Saturday, June 20, 2009

Saturday is for hangovers and hate-mail

I’m not feeling so hot.

Last night started pretty tame. I went to see the movie “Year One” with Tigercat and CockDoc. It was funny, but more importantly I hoovered an entire large buttered popcorn by the time the previews had finished. I felt pretty portly and awesome as I limped out of the theatre, my face covered in grease and my popcorn baby gestating nicely.

And that was when I got a text from TheCrazy telling me that Saturday’s drink fest had been moved to that night, and to be at her place in 40 minutes.

Oh god. I had a bad feeling that 5 pounds of chemical butter and a bucket of gin wouldn’t mix well, but I’ve never been one to turn down an invitation to get fall-down drunk. I would persevere.

But first I had to wash the grease off my gluttonous face and greedy little fingers. I also put on high heels and lip gloss, the official uniform of drunk whores.

Once at TheCrazy’s house, I drank a steady stream of gin for the next 5 hours. I belted out some seriously hardcore karaoke with TheCrazy and TigerCat. I really let loose on girl anthems such as Alanis’ “You Oughta Know.” Perhaps I have angst. My friend TheBartender balanced a glass of whiskey on my head for 2 minutes while I did a little boob-shake dance. We all agreed that I had marvelous talents.

I drunk-texted FauxHawk, who is away at a conference on the east coast. I checked my phone today and here is what I sent: “We are going to a Sandals resort over xmas or else.” I’m sure I had my reasons. By the way, his response was "Halifax is aaaawesome!!!" Communication is the key to any healthy relationship.

At one point we decided it would be a good idea to go to TheBartender’s bar for last call. I somehow wound up with a $15 glass of sherry in my hand, which really makes no sense when you think about it. I don’t like sherry, I don’t remember ordering it, and I definitely didn’t have $15. I hope I didn’t steal something that I thought would be funny, but that’s likely what happened.

After this we decided it would be a fantastic idea to smoke at CockDoc’s house. Obviously I walked the whole way there without my shoes. There’s nothing classier than yesterday’s whore staggering home from the bar with her high heels in her hands.

I frolicked in the grass on the way. The dew felt nice on my legs.

Things get even hazier from here, but I know I made it to CockDoc’s, smoked, ate some pizza, and somehow made it back home afterwards. I probably crawled.

I woke up at 1pm when TigerCat phoned me to see if I wanted to get all you can eat sushi. I dry heaved, wiped the sweat off my face, and told her she better go without me. After I hung up I ran to the bathroom to puke, and then went back to bed until 3:45pm.

I woke up and swallowed half a bottle of advil. I looked at myself and noticed that I was wearing a baby-tee from TheBartender’s bar. It had a tractor on the front. I think he gave it to me at some point during the night, but I’m not too sure when I started wearing it. Mystery. I hope I didn’t change in public. I swore I would stop letting Universitytown see my boobs.

Dehydrated, spinning, head pounding, and sweating gin, I decided to check my facebook.

And that’s when I noticed the hate-mail.

As a journalist, the more articles you write the more hate-mail you get. There is always somebody out there who will be offended with something you have written. Sometimes I take it as a compliment that my articles are being read at all. But usually hate-mail kind of devastates me. I need constant positive reinforcement, as you may know. I need it to get through my day. And the thing about journalists is that most of us are completely insecure about our work. Once one of my professors – a brilliant writer with a long, successful career – wrote a fantastic article for the Toronto Star. Everyone loved it and was talking about it. It created a lot of buzz. And yet, at a party that same week (yes, my professors are awesome) that professor drunkenly and shyly asked me if I thought the article was ok. When I said yes, his face lit up with relief and he said “REALLY?” and then proceeded to say everything he thought was wrong with it.

So, my point is that even the best of us have small and tender egos.

When I got my very first piece of hate-mail this Christmas, I called Spaz and Mortal Combat in hysterical tears at 8am. They had to convince me not to jump in the river or quit my internship. I seriously considered not going back.

I’ve gotten a little better since then.

This week I have been writing a lifestyle series on baby boomer health for a national news organization. I’m in love with the work, and my articles get printed in papers all over the country. Oh, and they pay me by the article. It’s probably the happiest I’ve been.

You would think that an article on fitness tips for baby boomers wouldn’t garner any hate. But bitches be crazy, yo. One, in particular, went to all of the effort to creep me on facebook just so he could send me a message to ream me out. I might need to update my security.

His concern? That I was too restrictive in my definition of baby boomers. His message was angry and long. Here’s an excerpt:

“Please get your history correct, and not from the Bill and Hillary Clinton's of the world or your boss who is most likely a true Boomer (ex hippy) or the majority of your readers (seniors 55 to 69) or the people in charge of the company you work for ( ex anti establishment who became the establishment), and for a lack of a better word boomers are 50 to 69, basically the majority of this generation senior citizens 55+, they did not like the establishment in the 60's and they don't like being old in 2009. Maybe you could tell them the true history and maybe just maybe the true boomers 1940 to 1959 will realize they are only yet another generation.”

He also mentioned that I should take History 101.

I mean…for the love of fuck. Come on. Through facebook? On a Saturday?

I swallowed the other half of the bottle of advil and replied, because that is the professional thing to do.

“Dear sir,
Thank you for taking the time to comment on my article. The dates I used were given to me by my editor. I'm sorry if they offended you. I’ll be sure to pass your concerns on to my editor. ThePeach.”

So anyway, that’s how my day has gone so far. I managed to have a shower and put on sweat pants. There is no food left in FauxHawk’s house, so I might order in. Maybe sushi. I might have thrown up when TigerCat first suggested it, but she got me craving salty fish.

I have to stay in to do work tonight. It’s for the best. I made enough of a mark on the world yesterday.

I’m still wearing the tractor shirt.


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