I am still drunk from last night's swanky bullshit;

I woke up to perhaps the best advice and compliment I've received in a long while, tied to what has now become a funny quotation.

Harvard is this intoxicating collection of rich beautiful brilliant people that are shockingly open about their plans for world domination. Suffice it to say I'm enjoying myself here... I'm also really happy to hear that you've finally come to your senses and realized that you are most likely a brilliant writer trapped in a 22 year old vixen/hipster's life. Keep putting pen to pad and fingers to keys. Also, if you're not already doing it, find a couple people you trust and share your work with them. Make them keep you accountable. Even if you don't do that, just continue to tell people about your grandiose plans and maybe just having it out there will help you keep yourself accountable.


Theodore Wiley, Jesus Lord!

----------------------
I was tending bar last night (pretty trashed, as my coat is scattered around my front door and I slept in my bra) with some models at some event in Gramercy. I say "tending bar" because "bartending" isn't actually a word, which was made very apparent by my here handy widget. I defended my use of "tending bar" just there to avoid any ill thoughts or eye-rolls that I might be more pretentious than you had already thought. Nothing particularly notable about last evening that I can recall besides I met a chick (whom I share a name with) and we became friends. I didn't get her number though and I'm sorry for that. I pulled a french exit (or french dip, as it was so cutely coined) at the venue we went to after the event. By "venue" I mean club. And by club, I mean Tenjune. And by Tenjune I mean, I am equally as disgusted with myself as one reading this might be. However, I did dance my face off. I have a rolled ankle to prove it.

I had been sipping on white wine for most of the evening at the event, along with most everyone, and at some point the clients and the people working the event started mingling. I ended up writing my blog address on a few napkins, which evidently is my new pick up line and has become part of the shit-storm I call my "mouth". But, in my defense, I was approached at the bar, and after shooting the shit about some usual feeble topics ("No, I'm not Persian." "Yes, I am originally from New York." "Yes I'm a fourth generation American.") the man continued to ask me if I had a blog. He then pegged me for the type who would have a blog.

I'm not sure how to take this. Is that how they're insulting failed writers nowadays?

I hate calling myself a writer, even if it's prefaced with "failed".

I might call myself a "closet writer". But that'd be a direct steal from a certain ex-boyfriend, ex-manager, Scott Teague. Scott is basically just a big "X" in my life, minus our ever-thriving friendship. Thanks for laying me off last week right before Thanksgiving, by the way. Is it too early to joke about that? Probably. Love you, buddy.

I think I am a "blogger" but I'm unsure.

I am definitely a hipster, as Teddy Wiley said in that quote up there and I am not afraid to admit that. I might even like being a hipster. I hope years from now I sit at home with my children and tell them that I was part of the hipster movement in Williamsburg, back in the day. Although I think I'm hearing myself say that in the same tone my parents have told me they were hippies and I don't think hipsters will be as great as hippies. Did hippies hate themselves like hipsters do? I guess so many hipsters hate themselves because they're essentially hippie knockoffs.

See, this is what I mean about talking in circles. I find my "circle talking" to be ever more increasing. Talking about talking in circles is talking in a fucking circle.

Breath. Frick.

As my blog, (which started out as my "hard drive" or "journal") becomes more and more public (mostly thanks to my drunken banter) I would like to welcome readers by perhaps redirecting them to a blog that actually has some sort of format and/or interesting topics. So, I'm working on that.

But if perhaps you do find yourself reading my blog today after being drunk last night, thanks a lot for that. I'm glad my napkin made it into your home.



I'm starting to think that all "writers" are lonely. Some by choice and I suppose that's what solitude is all about. Either way, we do a lot of talking to ourselves. Rather, they do. Those writers do a lot of talking to themselves.


In other news, I must see Sweeney Todd, amongst many things I must see.