I’m sorry I’m acting like Tara Reid today.

Fine. I’m difficult. But I blame the fact that I was born a Gemini. I was meant to be a brat. I find most people irritating, so it’s not always the best to put myself in situations where I must deal with individuals when I’m tired, cranky, had four cigarettes and five cups of coffee for breakfast and a mint for lunch while I sifted through 18 emails I couldn’t give a fuck about because I foolishly allowed Gmail push notifications on my iPhone and I have no idea how to turn that shit off because of technological retardation. It’s a disease, I promise.

I have this condition where, if someone is blindingly irritating while they’re speaking to me, my eyebrow will be raised to the point where I will be afflicted with a migraine after 20 minutes, and I judge things like heinous fuckups in their hairlines. I was raised like this, believe it or not. My family finds my incomprehensibly rude musings to be more entertaining than, well, rude as fucking hell. Trust me, the migraine I end up with is serious punishment. Migraines make me blind and then I throw up.

Anyway, I had the misfortune of making an appointment to speak to a balding doofus in an area of Chicago littered with projects and a lot of parking lots. Reason why I was doing this is beside the point, and largely unimportant and I don’t care. The building in which I wasted precious time was, apparently, a former drug den. Which totally makes sense because as I was sitting in the waiting room I delighted in peering out the window and watching a drug deal occur in the adjacent parking lot. But don’t worry, like all shit neighborhoods in Chicago, the area is “really coming back.” That just means they put million dollar condos across the street from the projects and dilapidated buildings.

When asked if I know why there are so many parking lots in the area, I said “gang violence?” I was being a dick, but apparently my answer was correct. I didn’t receive a gold star for my brilliance, which only fueled my distaste for the afternoon.

I had already given up on the day when I had attempted to balance a book, my phone, a pack of cigarettes, and a cup of coffee in one arm while walking. I failed and the coffee money shot was less than promising. Good news is, this is Chicago, so when someone screams over something, no one pays attention.

After my less than attractive public scream, I realized I had spilled half a cup of coffee in my hair, which I didn’t wash because washing my hair projects the idea that I give a damn about speaking to the person I am going to see, and this man rescheduled my appointment without even 24 hours notice, so we’re not friends. The fact that my appointment was changed from 10 AM to 3:30 PM meant I got to endure absurdly inappropriate amounts of traffic, which translated into my spending 20 extra minutes thinking about all of the specific strangers I don’t like at my gym. I don’t care how “over it” you are, dude/ma’am/whatever you are, those seats attached to weight machines aren’t for resting. There are real chairs at my gym, but, fine. You guys go ahead and sit on stuff, I’m not your mom, whatever.

I don’t know if it was an omen or something, but I naturally assumed that this blowhard I was meeting with would have a brainless wad of tackiness as a receptionist, which normally I wouldn’t be too concerned with, but I had to sit and listen to this woman loudly conduct a personal call while I was waiting in a room which was decorated oddly similar to Southwest Airlines. I’m in my mid-twenties, so I’m a bit taken aback by someone in their 40s spelling out “fuck” instead of just flat out saying it. Did she think I was 6? I look younger than I am, but I won’t flatter myself into thinking my skin is as perfect as it was in 1995. Also I can most certainly figure out what “F-U-C-K” spells, as I dropped that word a few times during my actual appointment. The receptionist also seemed a bit concerned with something that was “hella bougie ass” in the office, and I’m just going to assume that she was talking about me, the only one in the waiting room aside from a man in sweatpants who was talking about chairs to no one in particular. Sweatpants aren’t bougie, and I happened to have shown up in an unfortunately “bougie ass” outfit I bought when I was drunk and bored in Laguna Beach. There’s not much to do in Laguna Beach.

I’m not normally a total twat when I first meet people. In fact, I’m usually fairly sweet unless I get the feeling that you’re full of lies/trying to kill me/have something weird locked in your basement/grew up in that part of New Jersey responsible for the comeback of neon pink and leopard print. I’m also less than thrilled with anyone who has a poor handshake. Be it weak, limp, dainty or sweaty, if it’s anything less than firm and assertive, I suspect you’re hiding something. And this man I was meeting seemed to be hiding something. He also had very small hands and was profusely sweating. Very small men make me uneasy because of that whole Napoleon Complex thing I’ve heard so much about. We get it, you’re mad, Tom Cruise wears lifts and stands on Oprah’s couch to combat this problem so there’s hope for you. That was a word used to describe me today – “combative.” At that point I said “I’m irritated.” Then quit speaking.

I now understand why Naomi Campbell threw that phone at her maid’s head. I don’t have a maid, but I totally get it. I was probably just too tired to reach my hand into my coat pocket to get my phone and throw it. But my migraine was setting in a little at the time so I figured I deserved a rest.

I haven’t gone blind or thrown up yet, but the day is still relatively young.

Anecdotal information to solidify the theory that I’m terrible.

I spent a large chunk of my life being absurdly embarrassing, so it’s pretty hard for me to actually get embarrassed by anything these days. And unlike Taylor Swift, I know I’m the problem. So here is a list of embarrassing things I have done or said in my lifetime that shows that I might just suck:

I flicked myself in the eye to get out of Sunday school. I was in second grade and hated Sunday school because, it’s Sunday school, so whilst my mother was at work and my father was in charge, I flicked myself in the eye. I scratched my cornea and told my mother that I “ran into a doorknob” because that seemed less embarrassing. I had to wear glasses for six months. I also briefly had an eyepatch. But I didn’t have to go to Sunday school, and that’s what’s important here.

A bike cop tried to arrest me at NIU. I was 21 and stupid drunk, and when I’m stupid drunk I like to take walks. This walk landed me in front of a frat house. Said frat house had giant gold lions and giant gold animals are cool if you’re a drunk idiot. I tried to take one, however, it was too heavy for my lady arms. I was also still holding a can of Bud Light. A bike cop strolled up and yelled at me, so I laughed and went to go on my merry way. But no, he wanted me to pour my beer out and he lectured me about something I don’t remember. Being a total idiot, I said “What, are you going to arrest me and put me on your handlebars?” I ran away muttering about how dumb everything is and opened another beer.

I gave myself a concussion. Ice is fucking stupid.

I put a peanut butter sandwich in the VCR. I was a small child, I’m not sure why I did this, as I have a vague recollection of telling my mother that I’d totally eat peanut butter sandwiches all the time forever and ever. Incidentally I don’t really eat peanut butter as an adult. I ruined the VCR.

I cut my hair off with sewing scissors. At age three, I had lovely, long dark blonde hair. Mom was sewing something ridiculous and giving me scraps of fabric to cut up, because I loved to cut shit up as a child. She stopped giving me scraps, I got bored, and chopped my hair off to my chin. I wanted more attention, so I went up behind my mother and cut her hair to her chin, too. Twinsies! I cried at the hair salon thinking they would glue my hair back on. And then my hair turned brown over the next couple months. This lead to an identity crisis where I refused to look in reflective surfaces.

I cut my hair off with cuticle scissors. I was really bored after school when I was 15, and also really tired as I hadn’t slept in over 24 hours (finals probably). This lead to thinking such as “Perhaps it is time to have bangs again.” My sister wouldn’t share the regular scissors so I worked with what I had. I chopped some bangs with the cuticle scissors real quick, took a nap, and woke up with the immediate thought of “Shit, what did I do.” I figured dyeing my hair burgundy would fix this. It didn’t.

For many years I thought Melissa Etheridge and Rod Stewart were the same person. It’s still really fucking hard to tell them apart. Same goes for Jodie Foster and Helen Hunt.

The first time I figured I was depressed, I was 13, and it was because Taylor Hanson got married. He has so many kids now and I just don’t understand how life ended up this way. Also, he bumped into me really hard once and didn’t apologize.

I got really drunk on Christmas Eve when I was 20 and told the whole room that my great aspiration in life is to be a Revolutionary War reenactor. No good excuse for that one, except I fucking love The Patriot. Everyone just looked at me weird so I said “Fine, you guys don’t get it. Go ahead and think I’m weird. I’m going to go sit on the porch.” Even the neighbors thought I was weird and their kid actually was a war reenactor. This is actually why I don’t drink white wine very often.

I got really drunk on Christmas Eve when I was 23 (Ok, last Christmas Eve) and gave my 11 year old cousin a lecture about boys. I know nothing about dating, nothing. I date like a frat douche. I judge men on their shoes. When men hit on me I give them fake names. I gave up halfway through the lecture because the booze hit me so I just put on Pretty In Pink and told her to watch it and figure it out.

I nearly lost the bottom of my bikini after jumping off of a boat. The boat was full of 14 year old boys. I was 19. This was not the best scenario for me. At least I ended up tan.

I called one of my teachers “Dad.” I was really fucking tired and you cannot send a little tired child to school and expect nothing to happen because of it. He made fun of me. I was in third grade.

I got hit in the head really hard with a tennis ball during practice in high school because I was staring at a boy for some reason. My coach said “And that’s what you get for having hormones.” He said this loudly. In hindsight, the getting hit in the head with a ball part wasn’t so embarrassing, as I have been hit in the head with a basketball, a baseball, a softball, a golfball, a soccer ball, a hockey puck, a kickball/dodgeball, the ball I used to throw for my dogs, a football, a volleyball, a frisbee, and a goddamn birdie.

“It’s so swollen I couldn’t fit a dick in there if I tried.” I said this to my mother, about my jaw, at a family Christmas party. I was sober.

I read a Twilight book in public. I was also wearing Uggs and jeans. A friend saw me, said “I’m so mad at your outfit right now,” and no one saw me for the next eight months because I went off the grid and left the country and didn’t tell anyone. I’m really sad that someone’s last memory of me for more than half a year was Twilight and Ugg boots.

I jumped into Lake Michigan at night, while drunk. Not my finest hour. I had a life vest on, but I ripped it off and threw it.

I hugged a cab driver. He listened to me complain about my weird ~love life.~ That deserves an embrace. But if I ever do that again I hope I’m not wearing a rubber miniskirt.

I had a sexy dream about Brody Jenner and I told people about it. I watched a marathon of Laguna Beach and that was the result. Also the dream wasn’t so much sexy as it was a mashup of Laguna Beach and that scene from Jackass where Steve-O puts shrimp in his mesh bathing panties.

I accidentally kissed my stalker. I was also wearing a party dress. I ended up puking in the middle of the street 15 minutes later so I think everything worked out how it was supposed to.

I think leggings are pants. I have a big butt, okay.

Sometimes when my phone rings I just stare at it. I hate talking on the phone because I like to do things constantly. Maybe I’d like to pee, maybe I’d like to shower, maybe I just hate you. It’s really hard to be on the phone during these times.

When I was 17 I laughed at a boy I hated for asking me to prom. I will say the laughter was an accident, but considering how it went down, I couldn’t control myself. I had been complaining about something in my eye, so he said “Maybe it’s a sign.” “A sign of what, that I’m going blind?!” “No… a sign that I want to go to prom with you.” Cue laughter, rejection, and me asking a boy I actually liked to go with me, and proceeding to go with him instead.

My best friend called me and said in response to my behavior over spring break “You were ACTING like a frat douche? You ARE a frat douche.” She’s right. Considering I was in the woods wearing nothing but a bikini and a leather jacket wielding a machete. I woke up one morning in a bikini, and woke up the next morning fully dressed. I’m also really good at beer bongs and beer pong and that kind of lowers my self esteem. That is, until I outdo an actual frat douche.

Sometimes after I go on a date with a guy, I block him on Facebook. To be fair, if I suspect you’re a serial killer because you stared at me without blinking for an hour while complimenting my teeth repeatedly, that’s uncomfortable for me. Also if you’re 33 and take me to FLAT IRON and spend two hours saying how “cute” it is that I’m 23 and proceed to “when I was your age” me, I hate you. If you went out with my sister once, that’s weird. If you take me with you to your AA meeting, I’m probably hungover. Because of this I haven’t accepted a date in several months.

I’m mad 50 Cent didn’t respond to me on Twitter. I had a question, which was simply “Why on earth is your cologne not called 50 Scent?” Which, is quite an important thing to wonder. If Devon Sawa can retweet me for being funny/appreciating Die Hard, 50 Cent can answer my thoughtful and deep inquiries.

When a guy I know, who has a girlfriend, sent me a dick pic, I took a screenshot. I have no real intentions with this piece of blackmail, but I did send it to my gay friend. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again, what the fuck am I supposed to do with a dick pic? Send back “OH YEAH BABY, NICE CIRCUMCISION JOB!”?

I get irrationally angry when men think I have crushes on them. Are you Taylor Hanson? No? Then no crush. But to be perfectly honest, I am the pickiest human being when it comes to men. I get legitimate crushes on guys once every few years, and I’ve almost always ended up dating them, so my instincts are pretty good. Except for some reason almost everyone I’ve dated has a back tattoo. Do I need a therapist for that one? I don’t believe in therapists. They can’t prescribe funny pills.

When I was a bartender, I clocked a guy while I was working, then proceeded to go back to work. He shoved me because I used the men’s bathroom and he had to pee, but the line for the women’s bathroom was too long and I had not yet realized I could be like fuck yall I work here so I’m cutting in line. So, when he shoved me, I hit him and went back to business. He tried to order a drink from me five minutes later so I told him to go fuck himself.

I turn into a feral Marissa Cooper when I’m allowed to drink too much. I’ll say the hot tub is too deep, I’ll spend an hour on the phone and tell people “don’t worry about it” when they ask who I’m talking to, and I’ll go to sleep in my swimsuit.

I judge my peers when they constantly change their relationship statuses on Facebook. You were engaged last week, you were single the week before, you’re “it’s complicated” now… I’m confused, but I also think anyone who is ever “it’s complicated” on Facebook is a tool. I hide my relationship status because fuck you guys.

I can’t keep plants alive. I killed a BAMBOO plant that my exboyfriend gave me. After we broke up, I kept looking at it and saying “What, do you expect me to water you with my tears? Fuck off.” So, it died.

My college advisor told me that one of my teachers hated me because I’m “classically pretty and remind him of his first wife.” This isn’t my fault, right?

I am basically Snow White when it comes to animals. I have four squirrels who come up to me like puppies waiting to be fed everyday. Also, a possum.

I drank two dirty martinis while writing this. Shit happens.

Hair flips don’t work in court.

It is absolutely not news to anyone how completely heinous my luck with vehicles has been over the last two years. But somehow I have avoided getting a speeding ticket from the moment I got my license at 16, until last month. I’m not used to driving in the suburbs, and I have been repeatedly told by friends of mine who live in suburban areas that the cops are “total dickheads” and will pull you over for even going a teensy bit over the speed limit. Being fooled into the concept that I’m totally invincible, I let this information go in one ear and out the other. So fun time for me when I was pulled over at 2 am, in Addison, on the fucking highway, for going 76 in a 55.

I’m a firm believer in the idea that, if you are going to drive somewhere, you may as well drive there fast. My father goes 90 on the highway because “that’s how men drive.” I agree with him, and while I’m not a man, I’m essentially treated as his son so I prefer to go 80. I am very rarely late for things because of this.

Anytime I have been pulled over for speeding, or in River Forest as it was called “reckless driving,” I’ve gotten out of it with occasionally not even a fucking warning. I may attribute this to my mindless default to flipping my hair, putting on a sweet voice, and pushing my chest out. I realize this is a terrible thing for anyone to do, but it’s a survival tactic. Like a female lion attacking someone for touching her baby lions, I guess. Ok maybe that’s different. Sometimes my hair looks like a lion’s mane in the morning though.

But this particularly bullshit evening in December, this suburban cop wasn’t having any of my shit. I’m never mean to cops, and this case was no exception. I was sweeter than a fucking fawn, which I understand is probably hard for anyone who knows me to picture. Douche was a douche, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with me, but he delighted in taking it out on me. He asked if I was “driving my daddy’s car,” figured that the damage on the front of my car was from my “ladylike driving,” and asked how many speeding tickets I’ve “racked up.” I told him the car is mine, someone hit it with a baseball bat in Wicker Park, and I’ve never had a speeding ticket in my life. So Officer Fuckwit smiled ear to crooked ear under his beady little lobster eyes and said “Okay, you hold on. I’ll be right back.” After about 20 minutes of sitting on the side of the highway when I could have been home drinking tea and watching TV in sweatpants, the cop comes back and hands me a $140 ticket and a notice for a goddamn court date. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU TOO, DOUCHEFUCK.

So this morning I had the luxury of crawling out of bed after two hours of sleep and dragging myself out to Addison to sit in a room with common criminals. I did get a mild kick out of the fact that my name was on a list marked “CRIMINAL DIVISION,” and because disgruntled mothers carting their juvenile delinquents were giving me the evil eye as if I had kidnapped a poodle or something, not simply acquired a speeding ticket. Officer Goofnugget spent the majority of the court time giving me funny looks.

To top off my morning, I had chosen today, of all days, to quit smoking. So I started off the day in a funny mood. A sweet little old lady had to point me in the direction of the courtroom because, excuse me, I may be a bit of a wild beast on occasion, but I’ve never done anything wrong enough to result in arrests or court dates, so I was as confused as a lamb underwater. Someone’s probation officer proclaimed, in all sincerity, “I love elevator music.” My reaction, obviously, was to tweet that. Because I am a soulless social media harlot.

A man with obscenely greased back hair glided into the hallway, which was dim, with his sunglasses still glued to his oily face. He sauntered on past all of the poor souls (myself included) who were perched on the bench, and tried to get into the courtroom. I fought off telling him “Yeah, the courtroom is totally unlocked and we are just sitting in the hall for funsies.” I hadn’t had enough coffee for this shit yet. I was also extremely concerned with how closely people were sitting next to me on a bench that was 20 feet long. I can’t exactly tweet about how you wore Ugg boots to court when you’re sitting in my lap.

Once we were all forced into the room and some little man in a beige suit began listing off and consequently butchering the fuck out of all of our names (I am starting to assume everyone who reads my name out loud incorrectly has fucking dyslexia), we were ordered to stand in the most pathetic line of irritated individuals. Basically we all stood there for 20 minutes in order to stand in front of an aging Arnold Schwarzenegger-esque judge who dyes his hair for 30 seconds and plead guilty. And because I am mindlessly terrible, I used my sweet voice on the judge, accidentally flipped my hair and said “I mean, I guess I plead guilty,” and I smiled at him like a twat. He smiled back and now I have to pay $180.

Hair flips don’t work in court.

Officer GuyWhoHatesHimself was obviously delighted that I still had to pay, and his gleeful “I’m a pee drinking crapface” grin was largely unappreciated. Especially the fact that, as an adult man, he giggled at me as I was exiting the courtroom.

Lesson learned. Never get pulled over in a crew neck sweater ever again.

I think I’m having a quarter life crisis: What the fuck is an adult?

Let’s pretend for a moment that I’m not a totally self-involved tool bag. This may be hard for most people. Clearly, as someone who completely loves and abuses the hell out of social media forums to discuss myself, I am kind of a tool bag. But that’s also because I’m in my mid-twenties and I freak out about every little aspect of my daily life. I’m just confused and I want attention for being confused. I want to talk about it. I want to Twitter it. I want to Facebook and Instagram it. I want someone to burn my laptop and my cellphone when I die.

I think I’m having a midlife crisis. Or, I suppose, a quarter life crisis. And I really hate that my mom is ignoring it.

See, at 23 (and a HALF) I would expect more of myself. If you traveled back in time and asked 14 year old me where she expected to be at 23 (and a half) she would have probably assumed life would be more glamorous than sitting in sweatpants and a fur coat, drinking cold coffee and eating a confusingly hot avocado. She would also have assumed that at this age, last night’s makeup wouldn’t still be making an appearance.

My crisis seems to revolve around the idea that I think I am a “fake adult.” Being a fake adult means, essentially, that age-wise, I am an adult. I am fully capable of doing all of those adult things like running my errands, doing my laundry, cleaning up after myself, and attempting to marry rich like my father wants me to. But my freak out is going further than just taking eight vitamins everyday and wanting to go to Ikea because I think my living quarters are a little too My So-Called Life.

I keep second guessing my life choices. Like, okay, I don’t think I need to have a nose ring anymore. But then I get freaked out again because everyone says I look like I’m 17, and I figure the face metal at least brings me to 18. I passed for 21 at 15 so this doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think I need to smoke cigarettes anymore because it feels like a chore, but also a crutch for when I’m bored. And I don’t think I should have the time to be bored.

I think I’m freaking out because I subconsciously miss college and finally figure I should get a real job. You know, a job that gives you like, benefits, or something. If that’s what real jobs do. I have to be able to use this fucking piece of paper for something. Or maybe I wasted five years of my life in art school when I should have just done what my parents wanted and gone to a sports-obsessed university, majored in something I probably would have died of boredom from (wait, I did that), and “not dated pussies,” as some of my family has put it.

No less than ten people I know got engaged last week. And last week I got drunk at a family party and everyone thought my gay friend was my boyfriend. People I know keep having babies. I just keep having good hair days and I scowled at a child recently. I can’t make out with that one guy anymore because he got married or something. One of my friends said something cruel to me recently and said she doesn’t think I’m “the type” to get married. I don’t know where she gathered that one. But my guy friends seem to be worried too and said I’ve been dating like a dude. I don’t know, I thought that “hit it and quit it” was a term that made sense at the time.

I laid on the floor today and told my mom I should probably buy clothes that aren’t black sometimes. And that all I want to do is listen to rap and Blink 182. Nobody likes you when you’re 23.

I just think it’s weird for someone of my age to still be running around in spandex, muscle tees, bikini tops, combat boots and leopard print fur coats. Drinking 40s and chainsmoking with my friends. I should get an adult wardrobe. But I don’t know what that is and I’m not about to wear a polo shirt unless it has something funny on it like a tiger wearing a tiny hat or whatever. Maybe I will buy a pair of jeans for the first time in four years.

I look like an idiot who goes out too much. I don’t want anyone to know how often I go out. I go out too much. But I’m scared of being boring. I hate attention but I also hate not having attention. Am I still supposed to be this nuts at 23?

I’m not at that point of having a life crisis where I think it’s time to buy a Harley and dye my hair like a lot of suburban dads like to do. Although I do consider that whole “blonde” thing a lot. But mostly so I can be incognito for five minutes until I Instagram it.

I’m questioning my whole demeanor and have come to the conclusion that I’m an idiotic mid-twenties baby person. I still won’t eat meat if there’s fat on it. But I’ve finally realized that if a guy smells like trash I shouldn’t want to make out with him just because he’s cute. Now I don’t want to make out with anyone because everyone smells like trash. And men are acting like girls lately. They like, cry and get mad if you don’t call them back. And then they call you ten times. I don’t get it. I don’t get ANYTHING.

I don’t understand how people do their taxes or get impregnated or sit in cubicles or budget themselves. Clearly I don’t know how to budget properly if my version of budgeting is figuring out how to allocate my money to spandex, heels, crop tops, cigarettes and red lipstick and still manage to go out with my friends.

I have no guidance. I actually think I completely missed out on formal guidance of any kind. I’d say the guidance counselor in high school tried, but all she did was pull me out of a math test to tell me that she feels I’m “a bit eccentric.” I failed that test. My college advisor told me one of my teachers hated me because I’m “classically pretty and remind him of his first wife.” I failed that class and ran away to Los Angeles for a bit. Which didn’t make any sense but, again, zero guidance. I have to guide myself. And guiding myself with a suitcase full of hundred dollar bills and six inch heels didn’t exactly work out well for me.

I don’t know what it means to be a “real adult.” I assume it’s simply someone who does things on their own and pays for their lives and doesn’t allow mom and dad to make their decisions. I mean, I can’t remember the last time my parents made a decision for me. I don’t even run my decisions past them. I just do what I think is best, and tell them about it after the deed is done. They don’t like this, but I cut the umbilical cord pretty early and I can’t even get my mom to call me back most of the time. For someone who still has to live with her parents, I really don’t see either of them often. Sometimes my dad texts me to make sure I’m not dead or to ask when I think I’ll be waltzing through the front door. I always say “I don’t know,” because I never know anything. And since I made the step to getting voicemail, I never answer my phone anymore unless I have plans with the person calling me.

It took me almost ten years to get voicemail. And once I got it, some British guy I met left me a voicemail and seemed kind of offended when he came to see me at work and mentioned that I didn’t call him back. I didn’t know people you just met got really butthurt over voicemails going unnoticed, but, I don’t know how to check my voicemail. So, I’m sorry. I’m trying to learn! For someone who really loves the Internet I’m really horrible with anything and everything technological. The day I gave in and got an iPhone, I was so intrigued by it that I sat staring at it for two hours, silently. My father looked at me and said I should buy an iPhone everyday. He said this because I was unusually quiet.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s a “real adult” move to learn how to shut the hell up. I am so bad at controlling my mouth. My mother seems to think that, in the way of girls saying “like” every other word, I say “fuck” every other word. My father says if I don’t learn how to control what comes out of my mouth, then I will never marry rich and he will be sorely disappointed. I told him I am a bad investment.

I suppose it would be the correct course of action to get a journalism job of some kind since I wasted my life studying that dying craft. I don’t know how to go about that, anyway. A friend asked me this morning “Well, have you done any networking?” Everyone I know is a musician/DJ/bartender. I don’t know many journalists.

I tried to get a day job once. It went to the 35 year old wearing flared, lightwash jeans and flip flops. I am not cut out for this injustice. I tried to be on reality TV twice. MTV told me I was too weird and Bad Girls Club thought I was too nice.

I’m still on my parents health insurance for the next two and a half years. I abuse that insurance. I have a doctor’s appointment again today because I hit my head like an idiot. I still refuse to wear a coat when I go out at night because I don’t want to carry it. I expect a violent cold or the flu to hit me soon. I took one of my vicodin pills prescribed for my head just for funsies. That’s retarded. My mother said she thinks I am retarded. She also doesn’t think I wear underwear which is a justified assumption but completely wrong.

Maybe dad is right. Maybe I should cut my losses and marry rich. Viagra Triangle, here I come!

I like being alone.

People are scared of being alone, it seems. I’ve rarely felt the need to be around throngs of other people, for the simple fact that I attract trouble. I’m a magnet for all things wrong and weird and uncouth. If I spend an evening alone, all to myself, without another word to someone other than myself, I wake up content and I avoid any headaches brought on by regret.

At 18 we’d travel places in large groups. “Rolling 30 deep,” they’d say. Someone always ended up fighting or crying or getting lost in a drunken haze. I just wanted to be alone.

I tend to always feel as if I’m in trouble. Not just a silent twinge of discontent, telling me I did something wrong. In fact, I could have done absolutely nothing wrong, and I will wake up feeling as though my insides had been shaken by a torrential, shameful earthquake. I used to avoid that by waking up with other people. If I was attached to another human being throughout the evening, anything weird or unimaginable didn’t just happen to me, it happened to them, too. There was a shared experience. But doing that often, it turns into a crutch. It turns into a need for human interaction, which leads to ignoring yourself. And not only do I not want to ignore myself, I don’t want to have to use another person to make me feel comfortable.

When I’m alone I don’t ignore myself. I get stressed, sure. I stress myself thinking of all of the things I want to accomplish on my own, the things that I feel are imperative to my own existence. I get frightened, you see. Frightened that at my age I should have more accomplishments under my belt than I currently do. Which is also a spillover of growing up without an understanding of praise. I don’t need praise, really. It makes me feel like a trained golden retriever. Especially due to the accomplishments I have, I simply assume that these are things that are required of me. A requirement is not an accomplishment, I suppose. I was embarrassed over the fuss made from high school graduation, and college graduation. So for the latter I sat silently poking my salad at dinner while sucking down two dirty martinis. To rain on the parade of those in attendance who asked what I planned to do post-graduation, I said “Get drunk, write a book.” But they thought I was being funny. Because everyone always thinks I’m being funny. Unless I’m actually being funny, then by all means, please take me seriously. This is why I like to be alone.

So I tried to be alone.

I got drunk, got on a plane, went somewhere else, got drunk, came back, got drunk and barely wrote. I was never alone for months. Which is backwards as I was supposed to be alone, single, for the first time since I was a teenager. Needless to say, nothing of importance was done during this time. I cannot do important things unless I’m alone. I spent a lot of time lying on the floor with other people, drunk off of $8 whiskey and explaining that I need to get out of here again. I need to be alone.

I like to do that. I like to “get out of here.” But I like to do it alone. Because I feel like a wimp, a child, if I can’t at least leave by myself. It’s an itch I get every now and then. I tried to run away a lot as a child, but I would always end up hiding up in a tree until darkness fell or driving my Barbie Jeep down the block only to remember that I forgot my blanket.

Recently I contemplated leaving on my own again, because I realized how easy it is to be alone in a foreign place.

People are trouble. They bring me trouble. They pull words out of me, they create situations. I turn the situations weird, because that’s what happens when I’m not alone. Things get weird. Solitude is my security blanket. I can do and say anything I want with the safety of knowing that nothing will come of it. No one else will know a single thing. I find that thrilling, more interesting. No one is interested by something that can be easily read. Ease is comfortable, sweatpants are comfortable. No one is interested in sweatpants.

I like to be alone because my best quality is that of being a “destroyer.” I destroy things. I break things on accident; electronics, glasses, my bones, my car, my mind. It’s always an accident. I’m not purposefully reckless, you know. I’m not Lindsay Lohan. That bitch has a purpose and her purpose is to destroy everything she touches. Bitch knows she’s doing it. I don’t know if I’m doing it or not. Well, I know when I break something physical. Because I accompany it with a loud groan and an eye roll that says “not again.” Most of my things are broken. I bought an iPod and spilled liquid all over it. I fried my last one. I broke my last phone by dropping it on concrete too often. I dropped my laptop this morning.  It bounced.

I wreck things and then spend my time telling myself that I’m an idiot. A guy recently told me that I have to stop thinking I’m an idiot. I have to stop telling myself and other people that I’m an idiot. I have to stop apologizing for being an idiot. He told me “You’re not an idiot.” I told him “You just met me.”

I think I’m an idiot.

What makes me an idiot is my lack of control. I’m like a wild animal. If even 1% of me wants to do something, I’m going to do it. That’s called impulsivity, and idiots tend to be very impulsive.

Idiots should probably be alone sometimes.

The word “no.”

The word “no” sucks. Everyone knows that. We hate being told no and no one listens to me when I say the word. Sometimes when I hear the word “no” I feel a sense of panic. Almost every time I tell someone no when they ask me to do something, I’m fought on it. Maybe that’s why I hate “no” so much. Because it’s useless when I use it, so I don’t understand why other people get to use it and have it take meaning. Not to be a brat, even though my tattoo literally says otherwise, but I was never used to hearing the word “no” from anyone other than my parents when I really wanted something. So yes, I’ll panic like a kitten dropped into a bathtub if it’s said to me. Another character flaw that takes a little work to kill.

“No” is a two letter word, four if you’re German, and I don’t know any other languages so I have no idea about anything else. A two letter word, almost impossible to misspell, and yet it’s the worst word ever. Some might argue “cunt” is worse, but, I kind of like that one. There’s a nice ring to it and it was quite useful when I had road rage. My road rage has turned into quiet mumbling such as “Aw, come on, man. I wish you didn’t cut me off that really sucks.” Life without an anger problem is kind of docile.

I hate when people tell me no because it proves that I don’t have control over the situation. When I don’t have control over a situation I get scared, vulnerable, I suppose. And when I get scared I panic. My cheeks will either become very hot or ice cold, I don’t have control over that either.

The first time a guy told me no, when I was 18, I had the brain explosion known as “Huh? What? You can’t be serious.” Which is completely fucking bratty. But I was a teenager, so I would have to say I was a bit of a brat. Essentially my reaction to being told no was similar to the scene in Heathers when Heather Chandler reacts to Jason Dean telling her the “hangover cure” he was holding was too intense for her. She felt she needed to prove herself, and she called him a jerk. But then she yelled “Corn nuts!” after drinking drain cleaner, and she died, and that’s not something I’ve pulled yet. But give me some time on that one, because I subconsciously attempt to recreate movie scenes with my life. So far this has been a bit of a mess but I haven’t willingly watched a movie made after 1990 in a while, so my references are a bit dated. Which is kind of a pathetic thing for someone born in the late 80s to say.

I hate hearing no so much that on a recent evening I had to explain to a friend that I hate admitting to people that they hurt my feelings. Because saying “You really hurt my feelings,” is something I’ve personally always said no to.

I’m a fucking (intelligent) moron.

Recently in a social setting I was discussing my bullshit writing with some random flannel-clad stranger from a boring state, and I threw in that most of my writing seems to stem from me being a total fucking moron, for lack of better words. He, who had spent a whopping 20 minutes talking to me for some reason, told me to stop referring to myself as a moron, idiot, stupid person, etc, because from what he could tell, I’m “fairly intelligent.” I responded with “You just met me.” He was kind of a douche so I stopped talking to him (but not before I told him that I think he’s a douche). Not only that, but I left the drink he bought me, untouched, on the table and slipped out the front door of the bar because I didn’t even ask for a stupid drink and I wanted to go watch My So-Called Life.

I don’t know why I was talking to him in the first place. I think I thought he was cute in a generic “I shop at The Gap” kind of way and apparently I have some semblance of “game.” Which I don’t understand because I’m not only a moron but I’m also kind of an asshole. But so was he, as he was mean to my friend so she called him Blake. Because his name was kind of like that. And with a name like that, I’m just reminded of Duckie in Pretty In Pink when he says “His name is Blane? Oh! That’s a major appliance, that’s not a name!”

I just hate when people ask me what I “do” when they meet me. I get that that’s the thing to do in social settings when you meet people, but I just got out of the realm of asking “So what’s your major?” Also I sound like a total fucking scumbag when I tell people I write. They ask “So what do you write about?” And my only answer to that question is “Myself.” I couldn’t sound like a bigger asshole. And now I’ve just realized why I only attract assholes.

But the conversation with Blake/Blane/Flannel Douche did make me think about the fact that I do, on a daily basis, point out to myself that I’m an idiot. This is because I do and say a lot of things that idiots do and say. I lack a brain to mouth filter, so I will say anything and everything that I think with little control over what it is. I think this is genetic. I also think this is a problem. Men tell me what spills out of my mind is not ladylike. I tell them to suck my dick.

I also know I’m intelligent. But I’m still an idiot. I hope one day to not be an idiot, but a lot of idiots hope that and a lot of idiots die idiots. I might die an idiot. I might die because I’m an idiot. I still don’t know if everyone else is an idiot or not. Maybe they’re better at hiding the fact that they’re idiots. I’m terrible at it. Everyone knows I’m an idiot because I’m a giant idiot. I’m an honest idiot, though. I’m too honest, I think. But that’s what happens when you’re an idiot. Incidentally I lie very well for an idiot. It’s my survival tactic. Like, flannel-clad guy, I lied about my name. I almost always give strangers fake names. Because sometimes I’m such an idiot that I let them have my phone number, but I’m at least smart enough to know that if I gave them a fake name, when they call me I’m not lying if I say “I don’t know anyone named Peaches.” Because yes I’ve told someone my name was Peaches. He was wearing Ed Hardy though, so, there’s no way I’d be honest with that mess. Or give that mess my phone number.

I think I have a moron complex. I’m terrified that everyone else thinks I’m a moron, so I point it out first. Perhaps you could say I’m self conscious about my level of intelligence, like I’m “doin’ it wrong.” I’ve just always assumed, regardless of how intelligent I think I am, that I don’t convey it properly. I’m well aware that I can come off as a complete and total fucking moron when first meeting people. Even when meeting people a second time. Perhaps a third, depending if I’m intimidated or not. My mind malfunctions. I’ll say really weird things that make it appear as if my brain is full of holes like a piece of fucking Swiss cheese. I will embarrass myself.

Rest assured, if I’ve ever said something stupid to you, I remember it. I remember it as if it happened five seconds ago. I can barely remember what days Easter, Labor Day or Memorial Day fall on, but I totally remember that time I yelled something stupid at you because I’m an idiot. And yes, I’m still embarrassed, if you’re wondering. I also don’t coddle myself for being an idiot. I will find ways to justify my moronic logic, or justify an interest in something or someone I have no business being interested in, but if I do something stupid I will constantly tell myself I’m stupid for doing something so stupid.

This is probably a character flaw. It’s a high degree of self-deprecation. You see, I started owning up to being a fucking moron because of two things: I’m in my moronic 20s, and I used to be such a deliberate asshole to other people that “pulling a 180” from that behavior made me into an asshole towards myself. Sure, I’m nice to myself frequently. I’ll tell myself to calm down or remind myself that whatever I’m stressed out about, I probably won’t give much of a shit in a month or two, but I do have to keep working on not telling myself everyday “You’re really stupid.” Sometimes I’ll be sweet to myself and change it to “You’re really acting stupid.” Because being stupid and acting stupid aren’t the same things.

The issue here is control. I’ve had people trying to control me for such a long period of time that, by the time I got away from that, I forgot how to do it myself. So, I turned into a fucking moron. It’s really hard for a moron to rebuild, you see. Sometimes I am literally dumbfounded by the abilities other people have to do stuff. Oh you’re doing your taxes? How in the fuck do you do taxes? I’ve never actually looked at a tax form because I’m bad with numbers. I was explaining to a guy a few months ago how bad I did in a basic college math course. I told him “I’m mathematically retarded.” He told me not to be so hard on myself. That’s a phrase I’ve heard at least a dozen times in the past several months. Because I’ve been more open about my stupidity. Apparently I’m not stupid, according to them. Also no one likes a self-deprecating idiot, especially me. It makes me very tired and I don’t have the time to get in a decent night of sleep.

So I should just stop being a fucking moron. I fear no one would let a girl on reality TV if she’s not a fucking moron, though. And because I’m a fucking moron, I really want to be on reality TV. Use your judgment on deciphering if that’s a real life goal or not. I don’t tell anyone my “hopes and dreams.” That’s not really a topic people ask about. They just like to ask what your major is, or what you “do.”

Weird shit I’ve said during breakups.

I say dumb things. A lot of the time. Depending on who you ask, it’s probably most of the time, or all the time. But I’ll just leave it at occasionally. I’m especially dumb when it comes to breaking up with people, regardless if I’m the one doing the “breaking” or not. It’s just a skill I never managed to perfect, so regardless of the situation, something weird is going to fall out of my face hole and I’ll be apologizing for more than the whole “I’m dumping you” thing.

So here is a short list of just some of the really stupid things that have fallen out of my mouth during a breakup with boyfriends or casual dates:

“Dating you is kind of weird, I mean, you just freak out a lot and just really like your skateboard… And that time you picked me up and wouldn’t put me down, and like, tickled me, that SUCKED.”

I was 14, and my then-boyfriend (who I am barely certain still exists due to lack of Internet presence), would freak out at the premise of holding my hand. He would try to do it, and then essentially squeal like a little girl who just caught a glimpse of Justin Bieber’s underwear. It was painfully awkward. And it’s not like dating at 14 isn’t awkward enough. You can’t even drive yourself on a date. Your mom has to drop you off at like, the fucking mall. So that’s what we did. My mom dropped me off at a mall near Downer’s Grove, he met up with me and just carried his skateboard everywhere and tried to pick me up and tickle me. It was horrible. I’ve never met anyone more ticklish than myself, so, way to try to make me pee, weirdo. And picking me up? Fuck. I was 5’8″ at the time so I was far enough from the ground. Please, don’t take me higher.

I vaguely recall the week before total teenage relationship demolition day, I mentioned how he totally looked like John Cusack in Sixteen Candles and he responded with “What’s that?” Did I break up with him because of that? Probably. I was 14. Did I agree to go out with him because of the John Cusack resemblance? Definitely.

“Okay great, wanna hangout now?”

I was 16 and didn’t understand how anything real worked, so, after I initiated the breakup, I really did want to hangout! And we did. It was great. But looking back, okay, that’s probably a really weird thing to say to someone when you just broke up with them 30 seconds before.

I mentioned old people sex.

When I was 18, I had never been dumped before (poor me, right), and so I was completely unsure of how to handle being a teenager and getting dumped and I was already confused by the fact that I was wearing a poofy yellow dress. I looked like a porcelain doll in the way only pedophiles could possibly enjoy. And then, wham! I got dumped. Actually, prior to him telling me he was breaking up with me, I kind of wasn’t listening because I was just like “Ugh he’s so cute!” So I was even more dumbfounded and on the hunt for sensical phrases to pull out of my dumb brain when he broke up with me. Plus this is a person who didn’t talk that much anyway so I overcompensated by saying a lot of things at once that probably didn’t make any sense.

So I brought up old people fucking. I honestly don’t know why. Even then, I just couldn’t believe my mind didn’t even check with me first before letting that one out the door. I said it, it came out of my mouth, and he looked at me in a way that said “I just made the best decision ever, see ya later, dweeb!” I think there was a retirement home nearby, or an old lady walked past the establishment where the breakup took place. That’s the only way I can make sense of that verbal screwup. Memory is foggy, because I was so mortified by the fact that I tried to save myself by mentioning geriatric intercourse. Yeah, that totally conveyed that I was a keeper.

I was probably more upset about the image that I burned into my mind than about the actual breakup itself.

“I WANT MY BOOK BACK.”

That’s such a Damien from Mean Girls thing to do. When he yelled at Cady aka Lindsay Lohan because he wanted his pink shirt back, yeah, that was totally me. Only I would never wear pink, or share my clothes, so that’s a nonissue. But dammit, you can’t borrow my favorite book ever during such a crucial time in our about-to-be-terminated relationship! This wasn’t one of my finer moments. It might actually feel as embarrassing as the old people sex conversation.

“Just, no. Sorry, no.”

I had only been in college for a few weeks, confused by the attention given to me by my male peers, and after a small handful of dates, it’s kind of hard to assume the role of a girlfriend. I was seeing all the things I hadn’t seen before, puking in fun places, drinking funny things, and hating my major. I didn’t have time to meet the parents of boys I had just met! So after persistent begging for a hardcore relationship that would result in immediate visitation of said parents, I was too overwhelmed to use my words. Unless those words were just “No.”

“You’re just kind of, well, a giant fucking baby. So please don’t call me anymore.”

When 90% of your friends consist of men, it’s not exactly in your best interest to date a guy who is completely against that. They literally think you’re fucking all of your friends behind their back. The worst is when they say that. Nonchalantly. “Oh come on, you’ve totally fucked _____. And probably _____ too. Just admit it, it’s way worse if you don’t.” In hindsight I should have just said I was fucking all of them.

“Can you not follow me this time? I’m getting serial killer vibes.“

I went on one non-date with this person, and, well, every time I saw him, he followed me when I tried to leave. It was actually terrifying. So one snowy evening I yelled at him to not follow me to my car, but he did anyway. Thankfully, I run very fast.

“I can’t acknowledge you privately if you’re not gonna acknowledge me publicly.”

You caught me. I quoted Seth Cohen from The O.C. But come on, he’s a fucking genius nerd overlord. Point is, this actually worked and I got what I wanted. So take that.

“HAHA nope not going to be friends with you. Are you stupid or just drunk?”

Honesty is key, ladies. But he was probably both stupid and drunk.

*Honorable Mention: He snapped my bra.

This is one of the weirder breakups of my late teen years. I just kind of took it, kept my mouth in check, and was civil. But then he snapped my bra. I just can’t even… No one has snapped my bra since early adolescence. And a breakup is definitely not the time to do it. I raised my eyebrow, turned around, and went home.

Bitch Denial: Perhaps you could try being nice instead.

I don’t know if it’s just a thing, or an actual cultural phenomenon for girls and women to act like completely oblivious cunt sponges, but it’s certainly bothersome.

Everyone has their bitchy moments. Not a single person is entirely out of the loop when it comes to it, it’s just an unfortunate fact of life. But if you’re a treacherous fuckbag all the time and pretend you aren’t aware of it, well, you have a few more things to worry about than coming off as rude once in a while.

There will always be those girls who are bitch queens and are aware of it, as I know, I was one of those. But there are also the chosen few who are really absurdly twatty and are, or at least pretend to be, massively unaware of this personality trait. Not to quote Janis Ian from Mean Girls, but… “God! See, at least me and Regina George know we’re mean. You try to act like you’re so innocent. Like, “Oh, I used to live in Africa with all the little birdies and the little monkeys.” I’ll ignore Janis Ian’s grammatical foul in the statement, because it’s still truthful words of wisdom to Lindsay Lohan. I mean, Cady Heron.

I’m going to say that it’s actually worse if you’re a “bitch” and act as if you’re otherwise. I get it, being called a bitch a few times should certainly not be a life-defining moment for you, nor should it ever be something that you permanently label yourself as. I’ll get to that part with bitches who know they’re bitches.

But anyway, if you do bitchy things, for instance, you routinely say mean things to your friends or someone of the like, but follow it up with a cutesy giggle or a sound-word, or in textual scenes, an emoticon, that’s a tell-tale sign that you are one of these people. You do something bitchy, but assume that it will not reflect poorly on you as a person because you tried to sugar coat it. Honey, if you’re going to be a psycho bitch, at least admit it. Being a bitch but also attempting to cover it up with sugar and spice and everything nice, just makes you look indecisive and it will also reflect poorly on you. It’s like starting off a sentence with “not to be a bitch, but” or “no offense, but” and finishing it off with “I fucked your boyfriend. Sorry! Love ya!” Bonus if you follow it up with a giggle and an air kiss.

You can only pretend you’re innocent for so long before you actually become, simply put, a giant bitch.

The point is, if you do something bitchy and pretend it isn’t, that doesn’t mean you didn’t do something wrong. You totally did, you’re just in denial and refuse to admit your faults. I did that too once, sort of, but I was 14 and girls at my art table thought I was being racist when I said “you guys.” One girl thought I was referring to the fact that they all happened to be black. I apologized because, well, it was an accident. She made fun of me and then asked why my art sucked. Valid question, because I still don’t know how my sister is so good at art and I can only draw one thing properly, and it’s a chicken.

The difference there is that my moment was purely accidental and misinterpreted, I didn’t say something purposefully bitchy and try to get away with it. Not to say I haven’t done that, because I have, but I grew up and stopped doing horrible things like that. I was an unknowing bitch for a while, too. But now I pay more attention to the shit that spills out of my face hole.

As for bitches who know they’re bitches – this is why we have Bad Girls Club. Do you want to be like those girls? For the most part, no. Except I really loved Judi from season 7. But I don’t want to be Judi. It is, in itself, a character flaw to admit you’re being a bitch without reason, getting off on the fact that you label yourself a bitch, and never bothering to change the behaviors.

If you frequently do horrible things, know you’re doing horrible things, and give no fucks about apologizing or, I don’t know, not doing horrible things, then you do in fact need to do a massive reconstruction on your living habits. Unless you’re Lindsay Lohan, in which case, you’re not an innocent little girl who grew up in Africa and then moved to Evanston to become Queen Bee, but since you refuse to put down the meth and Red Bull, at least don’t fuck up The Canyons because I really like Bret Easton Ellis.

What people are ashamed of usually makes a good story.

One afternoon, my mother, in a state of confusion and denial at her adult daughter’s fleeting ability to act like a human, turned and asked me “Are you doing all of this for a story?” Blank eyed and staring at a parking lot from the window, I said “I don’t know.” Because I didn’t. I didn’t know what the fuck I had been doing with my time, or myself. I think I had given up on functioning like a person, and functioning more like a sullen villain made up in fairy tales to scare children into going to bed, eating their vegetables, and saying their prayers.

I had gloriously fucked up the night before; A seemingly pleasant and uncharacteristically cool evening in May. I was happy, I think. I’m not really sure. I do know that I had managed to muddle my blood with enough whiskey to tranquilize a rabid horse, escape to several different locations, and be completely coherent until standing eye to eye with someone in the middle of a suburban street smirking like a devious child. Then in a haze of foolishness, continued my wrath of social indecency by treating myself as if I were made of an unbreakable substance. News flash, in case you weren’t aware, humans aren’t unbreakable and treating yourself as such can land you in the hospital.

Which is exactly where I ended up. For two days. With a bandaged limb, a slew of things attached to me, more bruises than any person should have at once, and a severe case of insomnia as I can’t sleep anywhere unfamiliar. I don’t appreciate hospitals, in fact they terrify the fuck out of me ever since my mother’s first admittance last May when she was diagnosed with cancer. After months of hospital visits, a wild amount of screw ups on the heads of the hospital staff, and numerous treatments… the whole environment made my stomach turn.

I thought I had learned my lesson that improper behaviors lead to nothing but inconceivable trouble after this consequence, which couldn’t have been more “in my fucking face” had I injured my face instead of my limbs. I told myself “You really need to stop drinking.” I said this aloud, in my hospital room. I was thankfully alone in this room. Had I been forced to share my quarters I would have been even less likely to sleep, as I would have assumed whoever else was present would smother me with a pillow for some reason or another. I’d been transferred from a room where a crotchety old woman routinely shit herself, pressed the call button, and yelled at the poor male nurse who was forced to change her adult diaper. She also cooed and moaned while he did this. I haven’t been so uncomfortable since watching a sex scene in American History X with my parents when I was nine.

I heard the ungrateful slap of the shit filled diaper being dropped into a garbage pale and I threw up in my mouth.

I wanted to go home, I wanted my fucking clothes, and I wanted a cigarette. And some face wash.

But of course, being absurdly stubborn and taking no advice even if it comes from my own mouth, I routinely became even more reckless with my behaviors and put myself in the most dangerous situations I possibly could have. I broke bones, got punched in the face by a bro who had mixed too many drugs, I was taken advantage of, said and did absolutely inappropriate things, and I was roofied – twice.

The reality check I was really waiting for was almost meeting my demise in Lake Michigan. Not only did this instance have me up until 10 AM curled up in a ball in a destroyed t-shirt and a fucked up look on my face, but it gave me a newfound fear of drowning and the firm hand to force myself to cut the shit – and the drinking.

I’ll point out that I had rigorous swimming lessons as a child, but was more concerned with my portly instructor’s affinity for wearing two swimsuits at once – so I’m just a passable swimmer. I can keep myself afloat easily, but this is actually the third time I’ve almost drowned. The first came as a toddler, which sparked my parents interest in throwing me into swimming lessons. I was wandering along the edge of the river at a family friend’s home an hour or two outside of the city. I think my sister was supposed to keep watch on me, but children watching children never pans out the way adults expect, and I slipped. I don’t remember much aside from being grabbed by the neck of my t-shirt, hating the fact that people were touching me and consequently babying me, and that someone’s idea of a distraction for me was to play with a sparkler. I burned myself. The second time I was in grade school and narrowly escaped being hit head on by a wave runner. I was shocked and blacked out for a second. When that happens I tend to get rigid as a board, my body becomes numb, and I shake. In other words, I’m completely useless. And so down I went.

I used to be good at drinking, too. And by “good at drinking” I don’t mean I could pound a shit ton of alcohol like a bro in a frathouse with a double major in beer bongs and date rape. I threw up after five (light) beers as a freshman and my then-boyfriend had to take me back to his place in a cab, hold my hair while I expelled my guts some more, and put me to bed in my stupidly virginal white dress. I think I scared children on my walk to the blue line in the morning. My favorite CTA employee chuckled and commented “Whoa, hot pink underwear girl’s had a rough night.” He called me “hot pink underwear girl” because my hot pink underwear had been visible through a hole in my leggings the week prior when I had been drunk, and wearing a borrowed shirt that was too short and therefore let everyone know it was laundry day.

But, I mean I was just a generally good drunk person. I didn’t do anything foolish aside from drunk text my best friend “I am a golden god” or “this bitch thinks she’s Cory Kennedy” or “I’m dressed like Cory Kennedy, can someone shoot me already” (it was 2008, CK was relevant) and get a scrape here and there from climbing a fence or something of the like. I’m better at climbing than I am at swimming, I think. I stopped being a fun drunk when my mother got sick, because then I got drunk at the end of the day to cut down on stress. I started to turn into a dickhead right after my 22nd birthday.

I entered my last year of college, I was constantly coming home from class pissed off, and hanging out with my boyfriend and getting drunk, because there was seemingly nothing else to do. Fast forward to my second semester with the heaviest course load of my life and a level of anger I can only describe as “someone is a fucking bitch with a high horse, today.” I wasn’t nice. That ended up with me being alone, and having nothing to do to get my mind off of being alone aside from going out with my friends to disgusting bars, and being that girl who got all Lohan’d out as if Lohan is still relevant/a person. I had never been that person before, and it horrifies me to think that you can turn into a person like that and not know it until you truly screw your shit up. It’s even more horrifying to be Lindsay Lohan-esque with an ego problem. I suppose you just call that “being Lindsay Lohan.”

I tried to run from my behavior instead of fixing it. So I went to Los Angeles. I almost missed my flight, because I got drunk, got roofied, and was stranded in Lakeview before hailing a cab and sitting in a ball in the front seat (this has happened more than once) in a completely dead, sick haze. I showed up to the airport looking like I was hit by a truck, with a few hundred dollar bills and six inch heels in my luggage. I stood outside of the airport pissed off, confused, hunting for my cigarettes in my improperly packed carryon, and eyeballing the grounds for the nearest garbage can in the event that I needed to throw up.

Los Angeles didn’t help. The first night there I ended up migrating from an expensive bro bar to drinking whiskey with a group of hipsters with weird names in a Mercedes, and finally to an even more expensive bro hell hole where a meathead tried to kidnap me and bring me to a party half an hour away. I woke up on my best friend’s couch with several confusing texts asking me to go to said party. Needless to say, LA doesn’t solve your problems. In general, running away doesn’t solve your problems. I’d go to two other cities in two more states before realizing this.

After nearly dying, again, I manned up. I stopped cutting myself undeserved slack. I told myself “You’re quitting drinking.” Not, “You need to quit drinking.” Because one is more definite, and the other comes off as merely a suggestion similar to “You should learn French.” I failed French because I told my instructor to go fuck herself and I left forever.

The first few days of not using alcohol to knock out stress or feel like hell about things I’ve done, I was a mess. I don’t merely mean that I was just bummed out a little, but I was curled up in a ball, on the phone, crying like a little girl who just found her hamster dead (that was me). I all of a sudden had all of this time on my hands to assess the damage I’d caused over the course of three months. It was actually a life changing amount of damage. I’ve screwed up a lot of things in my time, and all of it seemed kind of trivial compared to the shitpile of shame I had thrown at my face in a short period of time. I had to take responsibility for my behavior. I had to accept that I was that person that did and said horrible things and kept doing it over and over. So I sat on the phone for several hours with people who bizarrely didn’t want to kill me after everything I’d done, and promised myself that I would never become that person, that nightmarish being who had no disregard for anyone or anything, ever again.

I’ve pulled a complete 180 from the person I had let myself decay into. I was nasty, mean, heartless, cold, and one of the most wretched human beings – even a month and a half ago. I think about the horrible things I’ve done every single day, and it terrifies me. I think that I couldn’t have possibly been that person. It’s absurd to think that anyone can be that person – live like that, be like that, for so long and not even comprehend how horrible they are. How mean and off putting I was, really, is so disgusting to me. I can’t even eloquently put it into words. I hate that person more than I could hate anything, and it saddens me that that was actually me doing those things. I can’t blame anyone but myself, and I know that.

In reality it’s much harder to blame yourself, and realize you deserve every ounce of that blame, than it is to blame someone else. I think that’s why so many people refuse to take responsibility for themselves when they fuck up. It hurts too badly to realize what you’ve done, that you were at fault for screwing up something, or many somethings, so wildly that you actually altered your life.

I also realize that it’s quite possible that if I hadn’t done and said so many horrible things that, honestly, I’d kill to take back, would I have ever stopped and looked at my behavior or my demeanor? Would I have ever realized that I was subconsciously hurting the fucking hell out of people? I’d like to think that I would have evolved without so much damage thrown into my life by my own hands, but I wasn’t controlling myself.

Three days into quitting drinking, my mother, who is in remission from lung cancer, was diagnosed with brain cancer. I stood in my kitchen, wide eyed like fucking Bambi, and shaking. I had to deal with how I actually felt this time. I wasn’t very good with that, clearly, as I’d always find a way to avoid it. I had gotten into a mindset that feeling anything meant vulnerability. It does, but that’s not always a bad thing. I used to think it was, if I even thought at all.

I thought my stress level had hit its peak months ago, but usually when I think something can’t get worse, it does. I typically get sleep every other day now, forget to eat unless I get dizzy and remind myself to shove sustenance in my face, and I’ve found more white hairs than grey. I keep a tweezer handy to extract the tricky ones.

But, I had to stop being selfish in order to deal with this, and that meant that I really had to stay away from drinking. That wasn’t the hard part. I’m over a month sober at this point, and still the biggest issue I’ve come across is feeling things when I need to, and accepting that at some point I’m going to have to get over my recent past. I have things I need to accomplish, people I need to be there for, and at some point, I’m going to have to forgive myself for the shit I put others through. Accept it, continue to learn from my behavior, instead of dwell on it as if “crazy bitch” is tattooed on my forehead. Even if that’s still the way a few others view me.

Turns out my social skills are better sober, mostly because instead of going out with people to get obliterated and fuck my life up further, I’ve decided on real conversations. Not “Oh My God I love you this is so fun Oh My God drunk.” It’s easier to have meaningful interactions when you’re sober and genuinely care than it is when you’re drunk and talking to someone you’re not fond of, just because the alcohol makes you think you give a shit.

The majority find me more entertaining sober. Nicer, because, well, I haven’t been a whiskey werewolf lately. The rest are the assholes who routinely text me to “go get drinks” regardless of me saying “I’ll hangout with you but I won’t drink.” I merely don’t respond anymore, because when I did they’d tell me I’m being stupid by quitting drinking at 23. You can only tell the same people so many times that you’re not drinking before you realize they don’t care about you, they care about “having a good time.” I’ve had more fun sober, honestly. Remembering good nights with people who actually want to be there is better than having a few good seconds shitfaced and not remembering if it was really interesting or just made up.

You realize when you cut out an unhealthy behavior like drinking heavily, who is actually a friend, and who just wants company to get fucked up. Obviously, I have no judgement on my friends for drinking. How can I? They’re not the ones who needed to stop. I am. I can go out with them and not drink, and not mind. Some of them are blindingly hilarious when they drink, and I love that about them. I just don’t love myself when I drink, and no one else does either. I wasn’t a good friend, girlfriend, daughter, sister, or anything for months. Do I think I’ll drink again? Yes, of course. Anytime soon? Fuck no.

Things are clearer, I’ve started writing again, I haven’t done a single stupid thing since quitting drinking, and it’s easier to respect other people when you’re taking control of yourself instead of being Lindsay Lohan version 2.fuck.