Saturday, October 25, 2008

ThePeach goes on an Epic Bender; Angers Body

I’ll try to string together my words in a coherent manner, but I’m really not in the best state of mind right now. My brain is pickled in vodka and gin. Seriously, I think I acquired brain damage this week. I’m knocking shit over, losing my words, and my attention span is hey I think I smell curry. Someone’s cookin’.

Ok, what? Right. The bender.

I am having a tough week. Beyond the usual sleep deprivation and overwhelming/impossible workload, I am also having a crisis of confidence. It’s bad. And depressing.

I’m quite sure that:

1) I am an awful writer
2) I will never get a job
3) I will fail out of school
4) I’m maybe obese
5) I don’t belong in a program filled with such ambitious, talented journalists
6) Seriously, is my back fat growing?
7) I will never get a fucking goddamn cunt-wig A or A- in my reporting class. Even if I somehow track down motherfucking Gandhi for an interview and then perform a hummer on my godly Prof to the tune of the theme song for CBC’s The National. Even that would just get me a B+. Do do DO DO doooo.
8) I will never ever write a good lead.
9) WHY DO MY PANTS FEEL TIGHT??!! I don’t even have time to eat!!!! Motherfuck!
10) I will have a bad hair day every single day of my life for as long as I live in this city. Seriously, what the fuck is with the humidity here. UniversityTown was situated on a steaming lake and I still had less frizzy hair than I do here. Then we throw in the soft water I also have to contend with. I just don’t understand why god hates me.
11) I have pms. This isn’t a confidence crisis, but it does make me HATE EVERYTHING.
12) I will never remember to feed the cat before I go to sleep to prevent him waking me up every morning at 5am by walking across my face and howling like a rape victim until I get out of bed and dole out his prescription food.
13) I am never going to publish anything. Ever.
14) Hey, do you smell curry?

Ok, so as you can see things are looking dire. It didn’t help that I had another particularly stressful week, work-wise. So obviously the only solution was to drink my goddamn face off with my beautiful journalism friends for 3 nights in a row.

This wasn’t the original plan, mind you. No. The original plan was to be productive, get my work done, get a good sleep each night, and hopefully steer away from the knife drawer and start loving my life again. But I am very easily convinced to drop everything in the name of intoxication. You might call me socially malleable. You might call me an alcoholic. You might call me awesome. I will accept any of the three.

I had some rather serious internal struggles each time drinks were propositioned.

Wednesday: After helping to set up for a photo exhibit about HIV/AIDS in Rwanda (that’s right, I’m all global and shit now).

BadInfluence: Let’s get drinks.
J-Friends: Yes. Let’s.
ThePeach’s Brain: Young woman. You will by no means partake in drinking tonight. You have a proposal to write. You have a critique to prepare for. You have a very early class tomorrow. You are poor. You were up until 6am working on an assignment today and I fear that if you drink, you will actually die. You need to go home and write for a few hours and then take some vitamins, drink some milk, do some yoga, and get 8 hours of sleep.
ThePeach’s Uterus: Go home and eat cookies in bed. Cry. Eat some fries in your sweatpants. Cry more.
ThePeach’s: Liver: Please, no. Please. I beg you.
ThePeach’s Back-Fat: If you drink I will grow. I will. I’m a sly bitch.
ThePeach: Well…maybe one drink.

And then suddenly it’s 5 hours later, I’m in a 24-hour bagel shop consuming a bacon and cheese sandwich, my friend just got caught stealing a chocolate milk, and Spaz and I have left 6 dirty text messages on MortalCombat’s phone. I did not make it to class.

Thursday: After attending the grand opening of the photo exhibit, which was attended by Romeo Dallaire (that’s right, I know shit now).

BadInfluence: Let’s get drinks.
J-Friends: Yes. Let’s.
ThePeach’s Brain: Absolutely not. Today you slept until 3 in the afternoon. You have actually become nocturnal. There is bacon floating in the ventricles of your heart as we speak. You have to study for a news test and spend an entire day in class tomorrow. You still haven’t started your proposal or your critique. You need to go home and read a stack of newspapers, have some herbal tea, maybe eat some fruit, floss, stretch, and go to bed.
ThePeach’s Uterus: You shouldn’t have left the apartment in the first place. What were you thinking putting on pants. Get yourself out of the public eye immediately. Then I command that you bake and eat an entire cake. Then think about sad things and cry.
ThePeach’s Liver: *sobs* please. I’m twice the size I was yesterday. Please, just drink a few liters of water and lie down. I beg of you.
ThePeach’s Back-Fat: *sings* Here I come, creepin’ over the pants…
ThePeach: Well…maybe one drink.

And then the next thing I know it’s 2:30am and I am playing the original Super Mario Brothers on NES in my apartment with BadInfluence, all of the gin in my house has been consumed, the cat is wearing a Santa hat, and I am using a stack of unread newspapers as a foot rest.

I got 4 hours of sleep that night. Still aced the news quiz. Boom shakalaka.

Finally, Friday: After a day of city hall reporting, about 6 coffees, no real food, and a hasty and painful jog with MortalCombat.

Spaz: I’m going to have people over tonight. You will come, Peach. I know you will. Don’t lie and say you won’t.
ThePeach’s Brain: I am going to fucking kill you. You are going to write that motherfucking proposal RIGHT NOW. You are going to write that GODDAMN critique. You are going to attempt a night of sleep that does NOT start with you passing out in bed with your shoes on yet your pants mysteriously off. You are going to drink 10 glasses of water to flush out the gin and the coffee. You are going to consume a vegetable. I swear to Lucifer that if you consume a drop of alcohol tonight I will give you Parkinson’s disease. Don’t test me, whore.
ThePeach’s Uterus: Put on flannel pjs, preferably the dykaroos. Eat 14 bowls of cereal. Write sad poetry. Sign up for the Bernstein Diet.
ThePeach’s Liver: *screams*
ThePeach’s Back-Fat: Say goodbye to these jeans. I’m eating them.
ThePeach: Well…maybe one drink.

And then 5 hours later I find myself inside some kind of goth rave bar located on top of a vet hospital in Chinatown, I’m watching druggies in pagan costumes and/or rainbow flood pants prance around in black light, and I’m somehow completely comfortable in my surroundings.

Now it’s Saturday night. I still haven’t written my proposal or critique. I did, however, consume a vegetable.

I can’t say the 3-day bender cured the crisis of confidence, but I can say this:

1) Friends make everything ok. Loves of my life.
2) I haven’t lingered by the knife drawer since Thursday.
3) Sweatpants are acceptable day-wear until the jeans fit.

I swear I won’t drink again until next week. Unless I go for just one.



Spaz said...

My favourite part is where the cat wears a hat.

I laughed out loud several times.

Speaking of uterus, I need to go back on the pill PRONTO. My female organs are clearly on some kind of hormone withdrawal and they're eating me from the inside out.

Voluntary hysterectomy?

*uterus screams*

Claire said...

Oh my GOD I love blogs.

Laura Keil said...

"Then I command that you bake and eat an entire cake."


Billy said...

"Well…maybe one drink."

This phrase has probably led to more crazy, life-shortening nights than any intentional acts of self-destruction ever could.

voip services said...

This phrase has probably led to more crazy, life-shortening nights than any intentional acts of self-destruction ever could.