Fucked up.

There’s something inherently fucked up with your life if you wake up Friday morning naked and still drunk. This is the tipsiest I’ve been while composing a blog entry.

I spent last night partying post-Fogg with CK and Rody. Four and a half glasses of wine at a grad school mixer. Another solo cupful at a Crimson Happy Hour. It is 8:30 a.m. and I have trouble standing. I am 5′2″, Asian, and the perfect target for sexual assault.

Last night’s chronologically coherent set of memories is limited to everything that occurred before I walked through Leverett Courtyard. I remember that because the swipe access actually works from the towers’ side now (someone finally fixed it) and I didn’t have to do that awkward reach-around.

Once in Mather House, I came home to an empty room, went to Aidan’s, got pissed off (can’t remember why but I’m pretty sure he did something terribly guyish), and stormed out — more or less not steadily on my stilettos. Back in my room, I discovered his cell phone in my purse (we have the same phones), informed him via Gmail chat, and he came down to retrieve it.

This is the part where it gets good. In my not-so-soundproof common room, I completely went off. I told him everything I thought was wrong with him but would never say to his face — at least not without some major tempering of language. I literally informed him that he was a fuck up, that there were serious revisions he needed to make to his life. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it epitomized drunken tirades. Even though drunk people say things they wouldn’t say sober, I like to think that I still self-censor to a semi-acceptable degree. Last night, I was too drunk to censor and too angry to shut up.

I also probably threw things I shouldn’t have thrown and lost one half of my awesome stilettos. I think Allie was home. My clothes somehow came off. I ended up in bed. I answered a phone call from a 301 area code I don’t recognize now. I should reveal that I only know all this happened thanks to the archived and drunken Gmail chat that more or less sums up the insanity. And though it appears that I had issues with punctuation and train of thought, I displayed a surprising ability to remain articulate.

In conclusion, I was a shit show last night, I am hungover right now, but the writer in me always prevails.