Walking on sunshine, whoooaaaa

I feel as though I've been on vacation for the past three days, even though I never left the city. I was lucky enough to be able to spend my weekend outdoors, with some of my favorite people. The entire time I was living it, I couldn't believe it. 85 degree weather in April, going on its fourth day in a row now, and me without work or any obligations besides hanging out. Life ain't too bad. I even managed not to get sun burned! I hung out mainly at Central Park and one day in Tribeca, two areas I rarely visit. Last night when I finally made it back to the Union Square area reality hit. Famililar places! Familiar streets! I guess the whole weekend seemed odd to me because while it was insanely great to relax, and I kept saying I needed a break from the city, I didn't need to go anywhere to do that. After I'm done typing this up I'm heading to Mccarren Park with my roommate. This is why it's so difficult to leave the shit show that is my three night a week job. Four day weekends? Come on. On Friday I had began writing up an entry about how I needed a change in my life but I wasn't sure what that change was. I guess I needed a day in the park (or three). By tomorrow afternoon I'm sure I'll be back to my grumpy self, as I walk through those white curtains into work. At least I have 24 hours of my psuedo-vacation left.

One death, on the rocks, with olives please.

Last night at work, my friend/co-worker randomly brought up the subject of death. Out of no where he asks me, "Do you ever think about what happens when you die?" I only responded with a look, before he said, "I used to never think about it, but now I think about it a lot. You probably don't." I told him that I actually think about it all the time (He never read any of my plays to know this), and that when I was five if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, "a grave-digger." As a child I had envisioned myself shoveling dirt to make a six foot deep hole. That was my dream. Now the thought of such physical labor disgusts me, I'd rather die than do that.

I couldn't tell you why, at five, that was what I wanted to do. Cemeteries always fascinated me, especially the really old ones from the 1700's. Thinking about how there were tons of decaying bodies underneath the ground; that all those tombstones represented a life once lead. I suppose growing up in an Atheist household also aided in my literally morbid curiousity. I never heard my parents say, "Uncle Joe is in Heaven now," when someone died. They simply weren't at the table anymore for Christmas and Easter. And that's what old people did anyway, die. So when my friend asked me what I thought happens when you die, I couldn't give the simple answer of, "If you're good you go to Heaven, and if you're bad you go to Hell." Thanks Mom and Dad for letting me decide what my own fate could be, as opposed to what some work of fiction says it should be.

I'm not going to sit here and type out what I think happens when we die. My hypotheses range from we simply cease to exist to other planes of existence. I find it hard to believe that we are the only living things out there. If that ends up being the case, then what a waste of time. My roommate always says that he thinks we're all already dead, and that life itself is purgatory. That whatever we did in past existences led us to this place...and that he hopes beyond hope there's no such thing as reincarnation. I wouldn't necessarily mind reincarnation, but then it's the same thing all over again, even if you come back as a cat, you're still waiting to die.

I've talked about this with friends numerous times, who hasn't? Such discussions usually involves alcohol, psuedo-epiphanies, and a lot of arm flailing. But every discussion goes around in a circle. Each statement contradicts the last. I wonder if everyone thinks about death as much as I do. How could you not? Yet I guess people don't, because when you think about all the idiotic things people care about, and place importance on, it's just not possible. If life is so short, then who cares about designers bags and money and treating you waitress like shit, etc? How did it start that this is what shows your worth, this is what matters? Why are there wars? Why do people kill other people!? Whatever happened to seizing the day and all those quotes people put in their profiles about living life to the fullest and to tell people that you love them, you have nothing to lose. No one follows those. I hate it, because I try to think that way but it's difficult when no one else does. The idea that I could die tomorrow and have nothing to show for it terrifies me.

I thought it was somewhat amusing that we started discussing this while waiting for our mojitos to be made. Maybe that's why I'm always thinking about death, because between living in the city and waiting tables I'm constantly surrounded by humanity and how miserable it truly is. I guess I can only hope that whatever happens when we die is better than life, or is at least a means to an end, and that everyone can try to be as happy as possible while we all are still here.

Slosh, Slosh, Slap

Once again I have proven to myself that alcohol is pure evil. While I do enjoy Satan's nectar on an almost regular basis, last night was a new low for me. (Everytime I think I reach a low point I always manage to sink beneath it six months later.) I believe that last time I got so intoxicated was at a certain Christmas party back in December. Endless bottles of red wine left my teeth stained and me stuck in Queens, unable to figure out the way to get home. Not since then have I gotten that messed up, until last night. I started drinking white wine around 4:30. I went through five bottles with two other ladies and ended up at the Bryant Park cafe with a martini in front of me. Well, three to be exact. We all get drunk, who cares, but recently I've developed this horrible habit of slapping people across the face. I'm not sure why I do it...some people ask for it, others ask me not to do it. It's as though when I'm drunk the area of my brain that controls my right hand shuts off and I can no longer control my movements. I feel absolutely mortified the next day and I can't apologize enough to my victims. It makes me feel like a child. I'm pretty sure I never hit anyone as a child, so maybe I'm going through my "hitting phase" now.

Also embarassing was that after we left Bryant Park to head uptown to a friend's birthday party, I couldn't keep my head up or my eyes open. I spent three hours laying on the couch staying awake enough to ensure no one would draw on my face with a Sharpie. Pathetic. Of course I only get this drunk when I'm hanging out with people I work with. These are people I don't see outside of work on a regular basis, so for them it looks like I'm this huge lush who can't handle her liquor. The problem is I can handle my liquor, I can handle way too much of it.

So for those who witnessed my drunk fuckery last night, I'm sorry. And ask any of my friends, I'm usually the one babysitting the drunkards, not the one needing to be babysat.

Here's to new ramblings

I consider myself a writer, therefore, it would probably be a good thing for me to write. Okay, I do write, but not as often as I should. Writing needs to become part of my daily routine. And even though I beg to disagree, writing ideas and short dialogue down all the time in my Moleskine doesn't count.

While I prefer scripts to novels, a blog is something different. I had one back when I was 18 and 19. Those entries consisted of me complaining about my boy du jour, complaing about my ex-boyfriend, and complaining about living in New Jersey. Now, three years later, I'm living in New York City, and have tons of new things to complain about! Isn't life grand? I have not started up blogging again just to air my grievances thoguh, instead I did it to, as I said before, write. I need to kick my ass into writing on a daily basis, even if it's on this thing just to get my brain working and my fingers typing. Too much of my life is spent socializing, I'm a freakin socioholic (I just made that up, excellent). Then again, great friends provide great material for my plays and sketches. It's a vicious cycle. I'm also a raging narcissist (Virgos usually are), therefore I feel that everyone in the world should want to read what I have to say in my blog. YES. So now, not only will this make me feel more productive and help me explore my random thoughts, it will also entertain the masses. Is there anything more fulfilling than that? Don't say motherhood. No.

The next time I open this site up I should have a more focused topic to write about, that topic will typically be myself. Is there anything more masturbatory than a blog? Next to actual masturbation itself of course. Enough with the rhetorical questions that I won't even attempt to answer. I feel more fulfilled after typing this already. Pat myself on the shoulder, and I'm done.