knocked me up, and a man who claims to love me yet lives with another woman. Wallowing, I'm grateful I managed to apply my Go Smile. At 4 am, I woke up racked with anxiety over my intoxicated behavior. I couldn't calm down, and consequently, did not go back to sleep. To round out 24-hours of poor decision making, I attempted to kill my pain with carbs. I consumed at least an egg McMuffin, three bagels with cream cheese, a piece of cake, a cupcake, a handful of M & M's, Cheese Its, Teddy Grahams, 4 cookies, half a Butterfinger, and a granola bar. That's on top of the food I had intended to eat for the day--salad, grilled chicken, yogurt, etc. My hang over went away. My crippling self-analysis and criticisms did not.

I wish any of those men were here right now so I could tell them to get the fuck out.

Love Bites

An oval shaped purple ring at the bottom of my right ribs reminds me of my of weekend. At the center, dark purple spots seep into pink and fill up the circle. In a few days, the bruise will turn green. Then it will fade to yellow before finally disappearing, swallowed and reclaimed by my pale skin. After nearly four years, such marks are tradition. Like a ringed stain left on a coffee table by a sloppy red wine drinker, this marks me as his. Eventually erased by time and distance, the mark on my ribs and the one on his shoulder symbolize our relationship.

Oh The S. Will I ever have the capacity to sufficiently describe him? Our ephemeral interactions are framed by long periods of absence. Tender moments of intimacy and kindness are eclipsed and overshadowed by unconscionable cruelty. I've been loved and hurt more than I thought possible by this one man. This one man challenges and sustains me like no one else. In this one relationship, I understand everything and realize that I know nothing. Our time together satiates me yet leaves me craving more. Our similarly hedonistic natures allow us to inflict pleasure and suffering without remorse or regret. All that matters is the here and now, where ever we happen to be together. Against logic and the best efforts of our friends, our we continue to be fascinated by one another. Moths drawn to the flame that threatens to light them on fire. Over the course of our relationship, he's lived with two other women in PA while I have bed hopped in DC. Different though our paths maybe, my passion for him has never faded.

As much he belongs to me, I belong to him. All of me and none of me simultaneously.