Come Cut Me Open

Drunk-blogging is even worse than drunk-driving, but it seems as though I am committing both crimes tonight.

Being home in the warm safety of my bedroom feels orgasmic after a night of drinking with my brothers in Venice, where they reside. The two main bars on Abbot Kinney yielded success for my ego, but little for my soul. Jackson posted something on Facebook about couch-hunting with his "lady," which brought me spiraling back to the life-changing nights we had shared this past August. His attention was a tease, a promise of a life I had only dreamed of, but someone else had played the game better than I and won his affections...and commitment, so it would seem. Jackson's accomplishments in the world of pro-snowboarding were above and beyond that of any men I'd dated thus far, and the brief time we'd spent in each other's arms provided a glimpse into a life of luxury, of carefree indulgence and childlike wonderment that I'd never before allowed myself to fathom. I suppose it wasn't meant to be, that I have some greater purpose in store that would have been squelched had I devoted my time to fulfilling his every desire. Still, though, that delicious taste of "what if" continues to haunt me in the form of status updates in the virtual realm of social networking.

And then there's Joseph. As I traversed the 10 East with Jameson coursing through my veins, I fumbled with my hands-free technology in order to place a late-night phone call to the one who continues to rear his ugly head. Leave me alone. Don't profess your feelings only to retreat into silence. Of course he didn't answer - he was most likely still plugging away at work, immersed in his passion, his profession. Good for him.

I question my desire to have a man in my life. Why? Why do I crave that attention so consistently? I am more than this biological clock ticking away within an empty womb. I possess talents and creativity and an imagination as limitless as the Universe itself. As my brother pointed out tonight, though, our respective drives toward success are purely ego-based. In the end, none of it means a goddamn thing. No one will remember our accomplishments one hundred years from now. Why do we hammer ourselves into the ground, beating ourselves up for not being further along than we currently are? No one else is keeping score. Ambition is thinly-veiled vanity based on our own self-perceived potential for greatness.

I am still drunk. I should not have driven home. In Los Angeles, one in three will be issued a DUI, and those are merely the ones who get caught. We all drive under the influence, we all risk our lives and the lives of those around us every time we get behind the wheel. It is a part of this culture that I have only recently joined. I am so late to the party, regressing with every birthday. They all think I'm five years younger than I actually am, an old soul that not only caught up to herself, but traveled back in time and continues to do so, erasing the years with every sip of whiskey, every devious smile. So what?

I went to two modeling castings today. I look the part, act the part, and no longer know who I am. And you know what? They all fucking eat it up.

Pretentious Indie Song of the Day: