Sorry, Irish. Shit’s getting real later.

I definitely shouldn’t be as proud as I am of my ability to choke down sudden-onset Feels and get on with my workday, but my GOD, this time was impressive.

I deserve some sort of Irish medal.

But…tonight is pretty much earmarked entirely for a date with Fiona Apple, bourbon, and an Ugly Cry.

And hey, happy bonus of the nausea: my lunch is still sitting untouched on my desk. They’re diet feelings this time! Feelings Lite! 100-Calorie Feelings!

Ahem. There’s a line from “Friends” where Chandler introduces himself by saying, “I’m Chandler, I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable.”

P.S. I’ll be fine. Don’t call any hotlines.

Instant bravery: just add beer. 

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.

“Flip your shit past another lass’s humble dwelling…”

I read this quote on another blog (thecomplaintrix.tumblr.com) and remembered how much I love this song.

“I’ll idealize, and realize that it’s no sacrifice because the price is paid, and there’s nothing left to grieve.”
— Fiona Apple, “Get Gone”

Getting my wallow on.

I’ve posted this before, but it’s just the perfect morning for it to come up on the iPod shuffle and remind me what’s what. Thanks, Universe.

“How can I deal with this, if he won’t get with this?
Am I gonna heal from this? He won’t admit to it.
Nothing to figure out; I gotta get him out.
It’s time the truth was out that he don’t give a shit about me.”

“I’m in the business of misery, let’s take it from the top.”

I’ve said this before, but this song is my angsty JAM. It’s a Fiona Apple kind of night at work. “Hot Knife” is up next. Maybe a little Anna Nalick later — “Catalyst,” for sure.

If you have a favorite misery-wallowing song, leave it in the comments. We’ll create our own Smug Buzzkill Playlist!

(NB: First person to say “Another Day in Paradise” or fucking “Christmas Shoes” gets stabbed in the eyes.)