One D at a Time

A Present from the Past

I have a vast collection of drunken photo booth strips, but the one to the left is by far the drunkest. It was taken in 2003 at Opaline. I was with Rich (obvs) and we were with a bunch of other friends from college that I don't really talk to anymore because they moved away and had babies and stuff. Back then, I was working at BUST for very (very, very, very) little money, so I was forced to economize and cut corners on things, and I would BYOB a lot. I used to buy cheap-ass Georgi vodka, fill up a water bottle, and then just buy soft drinks at bars and spike them with my vodka water.

Well, I'd been doing that all night, but at some point during the evening, there were like two hours of open bar vodka for some reason, so loving anything free, I had little restraint. I was also intermittently stepping outside to smoke weed. Before long, I was like, Anna Nicole Smith-wasted. I was partially on autopilot, with instances of awareness of myself or my surroundings being few and far between. Like in this photo. I walked into the photo booth and plopped myself down on the stool, thinking it was a stall in the ladies room.

420!

Happy 4/20! I've actually never really been the type to like go all out of 4/20, or even remember to celebrate it at all. I don't take getting stoned that seriously—although now it's kind of part of my job, so I guess I sorta do. So, as part of that, we made a special 420 episode of Pot Psychology, featuring Gavin McInnes as Jambi the genie.

Why I Never Write Here, And Other Things That Are Wrong With Me

I go through phases where I just completely avoid this site. I get caught up in my day job and other freelance stuff, but honestly, I could totally make more time to write here than I have been. The truth is, I've been dealing with something lately that I never really had to before. When I stopped being anonymous, and the people in my life knew that my interactions with them were potential fodder for something I might write, things changed. I began getting requests like, "Please, please don't write about this."

The thing is, no matter what I write, it's never truly about anyone else—it's always about me. (And even when people are shitheads, I still don't name names.) However, when I think it might affect the relationships in my life, or I think the request is super important to a person, I won't write about something they ask me not to, no matter how juicy the subject matter, as with my trip to Peru. I'm not a completely heartless bitch, after all.

Mostly, I respect their wishes because for a long time, I thought (and was told) that this blog is a large part of why my ex-boyfriend and I couldn't make things work, and I wanted to be careful not to similarly destroy other relationships. After we broke up, I was really down on myself, thinking, Christ, if a pornographer can't deal with my crap, who the hell can? Now that I am no longer anonymous, I feared I had screwed myself out of getting fucked ever again, or out of anyone willingly falling in love with me. I had resigned myself to thinking that I'd made my bed, and now I would be sleeping alone in it, for the rest of my whore-y life.