PinkJaime and i have a funny little joke that goes, "yes, let's go out for a drink after work...but JUST ONE." and then we laugh uproariously.
but yesterday, after my sad blogging and not wanting to go to our regular spot, i honestly believed that PinkJaime and i could get a single drink across the street before heading home from work.
um, and then by 9 o'clock, i was in a completely different part of town with a different outfit on.
and by 11 o'clock, i was home in bed realizing i should never drink again.
because martinis know when you are not in a good headspace, and they take advantage of your mind's susceptibility. martinis make you believe things you should not believe. in particular, martinis make you believe:
- changing into 3+ inch heels is a good idea. who cares if we have to walk "a few" (five) blocks? and then hang out (stand) in a bar for a while (indefinitely)? they look GREAT.
- carousing at an uber-hip and trendy sushi bar is likewise a good idea. it doesn't matter that you're older than everyone there and weigh the same as any two of the half-shirt-clad waitresses put together. the 21-year-old birthday boy standing next to you meant to imply they were unattractive when he proclaimed, "damn they're skinny!"
- sake bombs are both delicious and entertaining. you should have three.
- the witty, dancing drunk man is into you. you know this because he said, "god, kristy, you're fun" with great enthusiasm five minutes before leaving with his friend and two anorexic blonds with fake hair/nails/boobs/tans and purses more expensive than your monthly rent. you ARE fun.
- CALLING YOUR EX IS A GOOD IDEA. after all, it's been four whole days.
- EMAILING YOUR EX WHEN YOU GET HOME IS ALSO OKAY. because you already called him. so really, what's another email?
- the best thing to believe, however, when you are drunk and home alone and sad is that you are really, truly an artist. and as such, you should write poetry. to your ex. and since you do not have any paper handy (because it is secretly hiding in a desk drawer where you keep the paper), you should write poetry on yourself. look at your arm; your arm is a blank palette. use it.
below: a picture of the incoherent, indelible-ink "poetry" i couldn't completely wash off my forearm this morning.