(she) makes (me) shake.

Saturday took a lot out of me. I needed a handful of xanax just to survive the party. That coupled with alcohol and marijuana lulled me into a false sense of security that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be OK. That feeling was smashed as soon as we decided the Orpheum was where we would be closing the evening. Between having to be the bad guy and kick people out of the party house (I don't play hostess for a reason, mostly because I don't know how to tactfully deal with the people who can't take a hint that the party is OVER), calm myself down after having a fit in my bedroom over wardrobe (whilst a friend sat in the living room helping the situation immensely by complaining about how long I was taking), I was in a fine mood to drive to Tampa and enter the 7th stratosphere of hell known as sink or swim.

I hate the ping-pong that is the Orpheum. We get there 2 hours before last call. I spend the majority of the evening slithering past children who congregate in walkways and bathrooms, intentionally downing too many drinks to make my tongue so loose no hateful words will slide off. I also need to drink enough liquor to dance to the same 40 minutes of songs they have been playing since 1996. Sometimes I'm so lucky, I get to play this game all evening, running between my boyfriend and my group of friends. Nine times out of ten I end up pissing off someone because I'm not spending enough time with them. Ten times out of ten I don't even want to be there in the first place. 99% of the time, someone ends up going home crying. Fun, fun, fun. Sunday, well, I already have an entry about that now don't I.


48 hours later and I'm still in the downward spiral that was this Saturday. Still the insecure little girl rifling through the Juniors section getting angry that she doesn't have the prepubescent body required for such fashion choices. Still agonizing over actions and missed opportunities. Still hung up on fact vs. fiction. Presently, biting my nails at this blog entry hoping that I have the balls to post it. I never used to be this way. I promise. I don't know if I would be able to function on this high of a level if I spent most of my adolescence thinking this way.

Monday morning and I'm in my wifebeater and yoga pants. I don't think I washed my face or brushed my teeth. I'm currently on the verge of tears. If I had an office door, I'd close it. The thought of cheery small talk with co-workers is making my stomach turn. I'm thisclose to putting the hood on my sweatshirt up and ignoring anyone who comes near my desk. I wish I had brought my puppy to help diffuse the situation. She's amazing for those sorts of things. Come to think of it, I should have just brought her on Saturday. Do you think they'd let dogs into the Orpheum?

So I've finally found a theme for this blog. I rarely have the opportunity to speak about the inane thoughts bouncing around in my head. Some are so irrational I can not bring my self to utter them aloud. The rest are too mean to bring to light. Most friends are too concerned with their own dramatic lives that I can hardly get a word in edgewise. The rest, are too far away to concern with the trivality that is my day to day life. So, think of personalcoma as my own public therapy session.

The doctor will now see you. Please be mindful of the automatic doors. Welcome to the ride.