The Grateful Drunk.

Let’s not even fuck around. Change is scary. Whether it’s figuring out what how you’re going to tell the world you’ve broken up with someone who was Bae a few days ago or moving out from home, change is scary but inevitable. It could be argued that change is human (not trying to be profound).

The past few days/week (I never know. I’m almost always drunk) have been the scariest of my life. I got an internship which could propel me to greatness and I moved out of home. I’ve never had a job or been away from home for more than a month. It’s scary. I mean I’ve always thought I was going to be a cartoon watching, atheist, feminist man child forever. Ok, at least until I wrote my bestseller memoirs. Now, at 24 and a couple of months (I’m 25 soon. Phuza face is a myth, kids.), I’m living on my own (sort of) and I have a job (again, sort of) that need me to start taking responsibility for my life.

I’ve joked with a few friends that I’m a walking cliché: Almost 25, gay and an intern. It’s like something from Half and Half. I’ve always thought that the day I moved out, I’d get drunk and have a man between my legs the moment I got to my new place. So far, I’ve only achieved one of those. The nerves are almost gone and as I lay here, in the darkness of my new room, with what I think are frogs croaking outside (live in a mountainous area), I can’t help but feel excited about the course my life is taking.

I wouldn’t have done it without the help of my friends. It is so overwhelming and flattering to have so many people love and believe in you. I hope I can reciprocate that love tenfold.

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When Toxicity Makes Sense.

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So, yesterday, during the day, in my hungover state (yes, I still drink on Mondays and occasionally on Wednesdays), I came across a gem of a series. It’s called ‘You’re The Worst’. How could I not be drawn to it?!

It’s about this British bloke (had to. No other word would’ve been appropriate), Jimmy. Jimmy’s a writer and overall asshole. He also doesn’t have the best of luck in the relationship department (must be a writer thing, then). Jimmy meets Gretchen who was walking out of her best friend sister’s wedding with a blender which she thought was a food processor. They hit it up (not really) and next thing we know, they’re fucking hard, only pausing to get water, a sandwich and change positions. Long story short, two fucked up people meet, fuck and start developing feelings for each other, no matter how hard they try to fight it.

Isn’t that the story of our lives? I know it’s mine. I loved (and still love) a man that was engaged to be married to some other shithead. That relationship (theirs, not ours) imploded when aforementioned shithead messed up. Then the other guy and I tried dating. It just never worked out. See, I call him my Jedi Master and he calls me his Padawan. We’re at our most comfortable with each when we’re being weird and geeky. No other guy makes me feel like that, no matter how many times I try discussing how Hobbits are indestructible. The fights are what drives us. I love(d) fighting with him. The fights were the lifeblood of our strange agreement/relationship/love thing. I’d call him out for being an emotionally absent hippie asshole and he’d be upset at me for not liking the way he’d critique my writing. It was always something with that one. And I got that. I liked that.

As I (rapidly) approach 25, I’m starting to think that maybe conventional isn’t my scene, relationship-wise. Maybe instead of looking for some straight laced guy with a 5 year plan, I should find someone with a tortured soul who I’ll have random conversations about Bigfoot with and who laugh at my weird bird phobia. Somebody I’ll write about and he’ll sing about me (this is actually happening right now. Jedi Master wrote a song about me. I’m ranting/writing about him here).

Maybe I’m just too medicated to think straight (still funny) right now. I have flu. Or I might have contracted Ebola. One really never knows these days….

Good Morning.