SELFABSORBED.ME

But hey, maybe I would have been happy?

Even if I could ‘Imagine” the perfect job I would probably get tired of it after awhile. I used to tell my dad I was going to quit everything and move to South Beach and become a towel-girl at the The Delano Hotel. My dad would lose it every time, as though I was really going to do it. He used to get so mad and say things like, “I paid for 4 years of college so that you could go hand towels to Puff Daddy?!” And then I would have to correct him about the whole , ‘P-Diddy’ thing and that would lead to a whole OTHER conversation.

Think of the coolest job you can think of. For example, - A sports editor, who gets to travel for free to sports games, he helps plan huge parties for big athletes then gets to go to all the parties and hang with celebrities…well guess what…I know him, I know a guy who does that very job, and he hates it. Yes fucking hates it. I know a girl who is top notch at Michael Kors and travels the world…some days she confesses she would rather have her eyes burned out by a hot poker.
My point is, if you hate your job, or sit at work thinking, “there MUST be something better.” I am here to tell you …there isn’t.

But if you find Billy Organ anywhere and he happens to have a farm with 10 unicorns and an extra vet license..you let me know.

My first year out of college, I had the pleasure of taking up a guest bartending job at a popular midtown bar. Not only did the bartending experience give me great insight into the world of making Malibu Baybreezes …but it also taught me very invaluable lessons about the natural habits of drunk women.

It was like watching gorillas in their natural habitat, untouched by mankind and running wild. It wasn’t the men per say that were running around like frat boys, but more so the women, dressed in a 3 dollar tops, carrying 300 dollar handbags.

And who can blame them?

Women have to have JOBS now AND be EDUCATED. I don’t know who made these rules, but clearly having to be educated and employed are causing huge problems in the female society, mainly involving sobriety.What happened to the good old days when women couldn’t vote? I bet those women were sober.

Around 3:45am every weekend at the end of my shift, it became inevitable that some chic was going to be the last one left in the bar , still trying to pick the bartender. Normally she would be eyeing me as though I was the only thing standing between her and the scruffy faced McGee to my right.

“He’s all yours.” I used to whisper into their diamond clad ears and walk away.

She would sit, legs sprawled across her bar stool. Trying to remember her Ex’s cell number. You could hear her mumbling something along the lines of, “978-6..978-5….no, fuck, mother fucker…”

And do you know who that girl is?

Yes you do.

She is ‘Drunk Girl’.

All of you know Drunk Girl. In fact, most of you have been Drunk Girl at one point or another.
Drunk Girl is the girl sitting in the corner of the bar waving her arms around, telling a story to…well… to no one.

She is wearing a tank top that is always about to reveal her left boob and some sort of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. Where did she get the Mardi Gras beads? Who knows! Why is she wearing them? Who cares! She has squinty eyes and believes the mascara running down her face is giving her a smoldering, sexy look. She thinks she is sexy. Actually, she thinks she is dead sexy. You always catch her trying to balance her head on her hand in a playful come-hither way and in reality she looks more like a toddler who fell asleep taking a shit.

Drunk Girl always has a million of glasses around her, yet has no fucking idea which cup she has been drinking out of. Her shit is everywhere…keys, cell phone, money, wallet, it’s all scattered either beneath her stool, in her lap, or on the bar. She can’t keep track of anything, but she will become violent if you try and touch any of it.

Drunk Girl has an obsession with her cell phone and is always shouting something like, “BUT I JUSH WANTS TO MAKE A PONE CHALL!”

Drunk Girl normally has a posse of friends surrounding her with some sorority chic explaining, “Kelly Cat! Totally listen to me for one sec…He totally wants to talk to you, but he is like going to go home with Jenny cause like you’re like a mess, but like don’t think he doesn’t like LIKE you like that because maybe he does like you LIKE THAT but just not right now…” Which as we know, makes PERFECT sense to Drunk Girl. Who is still trying to figure out what the hell the 978 number is.

Drunk Girl will sit there, clutching her cell phone, staring at everyone as though they all just spoke to her in Swahili yelling, “BUT I JUSH WANTS TO MAKE A PONE CHALL!”

Drunk Girl will then try and leave the bar and will wave cabs down the in the middle of the street like she is Matador in front of some Goddamn bulls. She always has on one shoe, the other shoe is always either broken or off in the street, about two inches away from being hit by a few yellow cabs.

When Drunk Girl comes to the bar, the shit show officially begins. And no matter how drunk YOU are, you always look at Drunk Girl and go, “Wow, I will never look as drunk as her,” as you hop off the bar in your mini skirt and go outside to catch a cab.

+

My Sober Mind and My Drunk Mind

have a conversation:

Sober Mind: Wow this bar kinda of sucks, it's not very crowded, there isn't even anyone here that is that good looking..

Drunk Mind: What are you talking about lady?! I just passed three hotties on my way to the bar!

SM: Um are you talking about the two French Canadians wearing Wayne's World t Shirts and their mom?

DM: YES HELLO! WAKE UP! GRAB A PENIS!

SM: grab a what..ok stop, seriously stop, put your hands down, I don’t think throwing your hands up in the air in a fit of joy is going to get you anyone…no no, stop dancing, I don’t think there is a dance floor here...

DM: But they are playin my music!

SM: They are playing Rod Stewart.

DM Exactly.

SM: (sigh)

DM: And what are you talking about Ladymarmalade?! There’s a dance floor right here, and I can tell that hot guy is looking at me from across the room... he wants THIS...

SM: That is a lesbian.

DM: Think I should go dance with him?

SM: ahh, no, that is definitely a lesbian.

DM: A thespian? I fucking love actors! I am going to make my way over there…are you coming with me?

SM: Coming with you where? You are sitting on the floor. You can’t sit on the floor you know…

DM: Floor shmore I’m just takin a nap, just a little damn nap, no one will notice me under this stool…

SM: You cant sleep under this stool, and that dude at the bar asked if you could stop petting his leg.

DM: hmmm interesting thought... then what will I lay my head on?

SM: How about we go home?

DM: Ahh yes, let’s go home, but first let me grab the hottie in the corner and bring him with us...

SM: the lesbian?

DM: ahh yes, that will do.

2005 called ...and it wants its top back

This outfit alone we shall refer to as, Mistake Number One.

Now let’s proceed to Mistake Number Two.

Punch.

Yeah, fucking punch man.

Fruity, pink colored, tasty, delicious, fucking punch.

I don’t know why, but it tricks me like a good looking man every time.

Oh yum, what is this pink, fruity , delicious…BA-BAM! What’s my..whochose mah name..my schmamane…ahhh whereshess mah pursh?

At the time I was at a party on the Upper East Side. The girls I was with decided to head out and over to a bar downtown. As they were leaving the party I saw them out of the corner of my one-blurred-eye and instinctively followed behind. I knocked out two sorority chicks into a glass coffee table trying to make it to the door, I was in a fucking white denim mini skirt and I was taking no prisoners. As soon as I made it out the front door I was so wobbly in my heels I lost my balance and fell down one flight of steps.

Well, at least I was at the bottom now.

This is where the story starts to become unclear. We will now come upon moments of blackness.

And these moments I will cleverly refer to in the story as, “moments of blackness”.

I remember getting in the cab. And then there is about ten minutes of blackness.

The next thing I know I look around and I am standing in McFadden’s Bar and Grill on 42^nd Street.

This will be known as: Mistake Number Three.

Now I remember someone handing me a cranberry and vodka. And I remember turning around to flirt with some dark haired boy. Followed by a moment of blackness.

For whatever reason the next thing I knew when I looked up I was making out with this boy, in a booth in the restaurant-dining-section of McFaddens, where other patrons where sitting eating broccoli and cheddar soup.

Mistake Number Four.

In midst of the seventh-grade make-out session in the bottom of the vinyl booth, I paused to look up around me. Strange Boy leaned in to kiss me again, I hesitated feeling the distinctive rumble in my stomach and burning in my throat. I looked at him and quickly got up from the booth, turned around and said , “Excuse me... I have to go vomit now.”

And walked away.

Just like that.

Unfortunately for me, there were three wooden steps I had to go down to make it over to the bathroom area. Holding into random strangers for support I finally hit the third stair, when I lost my balance and fell backwards into a group of guys.

“Whoa whoa whoa, watch chourself!” I yelled at the boys. “Jush betcher watch jushelf!” I said again, clearly pointing at the dudes who caught me falling.

“Kim?” I heard one of the guys say.

This part I refer to as, Mistake Number Five.

I whipped around, which in my drunken stupor was more like two times around, and squinted my eyes, staring into his face. I was now about two inches from the tip of his nose.

Suddenly it hit me.

Me- “The g-chym! The chym, jush a trainer at the chym?”

Trainer- “Yeah I’m a trainer at your gym, I see you there a lot, my name is Doug.”

Me- “Ryan?”

Trainer-“No, no…uh…my name is Doug.”

Me- “Brian! It is so ghood to see chu Brian!”

Trainer-“It’s Doug.”

Me-“Oh, sorry Ryan…where’s mah friends Ryan, whereas my friends, I chant find them?”

Trainer-”I don’t know what they look like Kim... I don’t know your friends.”

Me- “Molly? Chu don't know her? I jush need chu to find them fhor me. Can chu finhd them??”

Trainer (please make note he said this completely deadpan) “Well... do you have a picture of them on you?”

Now I actually stopped and thought about this for a moment. In fact maybe more then a moment, maybe more like a good 10 or 15 seconds. It did seem logical.

Me-“Actually… I don’t.”

He laughed a little. Then all I remember is turning around and someone handing me another cranberry and vodka.

There is now a moment of blackness.

I do not remember leaving McFaddens. I do not remember getting in the cab. I do not even remember the actual cab ride. (another note- the only good thing about being this drunk is you dont spend shit money-wise, everyone pays for everything for you...mostly because you don't even know how to unbuckle your wallet at this point.)

I do remember the cab stopping however and I looked up, my face hanging outside the windshield. Apparently I had been riding the entire cab ride like that... face out the window in the wind, like a Golden Retriever.

My friends opened the door on the right and I opened the door on the left. As I went to stand and walk out of the cab, it hit me. I couldn’t stand at all. I lost my balance and fell right into the bush outside my building.

I just laid there.

In the distance I could hear my friends talking.

But I couldn’t move.

Friend 1- “Wait…where did Kim go? She got out of the cab right?”

Friend 2- “Yeah, I mean I saw her open her door and get out, I know she got out.”

Friend 1 “Where the hell did she go…KIM?! Kim?!”

I wanted to yell back that I was here. I was OK and I was here. But I couldn’t speak. So I just kept laying in the bush.

Finally, Friend 2 spotted me.

Friend 2- “Oh My God! She is in the bush! Kim, Kim, come get out of that bush, come upstairs, come get out of the bush!”

Me- “No, jush leave me here for a bit…jush nicea out herea…let meh sleep in the bush for a minutea.”

Friend 2 “No no Kim, you can't sleep in the bush... Let’s get you inside..”

There is then about the next hour or so of blackness.

And then vomit.

Lots and lots of vomit.

Extreme increasing clarity. Followed by an absurd about of vomit. Vomit coming out of my nose, stinging my eyes. Everywhere.

Followed by even worse,weeks worth of calling some NYSC personal trainer “Ryan” only to find out a month later when the manager finally had to come over and inform me that his name was actually Doug…and that "Doug" would prefer if I did not follow him around in the gym anymore.

Fuckin punch man.

Only $55 Dollars A Month To Embarrass Yourself

I know this bitch...she slept with myboyfriend in 2001...so smashed her fucking grapes

Made with pride and love...and a whole lotta dog meat

Look at Jim here, he already got laid twice because of this article.

Oh the timeless art of buying a girl a drink. As ex-roommie and I sometimes joke, we can go out on the town with five dollars in our pockets and come home with twenty-five...oh wait, hmm, maybe that was a stripper joke I heard at Scores...regardless I think it still applies... It is the only advantage to being a women sometimes, besides being able to lactate, which I hear is extremely handy in providing nourishment to 'babies'... that can't be proven though, unlike my five-dollar theory, which is scientifically proven to be true.

Drink-buying, however, is also a much disputed over topic between men and women. I know plenty of men out there who actually refuse to buy a woman they don't know any drinks at a bar and will go out of their way to avoid the drink-buying game. I debated this question with a guy friend over the phone once;

“It is considered good manners to offer a girl a drink if you plan on chatting with her for the rest of the night, or if you are getting a drink for yourself,” I reasoned.

”Kim,” he said. “Buying random girls drinks is for sad, pathetic men who can’t get a girl anyway.”

“So you wouldn’t buy me a drink?”

“This is 2008 and women have have jobs now.”

“But my job doesn’t pay as much as your job does.”

“Well, then maybe you need to get a new job.”

Fuck me.

So why can’t we have jobs and get our free drinks too?

Not only is buying a woman drinks an art form, but actually avoiding the person who bought you the drink afterwards is, I believe, the true art. I tend to be polite, try and stay and chat for as long as I think the drink is worth it.. then I make some excuse about having to get back home to my sister who is recovering from a bad case of the black plague (Hey, I hear it's coming back around again).

I don't have enough time in the universe to comment on what is wrong with Tevas

So I have been pondering recently ("pondering"...get it?! ... yeah, neither do I) what I am going to title my first non-fiction book...besides titling it the obvious 'No One Loves Me So I Blog', I thought maybe I needed something more.

I need something serious, yet thoughtful... exciting, yet provoking, challenging, yet...not challenging? I don't know, but I figure that is why I have you...my readers...to tell me how to live my life and what to title a bestseller...so please review the titles below and let me know what works for you, or if you have any ideas of your own...because sometimes, I think people who read my columns have actual thoughts in their brains...not always...but definitely sometimes.

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