older....

I am not nineteen anymore. I can no longer fully function or even appear to be a on Monday after a gongshow of a weekend. The four hour shift began shortly before 5 PM, and from the get go, I was a no go.
Exhausted would have been an understatement. The bags under my eyes took on a racoon effect, my eyes could barely stay open, and it was painfully obvious that my feet hurt--my voice did too.

Revelling after work until all hours of the morning is something I recall being so fond of. It didn't mean I was going to feel like I got hit by a city bus at full speed. Yawn.

Coming Home Quietly

It turns out that the more you drink on the weekends--the more money you are bound to find in your pockets before laundering.

The sober me waivers between tidying, organizing the coming days and daydreaming about nothing and anything in particular. (What will the weather be like tomorrow? Will the work week resemble an almost carbon copy of the previous? Where's that roommate been for the past few days? The sun never hit that part of the backyard before. Hmm, that grass needs cut.)

The drunk me enters the house "quietly" as to not disturb the sleeping beauties upstairs.
In this sense "quietly" means trying to tip toe but sounding more and more suspicious and loud. Usually followed by a stumble into a lamp, slam of the cupboard, fridge, freezer and microwave door or a combination of the four.

The climb up the stairs can seem like the Vietnam of balance games, I've succeeded this task hundreds of times in the dark before. Now, however, it's about the angle of the incline, the speed of your jaunt and length of my feet.
Slam bathroom door, run sink really loud, wash face, stare at myself in the mirror, wink, laugh and mutter whatever words of the English language I can string together to myself before entering my bedroom.
I then "Quietly" close my bedroom door. Unbuckle belt, take off shirt, drop pants with pockets full, look in mirror, wink, smirk do some drunk math in my head and take the next coma nap until morning.

A funny thing happens when I drink. The drunker I am the more I try to deny it. I've got it together a few times, but there has been many a time where I got carried away. Imagine it as that drunk friend of yours who swears they are not too drunk to drive and proves it by showing off their brick breaker score. Thankfully I am usually too tired from the 11 hour workday to bother staying up much later to cause any trouble.

Lucky for me my intoxicated actions tend to result in the finding of money, unwrapped chewing gum, my passport, the ipod and a pocket mirror (REALLY?) No.

keep

He with a wavering integrity.
Yet still, a Show-Stopper.
Grand Marshal, Lead Role, Headliner.
Wise Guy, Smart Ass and Shit Disturber.

New Life on Lease.

Today was spent tying up loose ends with the former roommates and landlord. I followed through with my decision to stay in this crazy city for at least six months. I was shuffling through countless memories of this four bedroom kingdom up on the hill, hand shaking as I signed my name on the dotted line.

The parties, they mayhem, the constant celebration. It ended with several longstanding feuds, and I can only wonder if the one relationship will ever be repaired. I learned that an overwhelming amount of compassion can be lost when it comes to money.

I have no idea what to expect in the next six months. I can only trust that I will certainly find a direction.

And Then There Was One.

The Sensitive Artist and Starlet have moved out. And so ends an era.
The separation was, in no doubt, the best thing that could happen. It meant that the Starlet and her flame could move in together in the crystal ball version of marriage. It also meant that Missensitive could start the next chapter in her life a little earlier than anticipated.

I looked around at several apartments, entertained the idea of abandoning Calgary all together and considered six more months of purgatory. I went with the later.
I spent the better part of today sweeping, scrubbing, mopping, vacuuming, dusting, polishing and downsizing. I organized all of the mail addressed to former occupants, finished the invitations for the Club's private Vegas theme party, and took Mother's puppy for a stroll. I was meant to be locked up in boyfriend's apartment, but he was hit with the flu.


Between ignoring the sounds of the birds all day, and following around little puppy-pee-alot and responding to work emails, I decided to ventured into the room that used to house the Starlet; empty. I refocused, rounded the corner, down the stairs, 14 to the bottom, sharp left, through the laundry room, click the light on, adjusted the knot in my throat, held the railing and entered the basement.

There was absolutely no sign of the artist... the empty wine bottles, shelves and shelves of fabric, art books and stationary and the long black cable running across the shag carpet to the bedroom were gone. As if she had suddenly disappeared as well.

It's true that I haven't been left alone in this house that was once the "home" of two of my best friends, the blonde has decided to stay. Something that both terrifies me and makes me feel like the party isn't over. I don't have the same desire to be out every night until the sun comes up. I can't be bothered rushing from one lame night club to the next, flirting with strangers and jagermiester, slamming a red bull, inhaling thrills through twenties and dancing with every possible suitor in the room.

That die hard partier within me is on hiatus, and may be permanently.... I wonder when her number will be up?

All of a Sudden/Hello Vodka

It was last call, and then it was all of sudden after three o'clock. Jesus Christ, did I black out? "No sweetie, it's the start of daylight savings time," says the redheaded coworker, dressed as cowgirl, with a splash of vodka.
Being several margaritas, three beers and an inhale of two of the mysterious joint that appeared I was at the comfortable state of buzzed, but teetering. The work weekend was much more profitable than had been anticipated, and I was looking for a good time.
I barely recall the cab ride home, but stumbling into the kitchen I soon realized that the party was far from over.

Enter two drunk roommates and a very loud accomplice. Polish off a bottle of wine, and soon we were all doing shooters of Baileys; an entire 40 ouncer. I remember all of a sudden hearing the front door open and close. I started to shush the girls; my boyfriend had arrived.
He usually enters to find me asleep, the the rare occasion waiting up; but never in the midst of a kitchen dance party at five in the morning. To make matters even more interesting, he was sober; stone sober.

I had just wondered where this party monster in me went... and all of a sudden... out from hibernation he came. See you later sanity. Hello Vodka.

The Revival

There are many reasons I haven't been writing; but I am back now.