Saturday, February 6, 2016

this is what happens when i stay up 5 hours and 13 minutes past my bedtime.

saturday 2:15p i let myself into my apartment after work, grateful to be the type of trash-ass person who only uses one plate and sleeps on top of a previously made bed in order to keep up the illusion of neatness, then was about to take off my belt and undo all four hooks of my bra until the crushing realization hit me: FUCK ME I MADE PLANS TONIGHT.

2:17p i quickly cycled through all five kubler-ross stages of impending social engagement dismay:
1 denial: "did i really tell bee i would meet her for drinks tonight or is this a dream."
2 anger: "WHY THE FUCK DID I AGREE TO THIS I HATE GOING PLACES AND DOING THINGS."
3 bargaining: "if i go to this bar tonight and i tell some jokes and act real sweet i will keep this friendship intact plus i won't have to make up a transparent lie and also i don't ever have to leave my crib ever again."
4 depression: "is there anything worse in life than someone wanting to hang out with you? especially in a fancy bar that serves 'handcrafted' cocktails? maybe i can throw myself off their organic rooftop urban garden and end this miserable charade for good."
5 acceptance: "fine then, i'ma just watch four episodes of SVU and eat saltines with my shoes on until it's time to call a cab."

4:07p (fights off sleep)

5:35p i dragged this old beef carcass to the snooty coffee shop in my hood thinking i might not lapse into a coma if i had a couple shots of espresso. the dude behind the counter was chatting animatedly with this young woman who ordered something called a cortado (what the fuck is that) while she feigned interest (i hope) in the concentrated flavor produced by an arabica bean sourced from an estate at a 6000 foot altitude (are those even words) as homeboy made her drink. i was already sweating in a mild panic, dismayed that the chalkboard menu didn't advertise anything like a birthday cake latte or a double chocolaty chip cinnamon crème mocha javaccino. (that's a real drink, right.) I DON'T KNOW SHIT ABOUT COFFEE, BRUH. mavis is always trying to talk to me about pour overs and nitro brewing and girl: miss me with that boring-ass shit. one morning when i was 27 i woke up and all my adult tastes had developed seemingly overnight. hoppy beers, cauliflower with no cheese on it, anchovies: my bank account was still a toddler but my taste buds had grown the fuck up. EXCEPT FOR COFFEE. unless it tastes like ice cream i hate that fucking shit. when i finally got to the counter i was so full of angst that i bought a seven dollar muffin and rushed out the door burning with shame and still tired.

6:00p "should i take a shower?"

6:15p "i really gotta get a move on if i'm going to both shower and put on clean clothes."

6:50p "i wonder if i lint roller all the cat hair off these pants if anyone will be able to tell i've been wearing them since seven this morning?"

7:42p stood in the lobby of my building scowling at my phone as i watched the uber icon pinwheeling around the map of my neighborhood as the time estimate changed from three minutes to seven minutes to one minute then back to three, mad at myself because i wanted to be ready to go at 7:30 but somehow, inexplicably, i managed to make myself late and now this dude was making me even later. 12 minutes late without 1 taking a shower 2 changing most of my clothes or 3 putting on so much as a swipe of blush, i still had to scramble downstairs in a pigpen-style dirt cloud only to watch my man turn down wrong alleys and roll through the drive-thru (probably) on his way to my casa.

7:48p i tried to surreptitiously take a picture of the cabbie doing a crossword puzzle in the newspaper by the phosphorescent glow of the street lamps at every red light but didn't realize my fucking flash was on so i had to apologize like an asshole while fumbling around with the buttons on my dumb phone fuck i should've just stayed on top of my comforter.

8:02p i was late, but who the fuck cares because no one else was there either. i hate being first when i don't know the plan. should i put my name in for a table? how many people are actually coming!? DO I HAVE TIME TO LEAVE BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE GETS HERE. i surveyed the room and instantly regretted my decision to wear pants that pull all the way up to my chin.

8:20p omg they want to sit at the bar. this is a literal nightmare. i am too motherfucking old to sit at the bar. my legs are not long enough yet somehow also too long to sit at the fucking bar. i feel like a big dumb baby climbing up onto those stupid tall chairs then trying to balance and not knock over my drink while hoping the stranger on my left doesn't notice the precarious grasp my toes have on the rung of his chair. also i put my name in and now i gotta figure out how to text cancel it without looking like a dick. fuck i hate the bar.

8:21p oh wait but the bartender is a friend of theirs so free champagne hook a bitch up.

8:50p "SUCK IN YOUR STOMACH FOR THE GRAM!" *shutter click*

9:30p we'd been drinking for an hour straight and all i had to eat was half of that overpriced muffin and a handful of red vines so i grudgingly decided to break the "it's cool, we're just meeting for drinks" rule and asked the bartender for a dinner menu, right around the time i would ordinarily be getting my ass ready for bed. this does not feel exciting to me as an adult. as a kid, anything i was allowed to eat later than 7pm was cause for celebration. as an adult, eating food late at night feels absolutely fucking terrible. i've read way too many glamour articles about where your latenight calories go, so now i'm about to pay $137 for a bowl of ceviche that's going to go straight to my back fat or wherever.

9:55p uh oh, a half full pint of beer shattered across the bar. first sign that party is starting to head down shitshow boulevard. i felt a familiar tingle as the change commenced; the extra hair sprouting from behind my ears, the lengthening of teeth. i slid my debit card across the bar, palms clammy with impending doom. i needed to get the fuck home.

10:15p watching people flirt makes me nervous. i get too emotionally invested right from the jump, caring way too much about whether or not a love connection is being made, skin crawling with anxiety over whether or not i'm about to suffer vicariously through an awkward rejection. my shoulders knotted up as i observed all of the heads bent together over frothy drinks. i resisted the urge to shout "i hope it works out for you!" at a lesbian couple on an uncomfortable-looking first date. keely texted me to see if i was out and i was faced with an excruciating sophie's choice: lie and say that i was holding in a bunch of tequila vomit on the bus then put my phone away and dip, hoping not to run into her on the street or tell the truth and risk extending my evening by four to six drinks. and while my heart said "IN BED AT THE NURSING HOME" my fingers typed "at a bar in your hood, you down?" she texted back that she would be right over. the beast sharpened its claws.

10:59p this is the point in the evening when the liquor fairy alights gently upon my shoulder and coos sweetly in my ear, "BITCH YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO PARTY LIKE THIS" and the gears in my brain slowly grind into motion, trying to recall exactly how many drinks i've had and how much those drinks cost apiece and whether or not anyone would notice if i tried to wedge myself out of the tiny bathroom window. i don't ever feel stupid until i'm locked in a bathroom stall doing drunk calculus on a paper towel to determine if i can pay both my bar tab and the rent. "three vodkas divided by the light bill times the minimum payment on my amex plus cab fare home shit i gotta go."

11:20p surprised i had not yet turned into a pumpkin, i remembered what a raging headache champagne gives me (especially when mixed with approximately 37 other cocktails) and was halfway through a large glass of water before realizing that i never even ordered a fucking water and was probably definitely drinking the one left behind by the person sitting in this uncomfortable highchair before i nearly threw my back out trying to get onto it. undeterred, i finished the entire thing in one gulp, careful not to let my emerging fangs clink too loudly against the glass.

sunday 12:10a pretty sure the bar closed a while ago, as all of the kitchen staff was glaring at us from the across the room, arms laden with whatever salads and taco scraps they were having for family meal. i muttered "you guys, we should probably bounce," which came out sounding like "grrrr rrrrrrr RRRrrrRrrr grrrrrrRRrRr" and i cleared my throat to cover it up, focusing instead on the tiny ripping sounds coming from my rapidly disappearing shirtsleeves as my hulking biceps started to poke through. i yanked on my coat before anyone noticed the layer of downy fur accumulating on my forearms.

12:45a my words were now slurring out soaked in bourbon and sounding like muffled dog barks so i immediately clamped my hand over my mouth to prevent further embarrassing myself and wished these kids would wrap it up so we could go the fuck home before i accidentally murdered everyone in the fucking building. every cab i saw going past looked like the last boat back to africa. "please don't leave me here," i mouthed silently, a single tear rolling through the weird patch of course hair freshly sprouted from my cheek as each pair of cherry red taillights faded into the night.

1:32a it has become nearly impossible to string a coherent sentence together. why is it that we always attempt to have intellectual conversations when we are physically incapable of doing so? you know what passes for witty discourse in my everyday life? "hey stranger at a party, do you ever feel like your deodorant has stopped working?" all i can talk about when i'm sober is hot dogs and teen mom but get three gins in me and all of a sudden i have opinions about intersectionality and internalized misogyny and academic imperialism. shut the fuck up, samantha.

1:47a TEARS.

2:05a in the car on the way home i looked down to discover that my feet were about to explode out of my shoes, the laces straining against an eruption of claws and hair. i pulled my beanie taut over my pointy ears and tried to send some inappropriate sexts but my claws made it impossible to type and i nearly shredded my coat fumbling around in the dark with that stupid goddamned phone. i killed two rats in the alley behind my building and devoured them whole, then stole a bunch of magazines from the vestibule and tried not to fall asleep in the elevator.

2:13a finally back in my crib and i could literally feel myself dying. everything feels like assault: the harsh lights over the bathroom mirror, the coldness of the water i halfheartedly splashed on my face, the spiked bristles of my toothbrush stabbing angrily at my tender gums. all of my systems were slowly breaking down; prying off the top of a bottle of advil is an insurmountable task i abandon after ten seconds of real effort, lifting my leg to get into the shower an impossible dream. why do i feel hungover when i haven't even been to sleep yet!? my brain throbbing mercilessly, i tore off what remained of my tattered clothing and tucked my tail between my legs before surrendering to sleep. ON TOP OF THE DUVET.

monday 1:19p i am dead. and writing this from hell.