Thursday, August 20, 2009

It's time for my Lisbion experience

Oh holy jesus.

At this time tomorrow I will be flying to Lisbon. Scratch that. At this time tomorrow I will be sitting in the airport in Philadelphia, hoping that my baggage makes it onto my connecting flight to Lisbon. And by 8am on Saturday I will be in Portugal.

Ok.

*screams*

ASSVENTURE TIME!!!

In true Peach style I’m completely unprepared for two weeks in a foreign country. I have booked exactly one hostel. Our first one. That is all. TheAmazon and I figure we’ll wing it from there, head down the coast, and hope for the best. As of yesterday I had 4 dollars in the bank, but luckily my grandpa loaned me money so that I don’t have to traffic myself just to have a roof over my head. But still, my funds are what we might call “limited.” I didn’t buy any kind of travel insurance, which means I’ll break my leg on day 1.

I packed, at least. Mainly bikinis, shpants and medication for every possible poop scenario. Bring on the garlic seafood, sangria and dysentery.

My grandpa wants to be helpful so I let him drive me around to run some errands today. Have you ever gone shoe shopping with a well-meaning 82-year-old man trying to bond with you on a feminine level? What I needed was trampy black wedge sandals for the bar that cost under 40 dollars. I got them. Thank you Payless.

But first I had to endure 20 minutes of this:

Grandpa: *stares at walls of discount shoes. Scratches head. Randomly picks up pair of hooker heels in size 11* Now….these are…patent leather….very classic…
ThePeach:…I think they’re a little big.
Grandpa: *Picks up pair of metallic pink flip flops* Pink…is…a feminine colour…for a lady…
ThePeach:...I think I like a different pair. *tries on wedge sandals*
Grandpa: *bends over. Stares at my foot.* Black…will match…every outfit…


Eventually I just bought the damn shoes before he could try to ask me about my period.

I’m trying to clean my apartment as I pack since I’m going to be getting back to CapitalCity only a few days before school starts, and I’ll be overwhelmed enough without having to call the police to come kill the contents of my fridge.

I started by bringing down my recycling. I’ve been throwing all of my recyclables into giant plastic bags ever since the breakup, and the heap kind of completely took over my foyer. I had to sort everything today, and that’s when I realized just how downhill my life has gone since I got dumped.

The contents of my recycling included:

- 5 jumbo Tanqueray bottles
- 2 jumbo Bombay Sapphire bottles
- 2 jumbo Vodka bottles
- 7 empty wine bottles
- 6 2L tonic bottles
- 10 cans of tonic
- 20 cans of redbull
- 2 OJ cartons
- 3 pizza boxes
- 3 10-pack of microwave popcorn boxes
- 4 kleenex boxes.

Well. I think that says everything right there, doesn’t it?

I should have saved it and made it into a modern art installation piece. I'd call it "drinking helps."

I guess this is why I need this vacation. It’s been almost two months now since FauxHawk and I broke up, and I see this as the final phase. I’m hoping to come back tanned, fat, relaxed, and with some serious perspective. FauxHawk and I were together for five years, but now I have my whole life ahead of me. All two years of it before I die of liver cirrhosis. Seriously, did you SEE MY RECYCLING????!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!

Bitches, I bid you adieu. I’ll try to update from Portugal, but paying for internet access makes me cranky. So for now I’ll leave you with this google image photo montage of how I imagine my trip will go:
I'll start every day with a light breakfast:
Take in a little scenery:

Have sex with Christiano Ronaldo:
And probably also this chick:
Love, kisses, and inappropriate touching,

ThePeach

Enrich your word power!

Addiction: noun.
e-‘dik-shen
1 : the quality or state of being addicted
2 : compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful.
3: pouring milk that expired one week ago into your morning coffee, hearing the distinct splash of a semi-solid chunk hitting the brew, and pretending not to notice because you used your last available grounds to make this pot.

Baby needs her medicine.

ThePeach

Monday, August 17, 2009

The bright place is bright.

One hour until my revised article deadline. This burst of timely energy is brought to you by coffee and Mika, my favourite hipster artist.




I dare you to listen to this song and not be joyous. I'm trying to pump myself up for my last burst of writing, so I'm currently dancing around the apartment like a housewife on roofies, cradling my coffee mug and scaring the bejesus out of the cat.

4 days until I go to Portugal. Coincidentally, 4 dollars in my bank account. Must finish articles and receive paycheque.

Man alive! 50 minutes! Back to anaphylaxis.

How can I help it
How can I help it
How can I help what you think?
Hello my baby
Hello my baby
Putting my life on the brink
Why don't you like me
Why don't you like me
Why don't you like yourself?
Should I bend over?
Should I look older just to be put on your shelf?
- Mika

ThePeach

Sunday, August 16, 2009

The dark place is dark.

I’m in the dark place (that’s what he said).

My work situation is not ok. It has leprosy. It has AIDS. I’m one more email from an editor away from tenderly caressing the knives.

After I sent in my articles on Friday I was expecting to take a nice, long coma-nap and then drink my life away. Instead, all within the same hour, my editor sent back the articles and asked me to expand them by Monday (fuck!), my prof emailed me to tell me to redo the bibliography in a new style format (FUCK!), and my magazine editor emailed me with 40 more articles to edit by the end of the week (FFFUUUUCKKK!).

All of this on no sleep.

Save me, Allah.

My immediate plan is to dig a big hole and go lie in it. Like a dead body. Or Saddam. You’ll find me in 6 months with a full beard.

After receiving all of these emails at once, I just kind of lay on the couch in a daze for a few hours, waiting for the heart attack to take me to a better place. Do you think heaven has jungle sex? And poutine? I hope not, because I’ll be really jealous when I’m burning in hell.

I had to cancel a movie date with FrogBoy that night thanks to the gentle fisting of my 3 internships. Instead I stayed in and stared at my laptop, willing it to explode. At 11pm I figured food might be a good call, so I had a deep fry platter delivered to my apartment. I'm not joking. The anorexia portion of my breakup is now but a distant memory. On the bright side, tits.

I met my grandpa for brunch yesterday. He brought me 3 jars of peach jam. I’ll add them to the stockpile of jam in my freezer. My freezer currently consists of about 30 jars of jam, two bottles of gin, and a 10lb bag of corn.

I went for another run last night. CapitalCity is going through a heat wave and there was a smog warning, but bitch needs her ass to look edible in a bikini when she goes to Portugal in a week. How else am I going to have a Lisbion experience on the beach? Note to self: purchase more bikinis.

Anyway, my run was brought to you by the letter “I” and the number 2. For “immediate regret” and the number of times I leaned on the guard rail and dry heaved into the canal. Poor choice, Peach. Poor choice.

I meant to do more work when I got back from my run, but I was sneepy-sneepy. I guess 3 consecutive days of no sleep catches up with you eventually. So I got into bed at like 10:30 (on a Saturday. Wooo awesome!) and set my alarm for 6am. Oh right, I forgot that I’m a zombie now. At 1am, after lying in bed having a heart attack over my work for 3 hours, I finally turned on my tv and tried to trick my brain into falling asleep with bad tv movies. I found a terrible mid-90s Gwyneth Paltrow movie, which by all rights should have made me hit REM, but no dice. 2am. I finally caved. Dug out my old sleeping pills from a few years ago, back in the day when I hated my job so much that I required prescription drugs just to function as a human. I had to be up in 4 hours, so I cut the pill into thirds and swallowed only one jagged little piece (allusion! Look at me!). I got back into bed, saw a commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken, and within 5 minutes was passed out and dreaming of buckets of dirty bird.

I woke up at 9am. I guess it takes 3 hours of CBC Radio 1 to wake a person out of drug comas. Fucking, bloody, douchey HELL.

On the bright side, today is the inaugural SANGRIA SUNDAY with MortalCombat!!!

That’s right, bitches. MC is back from South Africa and we have 3 months worth of gossip to catch up on. Which is why the plan is to park ourselves on a patio at noon and drink Sangria until we get sun stroke or alcohol poisoning or both.

And then I’ll come back home and edit 40 articles.

Drinking helps me.

ThePeach

Friday, August 14, 2009

Yay, Crazies!

Ohai.

It’s 3:30am and I’m still working. I haven’t left my apartment once since Saturday and now it’s Friday morning. Not once, except to go for a quick run on Tuesday. In the dark. Alone. Because I’m a gremlin now.

That’s almost an entire week. Wow. Ok.

I just finished my first article on food allergies. Now I have to write the second one. Like, right now. Starting at 3:30am. And it’s a full-length feature. Awesome possum.

It’s not entirely my fault. I only got my last interview at 10:00pm tonight. The thing about journalism is that much of it is out of your control, and most people do not answer their goddamn phones or check their emails or are of ANY USE TO ME.

So, my deadline is noon. I can squeeze in a few hours of sleep, but I don’t trust myself to sleep first and write later. I’ll wind up waking up at 4pm in a sweaty pile of sheets and then use them to hang myself.

Ok. That was graphic.

I’ve had a lot of work over the past week. I managed to juggle my 3 internships for most of the summer, but they all took a simultaneous dump on me 7 days ago. After I finish these articles I have 40 poorly written pieces to edit for the magazine I work at. It takes me over an hour just to do one, mostly because people do not know how to use basic grammar or write a clear sentence or are of ANY USE TO ME. Also, my bad for forgetting about the magazine internship when I booked my Portugal trip, because the magazine goes to print on the 24th and I fly out of the country on the 21st. Oops. Shorry. Maybe if they paid me I would have a better memory.

Other highlights from working 3 simultaneous internships from home:

- Not a single clean mug or cup or knife in the entire house. This is because all I live off of is coffee (mug), gin (cup), and peanut butter on toast (knife). Today I realized the bread had mould, so I guess I’ll be eating the pb straight from the jar (spoon/spatula/IV needle). Made tea at midnight. Drank it out of a bowl.

- Not a single clean article of clothing in the entire house. I have actually worn my entire collection of old lady underwear, long after the sexy thongs and then the non-sexy thongs ran out. Tomorrow I may have to fashion some kind of loin cloth out of dental floss and paper towels. Wait, I’m out of paper towels. Fuck it, I’m wearing a bed sheet.

- The cat might be dead.

- Last night I ordered in poutine for dinner at 11:00 pm. And a can of orange crush.

- TheAmazon is in Mexico for work. I just sent her a text message at 3am and all it said was “You’re a Mexicunt.”

- Anyone I interview comments on how upbeat I am. Any family member or friend who calls me asks if I’m perched on the ledge of my balcony, contemplating swift death.

- My grandpa called while I was on a caffeine high and now I have to spend my Saturday driving to a winery with him. It’s 2 hours away. Oh fun.

- Oh hey, there’s the cat. How long has he been passed out on the floor behind a tv tray? I just poked him. Definitely alive.

Ok. So, anyone who thinks being a freelance journalist is the bestest job in life (*coughTheQuack) should no longer have any illusions. Look at me. LOOK AT ME. I HAVE THE CRAZY EYES.

I can't lie. I still love it. But oh fuck this bitch is tired and needs a vegetable and some fresh air. Maybe some human contact. Maybe some internet television. Heroes is fun. So is How I Met Your Mother.

Oh my god it’s 4am.

This is the state in which I will be writing a national instructional article on anaphylactic shock. The magic of journalism, bitches.

ThePeach

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Poverty is Delicious: Part 2.

I really do enjoy being skank-ass po’. I might make my ghetto food adventures a recurring entry.

The fun thing about freelance work is that the paycheques come very irregularly, if at all. So maybe I’ll have two weeks where I have money, and then I’ll pay all my bills and stock up on necessities like gin, Kraft Dinner, and peanut butter. And then I’ll go another 6 weeks with no income whatsoever. God help me if the rent is due during that time (it always is) and if the cat happens to need $250 worth of blood-work and $70 worth of prescription food (he always does, the little FAIDS bastard).

So, here I am, furiously writing articles about food allergies just to keep me out of debtor’s jail because I haven’t seen incoming money since early July, and bitch is hungry for lunch.

A quick check in the fridge shows that I currently am in possession of: mouldy pita bread, milk on the cusp of expiration, and some fresh basil. Also mouldy. Ok.

So, in times like this, you break out the reserves. Like the 10 lb bag of frozen peas that I keep in my freezer for scurvy emergencies and also to use as ice on my busted running knee. I have an identical bag of corn.

I also found an old can of tuna.

I give you: ThePeach’s Working Single Mother Tuna Noodle Casserole!

So named because I will probably feed my little bastards this exact meal in like 10 years, when I’m still earning the same amount of $ and have no mens to speak of.

Ok.

1. Cook some whole wheat pasta. Preferably macaroni. If, like me, you only have spaghetti, break it up into bite sized pieces.

2. While the spaghetti confetti is cooking, dump the can of tuna in a bowl. Add a can of cream of mushroom soup. Cream soups are the staple of any poor, single girl’s diet and no whore should ever let herself run out. I buy mine in bulk.

3. Remove the two 10lb bags of vegetation from the freezer. Whack them against the kitchen floor to break up the solid ice block they have surely become by now. When the bag of corn explodes all over the floor, like mine did, swear loudy and sweep the niblets under the stove. Deal with them in 3 months, when the smell starts.

4. Mix veggies in with tuna mushroom concoction. Add pepper. Add the cooked noodles. Top with bread crumbs. If you don’t own bread crumbs, toast some bread and mash it up in your hands. It’s very satisfying if you have rage. And, let’s be honest, if you’re single and poor you likely have a lot of rage.

TEAR THAT FUCKING BREAD INTO MOTHERFUCKING PIECES.

5. Bake at 350 for…well…I had a phone interview partway through the baking, so I really have no idea. 20 minutes? Before the burning starts.

6. Eat, bitch.

It really is delicious. And the cat got to lick the tuna can. Everyone wins!

Until he pukes tuna into my bed.

Then I lose.

ThePeach

FINE.

Jesus, people. FINE. I updated my "who the hell am I talking about?" section. STOP THE PEER PRESSURE. It's over now.

Speaking of peer pressure, guess who came over last night and convinced me to smoke pot and watch episodes of How I Met Your Mother when I should have been working?

This is why he's called BadInfluence.

Ok, FINE. He came over and made me promise I would do work and stay sober, and then I wrestled the lit joint out of his hand and inhaled furiously while running away from him.

He put up a good fight.

ThePeach

Monday, August 10, 2009

ThePeach is a stoner; special lady

Why, god? WHY did I ever think I could purchase $70 worth of pot and still have a functional existence? I’ve been stoned for like 2 weeks. What day is it? Where am I? Why are there two empty Swiss Chalet chicken containers on the floor beside my couch?

Please. Check me into pot rehab.

It’s been an interesting week. Wait, is today Monday? I work from home and I’m drunk most days, so every day is the same pretty much.

It’s been an interesting several days, I guess I should say.

The only reason I’m blogging right now is because I have to write two articles today and I need to warm up my brain. It took me two hours just to open Microsoft word. I’m so pooched.

It’s come to my attention that I might be more upset about my breakup than I allow myself to believe. I spend so much time working, and then binge drinking, and ultimately distracting myself that I kind of forget most of the time that the man I loved so much that it hurt broke up with me over the phone. On Canada day. While I was on the other side of the country. And because he called my cell, it charged me long distance. It cost me $12 to get dumped.

Anyway.

For the most part I think I’m doing very well. I live my life, have fun, accomplish stuff, and generally avoid depression and sadness. The only place my breakup has really manifested itself is in my apartment, which looks like a bombed Romanian orphanage. And I guess in my appearance, which looks much the same. Actually, I’ve been told freedom looks good on me, if only I would gain 5 or 10 pounds. Judging by the chicken carcass on my floor, I’d say I’m on my way.

I went to the bar with TheAmazon on Friday. I wore one of my favourite bar shirts. It was a little looser than the last time I wore it, which ultimately resulted in it falling off my body. I got a free drink out of it. Advantages!

Ok, time to focus in a linear fashion, here. This story has a point. Swearsies.

Friday was a rough day. I had been working for like 3 days straight at that point with no breaks. Not even for pot. I had been living off of microwave popcorn and coffee. I had experienced some minor man drama that morning, but I dodged the hurty bits and just focused on work. TheAmazon was flying in for a visit that night and I just needed to finish my research before she got there. And then, at 9pm, FauxHawk called to chat. You know, just a nice little catch up with the man who ripped my heart out. Being friends is yay. The conversation was pretty casual and cheerful, and after we hung up I congratulated myself for being so cool to him on the phone. I got back to work.

The computer screen was a little blurry. Weird. Oh hey, breathing is a little hard. Must be the coffee. And is my heart palpating? That doesn’t feel nice. Stop it, you.

Next thing I know I’m curled up in a little ball in my desk chair and crying like a pitiful tool. This lasted about an hour, despite my best attempts to stop the cry hole. I walked around the apartment. Negative. I washed my face. Negative. Showered. Shaved my legs. Weeped the whole time. Poured a gin. Nothing.

TheAmazon showed up at my door to find me crying, blasting the Amy Winehouse, swigging gin, and prancing around the apartment in leggings and a bra.

TheAmazon: *immediately sits down* Sit in my lap and tell Momma what’s wrong, Boo.
ThePeach: *sobs* Boo is sad, Momma!
TheAmazon: *pats her lap* Momma will help.
ThePeach: *sits on lap, weeps* My life is stupid and overly dramatic and no one loves me.
TheAmazon: I know just what Boo needs. You’re going to put on a shirt. We are going to the bar. We are going to dance with ugly men and let them buy us drinks. I am going to order tequila and lick the salt off your cleavage. You are going to let momma feed you poutine. Then we’ll come back here and cuddle and maybe I’ll fork your skinny ass. Sound good?
ThePeach: *sniffle* Ya, motherfucker.
TheAmazon: *slaps my ass* YOU CALL THAT ENTHUSIASM??!
ThePeach: YA, MOTHERFUCKER!!!

And we did exactly that. I woke up the next morning with a line of salt all the way from my jaw to my inner thigh. I might have accidentally had a lesbian experience, but I can’t be sure.

We drank and smoked that night until 5am. At 9am TheAmazon rolled over in bed and woke me up.

TheAmazon: Bitch, wake up. Get your credit card.
ThePeach: *coughs up half a joint* SHMEH*cough*WHAT? *dry heaves* WHERESH AMI *squints eyes* Momma?
TheAmazon: Boo, I have a plan.

30 minutes later we had purchased flights to Portugal.

OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. I’M GOING TO PORTUGAL IN 11 DAYS. OH MY GOD.

What…did I do? How…why…oh my god. I’m going to Portugal. With TheAmazon. In 11 days. I put it on my mastercard.

I think it’s safe to say that I need a vacation, but still. Wow. Impulsive. We’re going to backpack from Lisbon to Faro and stop in Lagos to fuck surfers. Or learn to surf. Or both, whatever. We have no accommodations booked. No real idea of what we’re going to do there. But I have a feeling it’s going to be the best experience of my life.

See, I’ve had an epiphany about the kind of person I am. (God, this blog is a whole lot of emo. Aporogies.).

I’m the kind of person who wants the experiences. All of them, good and bad. Often they go hand in hand. When I die (which might soon, at this rate), I’m not going to remember that I had no mastercard debt for one brief month in the summer of ’09. But I guarantee I will remember the wicked backpacking vacation I had in Portugal with my oldest friend, TheAmazon. I’m going to remember that I loved someone deeply, even if they sucked and broke my heart. I’m going to remember that I was totally irresponsible and drank too much and did more stupid things that just wound up hurting me in the long run, but I’m also going to remember how good it all felt at the time.

This is getting deep. It’s the fucking THC.

My dear friend ThePilot – another one of my oldest friends - was in CapitalCity for the weekend, too. We met up on Saturday and he took me to his adorable house in the country for dinner. We chased frogs. Shucked corn. He picked me a flower and put it in my hair. He reminded me that life is good.

We were sitting around his dining room table, eating pie and drinking coffee, when we started talking about how I’d like to move to Vancouver next year. I was still feeling kind of spent from my cry fit the day before, very hungover from the tequila, and pretty much like an unlovable wretch. ThePilot looked at me and said:

“I don’t know many women who would leave everything they know and go live on the other side of the country just for the adventure of it. That’s a compliment, in case you’re wondering.”
Well. Some people find my craziness intriguing.

Maybe there’s hope for me.

ThePeach

Friday, August 07, 2009

I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo.

Ok. I’ll blog. Sorry for the delay. I bought $70 worth of pot this weekend and kind of lost track of time and space for a few days. Then I remembered that I have a month’s worth of work due today, so I’ve been working like a plantation slave since Tuesday. A plantation slave who creates textbook bibliographies instead of harvesting indigo and getting raped by massa’, but, you know, same thing.

So, I haven’t slept in 3 days, I have moderate to severe caffeine psychosis, and my work is due in a few hours. Perfect time to blog.

Also, I was worried that I didn’t have enough good camping stories to satisfy your eager little minds. It was a genuinely awesome weekend, but I don’t know if anything that random or hilarious happened. This is what I told ThePilot when he accosted me about my trip. Then I started listing some of the nice, normal things that happened over the weekend. Then I realized that they were not normal at all. Then I was scared that my sense of reality has become warped by my weird life.

Anyway. Here are some highlights:

1. TV lied to us.

TigerCat and I both craved Iced Caps on the drive down. We figured that we’d pass at least 6 Tim Hortons’ before we reached the camp site, seeing as how we had to drive through at least 6 crappy small towns in rural Ontario. But there were ZERO Tim Hortons’! ZERO! With each passing town we got angrier and angrier. Finally, as we passed through the last town, TigerCat slapped her hands on the wheel and muttered:

“What the fuck. I thought this was Canada.”

Then she just kind of stared blankly at the road and no one talked for a while.

2. Our tent lied to us.

TigerCat bought us an awesome tent on sale at WalMart. It was super cheap, sleeps 4, and in the picture on the front an entire family lounges comfortably in the canvas.

In reality, the tent was a hobbit hole. Our air mattress barely fit in it, we had to change one at time while lying down because it wasn’t tall enough to sit up in, and TigerCat and I slept basically on top of each other, like slaves in a slave ship (why does this post have a slave theme? I’m not a racist. Swearsies). Also, it rained on the last night. Our hobbit hole then transformed into a hobbit swamp. Not fun.

3. Kids are fun.
TigerCat, TheCrazy, TheCastrato and I all went to the beach on Saturday. It was a perfect sunny day and I enjoyed scandalizing the kiddies and their pot-bellied Dads in my whore’s bathing suit. We ate cookies and grapes and read our books until it was too hot to ignore the lake. The women ventured in while TheCastrato left to seek shade. The lake was refreshing but damned cold. We waded in just past our knees and then lingered there to acclimatize ourselves. And that’s when I felt a cold shot of water to my ass.

I looked behind me to see a grinning 3-year-old boy pointing a water gun squarely at my ass cheeks. He pressed the trigger and shot another stream of freezing lake water at me. Bingo: right to the ass. I looked the wee pervert in the eyes and said “stop.” He giggled. Pressed the trigger again. I looked around to see if there were any witnesses to potential toddler drowning, and I noticed the kid’s father watching us. Just staring, with his arms crossed over his burnt pot belly.

Perverts: it’s genetic.

4. Cooking is fun.
We don’t have a Coleman stove, but we do have a hibachi BBQ that we did most of our cooking over. On our last morning I was in charge of breakfast. I dragged the BBQ out of the dining shelter and the cooler out of the car. I found the package of bacons. Mmm. Bacons. The package was vacuum sealed. We neglected to bring scissors. Or knives. Fast forward 10 minutes of angry grunting and attempting to rip open the package with my teeth, and you find me squatting in the dirt, hacking at the bacon package with my grandfather’s axe. Great success!

During all this TigerCat was at TheCrazy’s campsite, boiling water to make coffee. Bless that child.

Next it was time to light the BBQ. I once again squatted in the dirt (like a slave?) and turned on the gas. I stuck the lighter into the grill and flicked the switch. I looked into the grill. Did the BBQ light? I couldn’t be sure, so I thought the best way to check would be to light it again. I once again stuck the lighter into the grill and flicked the switch.

TigerCat and I as wee tots, running through the grass on a warm summer’s day. My first bike – pink, with purple streamers on the handlebars. My first kiss, on the playground, from a boy in my class. These are the images I see when my life flashes before my eyes.

The flames shot about 6 feet in the air and knocked me backwards into the dirt. The violent sound of rushing fire could probably be heard across the lake. I gingerly patted my face. Eyebrows: check. Eyelashes: check.

I guess the BBQ was lit.

5. I’m one with nature.
Two more of our friends spent the night with us on Saturday, and we had a big campfire together. We chugged our coolers and beers, played guitar, and smoked some of my $70 worth of pot. We had singalongs which, in my high state, seemed like the most beautiful thing imaginable. We’re singing as a group! To an acoustic guitar! In the woods! I practically came in my pants when we broke into “Creep” by Radiohead. Oh, pot.

But with the drinking comes the urination, and we were a good 10 minute walk from the nearest shitter. Most people are adept at pissing in the woods, but I, sir, am not. I just can’t pee in anything but a toilet. It’s not just the actual mechanics of the squatting and avoiding your feet – it’s also mental. I cannot – cannot! – let go of my bladder in public. I’ve tried.

But this time something was different. Maybe it was the pot. Maybe it was the woods. Maybe it was the one-month dumpiversary since my breakup and my newfound strength. Whatever it was, I marched into those woods like a motherfucking star, found a log, took my pants right off, grabbed the log for support, and voided recycled vodka into nature. I did it 3 more times throughout the night. We all had our own pee spots. I liked mine. I had to climb down a bit of a slope to get to my log, but it gave me a sense of privacy.

The next day I realized that my private pee log was actually basically on the side of the major highway that runs past the campground. I was pantless and peeing on the side of the highway – four times.

That had to be a treat for anybody driving by.

I’ll leave you with this:


ThePeach