Twenty-Five Percent!

18:40, 12 April 2003

I was about to write that the gym sucked, but really, the more appropriate word is that it was uninspiring. Maybe I was just not into it because of last night's transgressions. I finished UsWeekly in thirty-six minutes because I skipped a bunch of articles--I really couldn't stomach another Lisa Marie Presley interview so soon after the Rolling Stone one.

Thirty-six minutes into what was to be a forty-five minute workout, I just got off the machine. Fuck it. Sometimes you just don't want to. As I was running home from the gym, I realised that I can't remember the last time I skipped the gym. I don't have a set schedule; I just go every day. It's just part of my day, wherever it ends up fitting in. Conversely, homework is not a part of my day and never gets done. Hmmm.

I was just wrangling with this nutrition calculation site that tells you if you get enough of all your vitamins, etc. One of the little colorful graphs showed me that this week, a full quarter of my calories have come from alcohol. Twenty-five percent! Holy cow! That can't be healthy. But what am I to do? Quit drinking? Ha. I'll just work on drinking less.

Tonight, for example: I predicted that I'd have a bottle of wine and two mixed drinks, which is pretty standard, since I usually drink half the bottle of wine before getting picked up, then the other half at the pre-party, then a couple drinks at the club. But tonight I probably won't even drink that much, especially since Piyush made me promise not to drink before he comes to get me. "Let's start together," he said. Isn't that soooooo cute? (God, I'm getting so fucking ridiculous. I'm all squidgy like the Pillsbury doughboy when he gets poked in the tummy. "Wheehee" with pink cheeks.)

So now, getting dressed. Do you think he's ready for the skirt yet? Am I ready to wear a skirt yet? It's an above-the-knee grey wrap skirt. Tight light-grey tank. Three-inch casual heels. The outfit is hot in body-consciousness but understated in colour. And for the convent-approved outfit, black pants with a black lace top (that is not white-trash looking). It's not very warm out so pants might be better. No seduction tonight.

He's coming to pick me up in an hour and a half. I am not nervous at all. I have no qualms about going. I'm calmly anticipatory. What the fuck is wrong with me?

A Simple Plan

15:15, 12 April 2003

Ay. Today is so annoying. I'm half-hungover: tired but not in pain. The day has gone surprisingly fast since I'm moving so slowly. I walked to get ice cream, then got a pedicure. God, what a treat they are. A $20 miracle.

Here's the plan for the rest of the day:
1. Lie on couch with lavender eye pillow, listening to Sigur Ros and dozing in and out of REM sleep with (hopefully) good dreams.
2. Run to Citibank, withdraw funds, continue running to gym, fuck about there for a while, run home.
3. Read book for class Wednesday. (And you know this is the one that will get dropped if time gets tight!)
4. If Piyush has not called, call him and pester him about what the plan is for tonight.
5. Begin to get ready. Stress about outfit, change it a minimum of four times.
6. Begin to panic about tonight. Have mental argument about whether to drink or not beforehand. Sobriety loses that argument, inevitably. Like Anakin Skywalker, my fate is the Dark Side.

Who Stole My Pickles?

08:34, 12 April 2003

All my pickles are gone. Ha! That's better than seeing an empty pizza box on the floor when one wakes up, isn't it? But holy shit, did I have fun with Limes last night! We went to Bar Marmont and killed these poor British boys. OK, two British boys, one New Zealander and one Australian. I kissed the Australian because I'm a weak-ass mother-fucker who can't resist a guy who fawns over me. Why did I give him my number? See previous sentence.

So we finally left that place, well drunk, I tell you. Back to my apartment where we drank more. Looked at my pictures. Ate all my pickles. Mmm.

We both passed out and her boyfriend came to get her and I answered the door in my underwear because I was so fucked up. Sweet. Two of my complex's security guards and Limes' boyfriend saw me in my underwear. I didn't care then, and frankly, I don't care that much now. Ha! Oh, and the pickles? Limes is totally convinced now that they are the world's greatest drunken food. Because they are. But you have to buy the classy stuff. Mmm.

This morning I woke up and scarfed my leftover French Onion soup. Damn. That shit is illegally good. Now it's 8:28. What the fuck am I going to do until I go out with Piyush (and co.) tonight? I'm soooooo fucking glad I didn't drunk dial him last night. Because I was totally thinking of him (oh, except when I was sucking face with the Australian!) and I told Limes that I cannot wait to see him tonight. God, I am such a nerd. I am totally setting myself up for the worst Revulsion, just you watch. But as of now, I crave his company. Which is less caloric than chocolate.