Today, morbidly hungover, I am wondering why I do these things to myself, and why I don’t do others. Could that perhaps be why I do these things to myself, like getting drunk to the point of collapse – is it so that I don’t have to worry about why I don’t do those other things? You know, like getting a job, writing, building love all over this nation. And again, we are at that phrase that I have written too many journal entries already about, those two troublesome words: open and bar. I spent yesterday with Niki, seeing her new apartment, and then ate a nice home-cooked meal prepared by her before jetting off in her convertible to Chelsea where we met up with Christy, Chris, and Joe and started the free booze train, downing too many glasses of white wine in too short a time in front of really mediocre art. When that scene was over shortly after eight – yes, only eight o’clock and already well on my way to smashed – we jetted off in the convertible again, and notice how I am emphasizing our mode of transportation because this is New York, and last night, aside from maybe two cab rides, was the only time I had seen New York from the inside of a car, and so it was really novel. We jetted off to Williamsburg to attend a party at the Triple Five Soul store that was sponsored by Bacardi. There I had two huge rum and cranberries, which really were huge glasses of straight rum with a splash of cranberry juice. The fact that I drank two of them within the space of an hour speaks mountains about my desire to get trashed. If only now we can get at where this desire stems from. My consumption of two glasses of rum says even more since I was already trashed off of numerous glasses of white wine. It says even more that before that party ended at ten, I had a mojito also.
And then because why quit when there is another open bar, Niki, Joe and I trotted off to the Royal Oak where there was an open bar until eleven thirty, and supposedly bands or something, who knows really because all I cared about was free booze. It could have been panda bears doing conga dancing and I wouldn’t have cared or noticed. Really, I was way too smashed to care about anything except getting more smashed. And so yes, more drinks slammed down at Royal Oak. Joe leaving. Niki getting insulted by two boys and storming out. I followed her out, made it home, and remember nothing else until when I woke up this morning, poured myself some water at the sink and noticed some remnants of something yucky. I see bits of collards in the sink, which I ate at Niki’s last night. I assume that I must have thrown up in the sink and am glad that it was in the sink and nowhere else. I also hope that I am the one that cleaned it up and it was not Dara this morning. My roommates must think I am so disgusting.
And yes, so we are back at the Why again. Why do I get this drunk so frequently, where I am sure I am at levels that are near-fatal? Can we call it flirting with suicide, or is that too cliche, and taking too lightly serious flirtations with suicide? I am not sure how to describe it, the losing of yourself, and losing the awareness of your physical body that is caused by serious consumption of alcohol. You are a brain in a jar. Just this sensate organism floating around, delirious.
I spent the day playing around with the digital camera my mom sent me for my birthday. Yet another way for me to engage in navel-gazing. Right on, mom! And I took pictures of myself sweating out all that yucky stuff I consumed last night – gross, hungover, and sweaty lying in front of my fan. I then tried loading them on to my computer, to find out that my CD-Rom drive does not work, so I downloaded the necessary software online, loaded it all and then could still not get it to work because I think my USB port is non-operative. I tried calling the help line and after cataloguing all the problems my computer has (hey, it’s old, it’s from 1999), he told me that the problem was probably my computer. Well thanks, genius. So yes, I need a new computer one day. Let’s see . . . what else do I need? Oh yeah, I broke my cell phone big time last night. I broke the flip top ear piece and so the only way my phone works is with the hands free ear piece adapter. So yeah, I need a new phone. I still need a bike seat. I am out of contacts. Those too. And let us not talk about how I have unpaid bills and still haven’t even paid all of my June rent. Or, let’s talk about that because I am insanely broke all the time, and something really must be done. I really must get a new job that pays a wage I can live on without having to constantly fret about bills. Sadly, I heard from the Princeton Review woman that there are not any more openings there right now.
The card my mom sent along with the camera contained this sentence: “I hope you know I am very proud of you for having the courage to follow your dream.” And that made me happy to read even though I am not sure what dream it is I am following. When I moved here I think I had some. I think my mom may still think I have them. I don’t know what happened to them, or how to get new ones. I am not sure what I want to do in this, my life, really get depressed when I seriously ponder the options and happiness gets more and more elusive. I find it now in boys and booze. And I am twenty-three years old now and that depresses me because twenty-two seems like an all right age to find happiness in boys and booze, but twenty-three does not. It sounds too old to still be working at a retail job with no immediate escape plans. I have to hatch some. I have to stop spending my days off so hungover that I cannot do anything before seven o’clock. I ate a slice of eggplant pizza at Sal’s on Lorimer. It was so fucking good it made me happy.