Current mood: Vodka.
Current mood: Vodka.
No, wait… You’re right. I need beer.
Also, I totally hear you — Xanax would’ve been great, but alas, there’s some shit about ethics where they won’t give it to me because I don’t actually have anxiety? I KNOW, right, what the shit? This IS America, right? Family gatherings + Jesus’ birthday = special dispensation. That’s in the Bible: “And lo, distributed among them, there were delicious medications, and yea, they were happy. OK, well…not really HAPPY, but they didn’t hit anyone, and so there was peace on earth, and sedated goodwill toward men.”
P.S. I will spend today baking MANY cookies; those are almost Xanax if you eat enough of them.
P.P.S. That whiskey is not for me. That shit is like having one of those hippie honey cough drops in your drink. Ugh.
“Do not drink alcohol while taking Lexapro.”
“Pfft. That’s for amateurs. ‘Bring me another mai tai!'”*
* If you know the quote, you’re probably my soulmate. Which is a shame, for I am dead inside and incapable of feeling feelings. Good on you, though.
I had far too many feelings yesterday resulting from being social, so of course now that I have a free day to myself, as soon as I woke up they all came rushing back, and it was like a team of squirrels took over my brain and started playing emotional volleyball — “Sad about this!” *pass* “Insecure about that!” *pass* “Oh, hey, what about having kids, wanna rehash that one?” *pass*
Right. So I’ll be here all day with a slow drip of coffee martinis, watching comfort movies. I dare you to be sad when Justin Timberlake is serenading Mila Kunis with Kris Kross’s “Jump.” (Plus…dat ass.)
Or, hell, this seems like a pretty solid state of mind to finally go see
Inside Out and just embrace it all. (Obviously with a venti spiked Starbucks and a big fuck-off tray of theater nachos. That’s just being prepared; I learned that shit in Girl Scouts.)
I haven’t been buying things unless I absolutely had to, because I was going to be moving, so the less stuff I had to pack, the better.
Except I ran out of alcohol.
This would be fine ordinarily, but I’m down to the last bits of packing, which means I have to confront the Boyfriend Box — a bunch of relationship remnants I’ve had tucked away, out of sight and mind in the closet, for more than 2 years. Like everything else in the apartment, I’m going to go through it and see what needs to be kept/tossed/donated.
So I picked up a six-pack of Dogfish Head Namaste beer. For, um, inner peace. Yes.
Bonus: I won’t have to pack the beer if I drink it all. But worst case, I move a few bottles to the new place.
Namaste, a quiet night at home, and all of Fiona Apple’s albums on shuffle.
Let’s dance, feelings. I ain’t scared.