So I'm sitting here and get a letter from the Barelist crew about writing for them. I think to myself, I already write for Tattle and Xcritic and I'm horrible at it, how the fuck am I gonna add one more to the list? Then it hits me, fuck it. I'm a self-proclaimed workaholic when I'm on my A game. I've been on my B game for a bit, but that's about to change.
You see in a world full of partying, fucking, and everything else, I just went to the doctors last month and found out, I can't drink. My body literally shuts itself off lately when I do it. I wake up with itchy eyes, a sore throat, and God knows what else. So I quit, I took a three week vacation from it all. Jumped back into it thinking, a glass or two won't hurt me. Hahahaha.
That's God laughing at me for being such an idiot and thinking that. Here I sit writing this sore throat, itchy eyes, and grumpy from 2 glasses of wine. The man in the clouds hates me. Who am I kidding? He hates one quarter of me, the Native American part of me. Then, it hit me again. This is his way of forcing me into realizing what I already know; I don't need to drink, I'm a horrible drunk anyways, always have been, probably always will be. I don't need it though. I start my Master's degree program for Psych in two or so months, I owe Xcritic at least 3 reviews, Tattle some editorial pieces, and now I have Barelist to do too and on top of that, my work schedule is super heavy when I'm in L.A. rather than Atlanta.
So, drinking's great to cure the boredom, but it looks like writing, gym, cooking, and fucking will have to fill its void. Shouldn't be that hard to do. Every time one door closes, three more open. So, let's see what happens now that I'm writing more and have more motivation from not waking up sick every few days from a drink or two.