Showing posts with label withdrawl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label withdrawl. Show all posts
Monday, June 9, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
I'm going to drink so much Dr. Pepper, I'll melt your panties off.
Tonight=success.
Snakes named Max, dance parties located in a car wash, and little ties.
Snakes named Max, dance parties located in a car wash, and little ties.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
I've never made a bet I felt I would lose. Hence, I rarely lose bets. But, today, Maggie triumphed over me and I now owe her a root beer float Sailor Jerry party. I'm happy to concede considering the outcome though.
After google creeping for half an hour, and her refusal to register an account at reunion.com, a withheld prank call settled the wager. It was a work number conference call, so it's mature right?
Then, Maggie showed me the future of film making.
It was quite the day.
After google creeping for half an hour, and her refusal to register an account at reunion.com, a withheld prank call settled the wager. It was a work number conference call, so it's mature right?
Then, Maggie showed me the future of film making.
It was quite the day.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Detox Day 1
I have no discipline. This is apparent to anyone who knows me for two days. At heart, I am just excessively hedonistic and can't rationalize missing out on something even if it's bad for me. That's why I find this whole transcontinental detox promise with Quinne laughable. Not drinking for four days is a feat, much less 14. But why not, I'm prime for a wallowing session and this time I don't want that crutch.
Sadly, there is not one facet of my life that doesn't regularly include alcohol, so this should be quite the challenge. Especially because I seem to only associate with enablers of various kinds of substance abuse. I didn't go to kickball tonight. Baby Steps.
During my beat generation kick, I watched this really terrible b-rate recording of an interview with Jack Kerouac, sloppy and bloated at 45, no charm, slouchy and looking on the brink of death, and that is all I am going to think about every time I get close to falling off the wagon. More specifically, the state of his chin/jowls.
And, in an abrupt subject change, I've been published. Since I quit tutoring I haven't had anywhere close to a sufficient amount of opportunities to viciously judge and correct people's writing or talk about writing, or, well, write. This bastard of my love affair with punctuation included. So I joined the editorial staff of a small literary mag an old creative non fiction classmate hooked me up with a few months back.
"Hurricane 151." It will be in the next issue. The reading/release party will be in two months. It's about how I helped rebuild America after Katrina. Ok, I just wrote that on the offchance that maybe Ashley will wind up reading this at some point. It's really about our 2 hour countdown on Bourbon Street the week I helped rebuild America. It features trannys, a 40 person "Strip" chant, cages, swiss army knives, fiberglass inflamed pores, dancing in the rain, Dietzler's boobs and an underlying message of hope.
Sadly, there is not one facet of my life that doesn't regularly include alcohol, so this should be quite the challenge. Especially because I seem to only associate with enablers of various kinds of substance abuse. I didn't go to kickball tonight. Baby Steps.
During my beat generation kick, I watched this really terrible b-rate recording of an interview with Jack Kerouac, sloppy and bloated at 45, no charm, slouchy and looking on the brink of death, and that is all I am going to think about every time I get close to falling off the wagon. More specifically, the state of his chin/jowls.
And, in an abrupt subject change, I've been published. Since I quit tutoring I haven't had anywhere close to a sufficient amount of opportunities to viciously judge and correct people's writing or talk about writing, or, well, write. This bastard of my love affair with punctuation included. So I joined the editorial staff of a small literary mag an old creative non fiction classmate hooked me up with a few months back.
"Hurricane 151." It will be in the next issue. The reading/release party will be in two months. It's about how I helped rebuild America after Katrina. Ok, I just wrote that on the offchance that maybe Ashley will wind up reading this at some point. It's really about our 2 hour countdown on Bourbon Street the week I helped rebuild America. It features trannys, a 40 person "Strip" chant, cages, swiss army knives, fiberglass inflamed pores, dancing in the rain, Dietzler's boobs and an underlying message of hope.
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