I had initially posted the following last week, so this may look familiar to some. I quickly deleted it, for I felt it might be too personal. I didn’t want whoever read it, whether it be two of you or a hundred, to think of me as a kook. But since I took down this post, I haven’t had inspiration to write much else, and I think it’s because I’m still stuck on this one, and my fear of putting things into perspective and getting my shit together. I am admitting a hell of a lot here. I am admitting to being a mess and I am admitting to feeling insecure and sad. But it is not my job to make my readers this think of me as perfect or sane; it is my job to be honest. It is my blog, so I write my realities. And maybe my realities are someone else’s, I don’t know. So, here goes:
To put it bluntly, I am hung the hell over. Last night was Saturday so it was cause for celebration. I overestimated my coolness and got carried away with le booze. And let me tell you, shit got rough. Almost 24 hours later and I still feel like roadkill that got stuck in someone’s tire.
Amongst many humiliating things, I was schooled by a Rico Suave-look-alike on how to brush my fingers through my hair; yelled at a guy who asked me to dance reggaeton, “DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW TO DANCE THIS? ARE YOU SPANISH?;” whispered to a tall blonde guy he was too handsome to be at the club alone and he introduced me to his wife (yikes!); told an old guy who tripped while breaking out some smooth criminal moves and who coincidentally landed on my ass to “keep cool, my baby;” pointed and laughed at a dude in a chinchilla fur coat; called out an old lesbian for only calling me beautiful to cut me in line (“why would you lie to me like that, girl?!); called a fat kid Jonah Hill and told him and his friends to meet us on Thayer Street (to which we were not going); yelled at the Taco Bell girl to give me my ONE TACO!; and next thing I remember is bursting out in tears.
I can’t remember how it occurred, but I am sure it has to do with the sadness I feel over my apparent unlovability (is that even a word? It is now). I think Steph almost crashed when I said that and she said something about me being awesome and having high cheekbones but all I could think was that high cheekbones weren’t enough to be loved by someone. I am exposing myself (wholly and perhaps regrettably) by writing this:
One of the biggest tragedies of my life is never having been loved by another.
And that is why I drink, why many of us do. Because we are trying to ignore whatever it is that hurts us or bothers us. Why think about the sad and bad when we can be happy, foolish, ratchet in the club? We drink and drink and naively all the worries of the world seem to fade and slip away. It’s easy to feel loved when you’re drunk.
On occasion, however, the plan backfires and we take one sip too many and after the dancing and flirting and stumbling we collide head first with whatever is on our minds and achy breaky hearts and we cry like babies with a taco in our hand on the way home.
The next day is the worst, when we wake up and flashbacks of our misbehavior come back to us and our friends are texting us to see how we feel and we realize how much of a fool we are for ever feeling unloved. So we say we’re gonna take it easy on the alcohol from here on out, but why lie? We’ve said that many times before, but ain’t a damn thing gonna change until we learn to love ourselves.
“Take a shot in the rain, one for the pain, and loosen up…” -Kings of Leon, “Wait for Me”