Saturday, November 15, 2008

ThePeach Discovers Her Calling; Fears for Future

I’ve discovered that the key to surviving Journalism grad school is a delicate and careful balance of three things:

1. Work
2. Basic Life Skills
3. Drinking Your Motherfucking Face Off (with friends. no need to worry yet.)

I am neither delicate nor careful, so my balance act so far has consisted of combinations of 2 out of 3 factors. All with intriguing results.

1+2 = Study on weekends. Get to bed by 11. Eat a hearty breakfast. Pass school. Talk to bastard cat for company. Run 10k multiple times/week. Sleep cradling bottle of gin; caressing its cool, glass body. Whisper sweet-nothings in its ear. Forget how to interact socially. Become a troll-person. A troll-person with rock-hard running legs.

2+3 = Use books as coasters. Use articles and newspapers as papers for rolling pot. Smoke first ever cigarette and enjoy it. Drink all of the alcohol in your well-stocked bar. Including the bottle of baby duck from TheHubby, the coconut rum from the airport in Jamaica, and that bottle of Peach Schnapps you’ve had since you were 15. School is for fools. Go for long jogs during brief moments of sobriety. Consume vegetables. Sleep 6 hours/night. Love life. Love friends. Accidentally write racist comment in essay. Re-evaluate priorities.

And finally, the most disastrous:

1+3 = Buy more wine. Buy pot from strangers in parking lot. Read news at 6am. Write essays from 1am-6am. Conduct interviews in rare moments of sobriety. Forget what bed looks like. Pass out on living room floor for brief cat-naps. Show up at class pot-luck two hours late and cradling a bucket of chicken. Somehow get an A. Live off of coffee and leftover Chinese-fried rice for 4 consecutive days. Get scurvy. Love friends. Hate life. Sprint across campus in a monsoon and wind up knee-deep in some sort of swamp. Constant scary homicidal eyes. Lose cat for 24 hours. Somehow get another A. Stare longingly at sheets. Weep gently at random.

So, I just came off a two-week bout of 1+3. I look a little haggard and feel like I have hepatitis. I decided yesterday that it was time to go back to 1+2. I confidently told Mortal Combat about my plan on our walk to school.

ThePeach: I’m going to stay in all weekend and study!
MC: Good!
ThePeach: I’m going to do groceries and consume vegetables!
MC: Yes!
ThePeach: I’m going to be productive, healthy, and mostly sober!
MC: Ok!
ThePeach: Seriously, I’m turning over a new leaf. As of today I am passing the “class disaster” torch onto someone new. HotMess?
MC: Yes!

And that was when I got run over by a bike.

I am not kidding.

At the exact moment, right when I swore on Tanqueray that I would end the disaster-train, I got hit by a chick on a bike. She ran over my leg, shouted a half-assed “sorry” over her shoulder, and then rode away.

I was involved in a bike hit and run at 9am. On a sidewalk.

I guess that was the universe’s way of telling me not to change. Or that it won’t let me. My destiny is clear now.

My name is ThePeach and I am a hilarious mess. The universe has decreed that my role is to entertain others and live a life of pathetic fallacy and irony.

Point in case: My cat just ate my cell phone charger.


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