You call yourself a Party Girl?

A previous version of myself would argue that the weekend begins on Thursday and ends early Monday morning, ideally before work starts. There were times I slept through work on Monday because I wasn’t yet done with the weekend. There were times I treated Sunday like Saturday, and Monday like Sunday, and somehow I still looked pretty-good and put-together and you can introduce me to people, don’t worry about what I might accidentally say.

This past weekend was exactly what a previous version of myself would consider a boring fckng time. Like, loser level boring, and something to be embarrassed about. I had a great weekend, but to be fair, I’ve redefined my parameters of fun. But I will detail this weekend, amongst other things, because I can’t think linearly. This is a warning that will echo through all of my writing: I promise to talk of one thing, and I will close the loop on that eventually, while I choose to talk about a lot of other unpromised things instead.

You can expect to hear about my weekend (Friday, Saturday, Sunday) and you can expect to hear about weekends from my past, and things I think about now, and things I thought about then. It will be fun!

Friday Night:

I got my nails done after work. It’s getting light out now, so I go to the nicer above-ground nail salon in Soho, instead of the basement one in Nolita. They tried to rip me off in the basement one, so I am protesting. The florescent basement lighting kind of gave me a headache, but the dynamic of the nail ladies down there cracked me up. I really felt like a part of their little clique.

I am already wearing an outfit instead of my normal WFH garb (sweaty pajama, plain top nearby for video calls). This is because I had to go to the surgeon and have my post-op mouth checked on. I like to wear cute little outfits to doctors so they think highly of me. Idk why I think this way, because I’m pretty sure my doctors are not phased by what I’m wearing. This doesn’t stop me from pretending they are. I was not going to mention the doctor at all, because Friday-day is not the weekend, but it is important to note I am healing this week and the swelling and stiches make it hard to smile, or look beautiful. So I throw a cardigan on over my doctor’s visit outfit to walk a few blocks to the nail salon. I was cold when I went to the doctor earlier, so I’m being smart and practical now. I look like Where’s Waldo, and I kind of like that. I’m not sure my doctor would have appreciated it though, so being cold was worth it for that visit. I post the comparison, because I’m like, trust me: I thought of the comparison first. I still made the decision not to change my outfit. No one can tease me out of this. Except my doctor, in my head.

I’m trying to do this thing where I don’t change 15X, and just go with the first thing I throw on. I am also trying to develop my personal style, so I have to take some risks, and some L’s. I don’t hate the look.

I went to the nail salon because I was picking away at my gel polish and destroying my nails. We all do this (or at least the people I surround myself with do). You should know that I am a bit obsessive about my nails. I look at them a lot, and I talk about them a lot. Good or bad. My safe colors are Bubble Bath and various shades of red. Sometimes I layer colors because I’ve leaned into being a Pain in the Ass when I’m paying someone (not a Karen, because it’s priority no. 1 that I’m not bitching about my nail color to my friends for 2 weeks).

You should also know that I am becoming increasingly paranoid about getting manic, now that my depression is starting to lift. I am very policeman to myself about this and it makes it hard to enjoy living and having emotions. Especially to enjoy being happy.

At the salon, I did not choose red or pink. I chose a crazy and beautiful type color that catches the light and looks like a cat eye. I don’t normally pick a fun color, because I can’t cope with my emotions if I don’t like it (I usually don’t). Waste of money and waste of anguish. So I pick this fun color on a whim and all the nail ladies are Oohing and Aahing, standing over my ladies’ shoulder and observing with Delight, and I’m really giddy about that reaction. When I pick a color the nail lady recommends, I'm usually like why the Fuck did I trust this stranger, I hate this color. But I picked this fun color, not her, even though she totally fucking loves it. So this was not that, and I’m pretty lit offit in my chair.

I have my headphones in because these two girls are yapping next to me, and intense Jazz music is playing. Usually I like eavesdropping on girls in the nail salon, especially the goofy ladies working in the basement one, but I wanted to protect my energy this evening (by that I mean not get annoyed by strangers and loud jazz). Then I’m like, loving my nails, vibing to myself, and the thought slips in: Am I manic? Why was it so easy for me to choose this Bold color? Why am I overwhelmed at this girly conversation next to me? Is it because they’re talking about Euro Summer? I still need to plan my Euro Summer. Can I even afford it? Why did my mind just flicker to fckng Euro Summer? Should my mind be empty right now? Why am I wearing a Where’s Waldo Outfit and Sunglasses inside and not feeling insecure? Why do I like the wild color so much? I’m fucking manic aren’t I?

I’m taking two Lithiums later.

I get home and throw some shit in the air fryer and admire my nails. I put on the show Girls for background noise and I notice how tired I am. I noticed it earlier, but its more annoying to be tired on my Own Time than when I’m On the Clock tired. Like, I should be paid to do every human function. Actually, everything should be free.

So, here I am, it’s Friday night. I am in my apartment in ~ downtown ~ NYC, and I am well-situated to be a Girl About Town. This is the life I imagined for myself. I did not imagine all the boring parts and the details and Truth. At a high level, I could be living a really cool life right now. I would just need to be an entirely different person with entirely different circumstances.

I will note: this has little to do with my sobriety. When I lived with Bummy Finance Ex, I was very-much-not-sober. I was still situated to live a glamorous life, if I had been entirely different. I spent plenty of Fridays cooped-in with my Bummy Ex. I had been woo’d, initially, by the Plans. He was older, and had plenty of friends in New York. This may have been because he sold drugs to other Finance boys. Actually, that was definitely it. He also possessed the key to bestfriendship: a Glamorous Afters Apartment. This glam spot was actually a covid-deal ground floor 3-bed apartment, featuring a coffee table littered with bottles, cans, drug paraphernalia, and takeout boxes in a solarium back room. The prime location: on the border of the East Village and the Lower East Side, next to the infamous Punjabi Deli. Glamor looks different to everyone, and this is exactly what I imagined hoped and dreamed for myself as a little girl.

What started out as bestfriendship and unbridled access to the Afters couch (no rent, yay!) became a relationship. He said: stop couch surfing, stop dating guys to stay over their place, just stay here (the irony). I ate that shit up, cos I basically got invited to stay at the party…indefinitely. This was a dream come true!

What actually happened was: I was embarassed for people to know we had become Bf-Gf. Cos like, what the fuck? lol (and that was the reaction). He would hit his weed pen all day, then pull out to dab rig at 5 or 6 PM and “start smoking”. I’d be like: first of all, you didn’t just start smoking, you’ve been smoking all day, also, can we please can we go out? And usually he would say: No. This was a new development, since like, what happened to the Afters? You had to have a party to have the Afters (not true—I definitely showed up to the Afters without going to the party) and now we had neither! This drove me fucking nuts. The whole point of how I got here was that I wanted to party! What the fuck happened? And why TF am I in a relationship with this guy? (Reason: I was paying too much attention to partying, and not enough attention to what was happening in my real life).

So I would be wearing his sweatshirt and my sweats, since I moved all my shit into the apartment, and by then and he was no longer trying to impress me with Fun Plans. A few finance guys would trickle in and out to make exchanges, and I often felt like that Euphoria scene where Chloe Cherry is just posted up on the couch while Fez does drug deals. This made the situation feel kinda Cool and funny, even though it made me very uncomfortable deep down, because I want my parents to think I’m a good girl and I think they’d actually kill me if they knew what I had gotten myself in to. But like, it wasn’t that bad, cos these guys were in Finance. Like, they were gonna be rich one day. And probably same if I married one!

I would stomp out at random intervals on weekend nights, usually with a poorly-concealed pissy attitude, and spill onto the ~ downtown ~ street in my sweats. It was bustling, and everyone was Living Life to the Fullest, and I was in sweatpants. I was always filled with shame that I wasn’t Out and About. I would pull my hood up and go to the bodega, already filled with girls clad in tight black outfits and low rise pants. I’d buy a vape (cos I lost my other 3 somewhere in the solarium, but sometimes I’d find them and have 4 at a time), some gummy candy, and some beers. “You drink I smoke” my Bummy Ex would say, and I would drink many beers that I had picked based on the packaging. I was drinking alone, but not actually alone, because he was there. He was there, getting annoyed that I was toppling-over drunk in my sweatpants and his sweatshirt. He wouldn’t laugh. And this is why I hated this relationship! I just wanna go out and have fun! Why am I drinking alone in here?! Boring.

Eventually, the other roommate who I sometimes forgot lived there moved out. This is when I decided to become Martha fckng Stewart. I was accepting my fate, and I was pissed about it. I went to Marshalls and bought a big ass candle (after I used their restroom, because I refused to go no. 2 in the apartment), and spent a full day scraping dab wax off of the coffee table, and cleaning up the perpetual mess. Voila! If we were going to rot inside, at least it would look like a home. I wanted to fckng k*ll myself. (For other reasons, like the nasty way he spoke to me, the way I felt about myself living rent-free, but in a drug-den) The reason was because I couldn’t party!

We broke up (duh) and I spread my wings and flew. I flew into every club that would let me in. I flew out on every weekday I could find plans, making up for lost time. Look at me now, idiot! Look at all the hot party pics I am posting! I am so fun and bubbly, which is why you captured me and caged me. Now I am free and my life is FCKNG awesome!

Well, that logic allowed me to fly too close to the sun, I guess. The bender that resulted from me playing victim about staying in on the weekend lasted approx. 9 months. I was still seeing him that whole time, because I didn’t want to “add to my roster”. I would gloat about my escapades and how much fun I was having, and he was like Ok. Nice. That’s cool Kelley. October rolled around, almost full year later, and I had smashed my front tooth in half on the sidewalk. I was wasted-off-my-ass on a Wednesday. The temporary tooth was noticeable. It was hard to gloat about that, and when I went back to my Bummy Ex’s I think he was a little: What the Fuck? This isn’t cute anymore. Actually, it never was. And even though I didn’t have much to gloat about, I still went out and partied, broken tooth and all. Somehow, all this great fun I continued to have with my different-colored front tooth got cut short by my sobriety. Now, I am not flying all over town every Friday, but I’m better for it. Instead of party pics, there are now copious amounts of videos of me, 4X speed, that can prove just how amazing I’m doing! As long as you don’t read all the self-loathing depression text overlay :)

Back to this Friday. Instead of seeing and being seen tonight, I fell asleep on top of my duvet cover, unintentionally, at 8PM. I am not very concerned about seeing, or being seen. Perhaps that’s because I am addicted to social media and I can be seen on there. Or maybe it’s because of my sobriety. Who’s to say.

I usually go to bed at 2-3 AM, even when I stay in, but I was wiped from a very regular, not tiring work week. I knew I was falling asleep, and I gave myself permission to take a Nap at 8 PM, because I had to finish healing from mouth surgery so I could have a nice day tomorrow. I had planned to have a nice-fun-night by-myself, eating air fried food and reading my book and writing (oh my fucking God, this was not the life I dreamed of. But this is my idea of fun right now. And I actually am enjoying myself).

I was glad that a phone-call from my brother woke me up at 10 PM. Glad because my brother never calls me, and because I did not want to sleep through my nice-fun-night by-myself. My brother’s phone call gave me a nice big ego stroke, in a sweet-way. I guess he thinks I am a Girl-About-Town for real, because he needed recommendations for his own fun-interesting-night, which was apparently going to be spent going out, double-date style. He’s calling me and he’s with the girl-he’s-Been-Seeing-not-yet-girl-friend. They’re setting up his friend, and her friend. Very cute! He is trusting me to tell him recommendations.

I am 26, and he is 23. He is post-grad, in his Freshman year of post-grad, if we’re being literal.

From the phone-call, it is clear he is going Out-Out, not going on a proper double-date. I’m not sure why he called it that. I wonder: does he ask me how to have a fun night because he may think that I am Perfect, or is my distorted-thinking not a genetic thing? So he is 23, and the problem is: I have aged out of places I used to party when I was 23, so I’m not sure if they’re fun anymore. I’m aging out of 23-year-old-partying, so even when I do go out with friends who aren’t sober, it looks different. Like, we are in our late-twenties now (gasp, but not gasp for me, because sober people age backwards) and most of my friends are living with their boyfriends, and a million other excuses to why I don’t go out 4 nights a week anymore, so IDK what’s up with the Scene anymore, actually. Like I was never really a part of the scene to begin with, I tricked you, did you know that when you asked me? Problem is: I am sober now, so I’m not sure if I can give fun recs to my little brother. Like, I am not outside the way I used to be, do you trust me? Well he obviously does trust me, because he is giving me phone-call instead of searching “bar” or “club” on the maps and going to whichever name sounds familiar (which is what I often do).

Does he know I have not had my finger on the pulse lately? Do I still know what is Pedestrian Vs. what is Very Cool Scene? Do things change all that much in 15 months? Does being sober make me less cool in the eyes of my peers? I don’t think anyone he is with is projecting that I am perfect, or a real Girl-About-Town, so I don’t feel pressure to give them The Best Rec List Ever, but I want them to have a fun night so I’m happy to compile the list.

A good thing about being sober is that I am definitely more thoughtful, and helpful, and I am not so much in the Rat Race of What’s Cool, and I am not so much in my head about Being Cool. Though I still have much much more to say about this, I must finish talking about my brother, and how I’d really like him to think his big sister is Cool.

I also love giving recs, cos why not, if I know you should get to know, too. I have a good idea of what’s up, I think, despite not being-on-the-scene. I am observant. I am also groggy, and a little confused that I am alive and it is 2025 and a Friday night at 10:30PM when it was just 8PM 2 seconds ago, so I toss out some recs on the phone and tell him that I’ll text him a full list. He actually asks me to text him that list before I offer, so its clear to me that he’s hanging on every word I say and he thinks I’m great and knows I know what’s up, even though I’m not Outside quite as much, and I’m sober. He doesn’t think I’m uncool because I’m sober. My coolness, or lack thereof, has very little to do with alcohol, is what this all tells me. My brother thinks I’m Cool!!!!

I text him a denoted list of Spots in each neighborhood, categorized by lounge, bar, and club. I note which places have hard-doors, and say things like: if you don’t get in Here go here, artsy crowd, older crowd (my age), dancey, peacoat bar, crowded, rap music, oldies, conversation-pit, pool table, prolly don’t try, comfy couches and a dance room, WV: not as dancey vibe imo and lines bad lately but go to ThisStreet and you can start Here for This Kind of Vibe and bar hop, worth a shot, lemme text this promoter actually. This promoter is always in my DMs, and I never really used promoters in my party-phase, though I should have. I didn’t really understand what promoters were, it seemed Sus to me. Now I know that I was totally dumb for not taking advantage of that. Like, use promoters I guess? Makes life easier I guess? Idk. Anyways, I DM this guy so my brother can ensure that he and his little posse can make it into the club, cos apparently they wanna dance on their double-date. I’ve never been on a double-date like that, personally. My brother does this thing where we go to a restaurant together, or we pass a restaurant on a walk and I call it out as a “good one”, and he takes whatever girl on a date there a week later. I haven’t been to many dinner-on-first-dates either, which I told him. He got smart and stopped doing dinner-first-dates, because it was draining his paycheck. I also like to think he listened to my advice: “don’t invest all that money and time in a girl that you don’t even know if you like yet. You do drinks-first-dates.” Still, the restaurant thing, like the phone call, flatters me.

I finish my list, write a little, and opt to do some scrolling. Standard checking and meme scroll, which I sometimes treat myself to when I have time. Sometimes I live in an unhealthy echo-chamber of looking at things I post, because I am the Center of My Own Universe. I honestly do not scroll past the 3rd post in my IG algo, I look for certain people’s story bubbles and view those, then exit the app before it starts auto-pushing rando’s from college. Cool Italy trip. I am a much bigger poster than I am a scroller. I do little drop-ins on pages of people I care about/am curious about. So that is how I do social media, and that is what I did for a little this Friday night.

I got a text from my Best friend who lives in LA, saying she’s bored. I facetime her and I am elated when she answers. We’ve really figured out this time-change thing! We talk for an hour until her boyfriend gets home. Its a great conversation, as it always is, because she is a smart genius and can talk abstractly about ideas and things, but also loves to giggle and gossip and be stupid. We talk through our weekend plans, things that we pondered this week, things that took up mental real estate. We dive in on some topics and breeze over others. She’s doodling while she drinks Pinot Noir that looks a little too light for my preference, and when she shows me her sketch book I am frustrated that she doesn’t understand she is Very Good at drawing. Her boyfriend is very SoCal, born and raised, and he arrives home and pops onto my screen with his little California accent and his fun little outfit. I know I will be hurried off the phone soon, so I say hello to him and disengage a bit so I don’t get too sad when the phone call is over. I am a fortune teller and the phone call lasts not even 3 more minutes. Luckily, I have some important things I need to get back to, even though its 2 AM by now.

To end my night, I force myself to read 10 more pages of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. 10 pages always turns into a handful more, and I’m impressed by myself that I am almost 2/3 done with this Fucking Book. Its pretty good at some parts. It’s not a page turner but it is not like trudging through mud when I read, and I’d like to complete it quickly (to know if anything happens, which it seems like nothing will, and then to move onto something new). I’d like to complete it and go to a fun book soon, after A Picture of Dorian Gray. These are both library books, and they’re both overdue. I think the Library understands why it’s taking me so long, but I’m not 100% sure, because I have not been in touch. I figured my cadence of reading would be this: I read a handful of fun books in a row, then make myself read 2 classics. Reading 2 classics is Homework to make me smarter and more Enriched, and better-educated than all of my enemies. And they do make me think, but I need two at once because they’re dense, and by swapping back and forth, I push myself along in both. The classics make me think about Themes of Life, and it is wildly fun to resonate with a writer from way back when. It is funny that things have not changed, though language has. It is funny, but it also brings me despair. The things I am experiencing are The Circumstances of Life, things have always been this way and always will be, and I am not Unique at all. Shame.

Saturday

I stayed up til 3 AM last night doing the things on my Alone Time Checklist. I wrote a little on laptop, did not write in journal, read a little. I wonder if God misses talking to me in my Journal, and it’s healthy to put pen to paper, and I need to squeeze that into my Daily Checklist now, I think. I’m tired as fck, its 8 AM, and when I roll away from the light pouring in through my window, I roll onto my little blue vibrator, which I sometimes put on my duvet just-in-case.

Lately I’ve been busy and have not gotten around to that. Which is fine, because my vibrator is on it’s last legs; I doordashed it in 2022 when I was living alone in The Bay Area. I figured my no-friends hobby in California could be using a vibrator (for the first time). When I was living in Park City, Utah with my best friends from college, we all admitted that we had (gasp) masterbated. Very taboo thing for girls to do! Very comforting to know I was not a fckng pervert, or at least very happy that maybe we all are, but I’m not alone. The doordasher who delivered me my vibrator did think I was a fckng pervert, which I could tell by the way she handed the semi-translucent target bag with a look of disgust. My one bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper did not provide a good cover for my true intentions with that delivery. I didn’t wanna be a pervert at target, I paid you to do that? Why are you looking at me all funny? So I wake up at 8, like clockwork, and push myself back to sleep after tossing my vibrator somewhere away from me. I’m too Pure for that right now.

My other best friend lives in Brooklyn, and she expects me to be there at 12. That means I can sleep more, but not much more, because my anxiety about sleeping through our plans will jolt me awake like an alarm clock.

I love going to Brooklyn. It is a nice break from the city, a nice subway ride, and has all the things I like and people I like to look at.

I am so tired, but at 9:45, I wake up fully, from the expected panic. I’m glad I slept in, because that means I'm maybe not manic. There is nothing Real that indicates I might be manic. In my head, there are countless things, and I think about them mostly every day. Just in case.

My friend had texted me this week that she wants to go to high-tea today. I laughed at High-Tea, because what the fuck, but its girly and fun and hilarious to do, and she said she made a reservation. All week I was swollen and debating going home to New Jersey, but the promise of high-tea kept me here. And the train ride to New Jersey is a bitch.

I toss some zyns into my mouth, which wake me right up! Remember when I said I was quitting nicotine? I get to writing, and now its 11:09 and I need to be in Williamsburg at 12:00, so I text my friend and say 12:30? And hop in the shower. She later tells me she scrolled social media in bed for 4 hours with her fiance, in silence. She told me she would be deleting social media, because what a waste of a morning. This news made me feel better about being late, but I agreed with her: you should quit social media. Personally, I would never quit social media. Even before I became Chronic Poster. I love social media.

I shower so I can feel pretty without makeup (something I have convinced myself goes hand in hand) and I make a Nespresso so I can cram a free coffee in before I waste all my money on overpriced coffee-shop-coffees throughout the day. Actually, Nespresso is overpriced too, and it pisses me off, and the machine is temperamental to boot. It is currently providing me a measly shot of espresso instead of my original setting: A cup. So I am drinking cups of milk lately. I tried french-press, which is yummy when my Dad does it, but when I do it there’s soot in the bottom and its disgusting! Still, I have chewed on coffee grounds from my french press coffee, in protest of my Nespresso.

I’ll also mention: I am no longer putting copious amounts of collagen/protein/mushroom powders in my coffee because I am back to eating food again. I am still sometimes having beef colostrum because I trust its powers, for some reason. But I don’t trust the others. I went without the powder-coffee when I was depressed at my parents house for two months. I was taking vitamins instead, and I did not feel the lack. I was better, even, if you don’t count the crippling mental illness. I don’t take vitamins now, because they’re expensive, but if I did I would probably feel like a God. Plus, I was drinking a meal-replacement worth of calories in the powders, and I’m eating food again. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, we can chalk this up to a hyperfixation I posted about on Tiktok this past fall. Also, don’t listen to anything I say and don’t do what I do, I change my mind often, and I am not an influencer.

So anyways, this Saturday is my big weekend event. My best friend, her close friend and I are going to poke around Boerum Hill, which is a neighborhood in Brooklyn that is apparently-cute. I like to look pretty and presentable on my Big Day of the weekend, if I have one. I told my little brother that Ill let him know if we go out in BK later, if he wants to come. I know I will probably not want to go out, because I am so tired. This is fine, because he is probably hungover from the double-date at the club, and he usually doesn’t follow up when I give him tentative plans anyways. I also noticed he called me 3 times at 4 AM. I was sitting on the toilet when I noticed this (not actually using the toilet, but sometimes I like to sit there for awhile, flicking between my apps). I see the calls, and swipe over to Instagram, where I see a DM from the promoter. Oh shit! He asked for my brothers IG handle. My brother is so in there! Freshman year Post-Grad in the city, and he now can use a promoter, and not pay hundys for a table at the club. Very nice! I am at least relieved to know nothing bad happened. I won’t know why I got the phone calls at 3AM until about 4 PM, when my brother will likely be opening his eyes for the first time.

High tea turns out to be a regular lunch at a spot called Cafe Luluc, which apparently foodies know about, because the friend that joins us is a foodie, and she told me she knew about it. The food was good, like good as in better than regular. I probably wouldn’t journey back to Boerum Hill just for Cafe Luluc, but if someone invited me to eat here again, I’d join them and not try to uproot the plans (a bad habit I have, that hopefully no one has picked up on yet). The patrons were wearing good outfits and had nice hair, and the light fixtures were satisfying, which made my food taste better. I was happy I ordered the spinach & goat cheese omelet so I could eat the pancakes and fries and not freak the fck out about whether I could eat whatever I want at dinner later (I call this disordered eating, some people may call this an eating disorder). Eating out with friends is for eating whatever I want! (As long as it’s in a very calculated and measured way).

My outfit is only-okay, I don’t like the way my pants fit, and I am thinking about this a lot today. When I don’t love my outfit, I can’t have The Best Day.

I didn’t spend too long getting dressed, and I didn’t change 15X, and maybe I should give up on the rule that I can’t change 15X. Maybe then I will always like my outfit and I will always have The Best Day.

It’s still a pretty great day, because Boerum Hill is not just apparently-cute, it is very-cute. The shops are very well curated, and it makes me laugh because this is like a Portladia set, but for Brooklyn. Each shop is unique to itself, but the same in the sense that each shop is perfectly curated to the highest degree. I think this is because things are “sourced” whether that be from NYC, NY, or globally. I think that whoever “sourced” these things is obviously very well educated on the thing itself, and the Source, and what their competitors are sourcing. The displays are also very thoughtful, and it makes me feel thoughtful, by browsing.

I am speaking mostly to the home-goods and art and furniture stores, and the stores that you don’t really know what they’re selling, or if everything in there is for sale, or if nothing is. We also pop into some boutiques and some thrift stores. I haven’t been in a clothes-shopping-mood since I’ve been depressed, and I am not that depressed now, but I’m still not in that mood, either.

My mom took me clothes shopping to help my depression, which was nice. I knew I’d eventually be happy to wear the new things, but I was mostly happy because I really don’t have the money to be tossing on a shopping spree right now. I wear mostly old things, and this doesn’t really bother me as long as no one pays that close of attention to the Source. Like, I’m not wearing designer. If I had it my way, I’d have a very unique and curated and Sourced closet, not necessarily designer, but definitely more thoughtful. If I had it my way, my clothes would certainly more expensive, which is not a hard task when you shop at the Thrift, at Zara, and in your moms closet, which only costs a light scolding when something is noticed to be missing. Instead of shopping, I lose my things in my under-bed storage make-shift-closet and then when I find them, they feel new again. I also Sourced clothes from my parent’s house, as I mentioned. My mom hasn’t gotten rid of clothing since the 80s, so that sometimes feels like vintage shopping.

So my friends’ friend is now my friend because she’s great, and my cup is full because I made a new friend. My cup is also full because I am watching her purchase some pretty great stuff from the shops we pop into. Like, she just got a whole outfit. I skim the racks and I see some unique things I’d love to have, but buying something wouldn’t fill my cup right now, so I save the money.

Her friend eventually has to peel off. I’m sad to see her go, but we did something I love doing sober, which is Plan for Future. Doing this sober actually results in said plan coming to fruition. Doing this drunk in a bar, or loaded at afters, usually results in an interesting conversation, and no plans. If these plans do happen, I will likely write about it. Her friend is bubbly and understanding, and we relate on a lot of things, including our mental diagnosis. I knew this before hand, and vice versa, and we never say it point blank, but I speak more freely with her because of it. I’m a big fan, and I’m happy about that. I love when I enjoy my friends’ friends. I love when they feel like my own, and eventually become my friend too. It is a very sweet thing to happen. I have gratitude that my friends are not possessive of their friends, because I know that this can sometimes be the case. It overwhelms me to think about social dynamics and friendship politics like this. The friendships I have reflect this anxiety, because they also do not deal with these sort of social politics in friendships. Life is too tiring for that.

Speaking of life being tiring, I am so tired by the end of the leisurely poking-around day, My friend wants to pop into a sample sale shop, because she is in a clothing-shopping-mood. Luckily, there is a seat for me, and I am looking around the room, pretending it is a scene from an episode of a TV show, and it’s a show I’d watch, because the characters in the shop are all very unique. Like the shop owner has a dog, and a tight nylon baseball cap, and interesting glasses, and he looks like he’s really good at Sourcing. He tells us he is, when he goes on an unprompted and longer-than-necessary soliloquy about all the designers featured in the Sale. I don’t care, but my friend apparently does, and she is a good listener, so he probably goes on for even longer than he planned. She’s sold on the whole thing, and waits for a long time to try on a dress.

I look around the room from my seat next to the dressing room, sometimes saying things that pop into my head, forcing the small room to listen to our private conversation. I am also a character on the TV show. A girl is trying on clothes for her boyfriend while my friend waits patiently. I like one of the tops this girl tries on, but her boyfriend and I don’t like the rest of her fashion show. I of course, remain silent through this, because I am not really the type of person to chime in on a girl trying on clothes for her boyfriend. She only buys the top we liked, which I’m happy about, because the other tops did not look good. I like people to look good, because I like to look at good looking people. What can I say. Now its my girls turn and the dress she has on looks great, but it’s not her style apparently. Later, at dinner, we talk about her style. She says she doesn’t know what it is, and I’m not sure if I know, either. I’m curious, so I pull up Pinterest photos of “fisherman style” and “Scandanavian style”, which we both agree she could fall under. I say to her: I think you have the basics covered, now it’s probably time to find more interesting pieces to style with the basics. Not loud or bold, but detailed maybe. She agrees, and I hope she isn’t thinking I’m being rude or bossy. The truth is, I actually don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m not that well versed in Fashion.

When I was in the psych ward, I made tons of stuff for my friends. Some of which included a detailed “costume outline” of what clothes I thought my friends would look best in. I drew pictures and wrote stories about where they would wear these outfits. I noted what decades they should draw inspiration from. It was not as organized as I’m making it sound. I felt bossy when I looked at that, and kind of psychotic, which I was. I don’t know much about the History of Fashion, and it showed.

My friend puts her dress back, even though the owner and I both wish she bought it, obviously for different reasons. When she asks me if we should go home, and I say “I would do two more shops, just not a clothing shop”. The shop owner laughs out loud at that. I didn’t think he was listening, but I always secretly love when people laugh out loud at me when they’re eavesdropping. This happens often.

We pop in two more shops, and I’m self conscious in the final and cutest store. I’m tired and I’m worried that the pretty and stylish shop girl is judging me. I’m not sure what she could be judging me for, exactly, so I start thinking about the laundry list of things I judge myself for. I assume she probably knows all of the muck about me, and I’m like ugh fuck I gotta prove I’m not everything bad shes thinking about me. To defend my own honor, I strike up some interest in some little thing in the shop. And I am interested in it, and I am also interested if they have a website because the stuff is, in fact, very cute. Very out of my price range probably, I didn’t even check, but I say “this would make a great gift” so she thinks I’m thoughtful and a good gift-giver (I don’t think I am, but I sometimes try to be). I also think this would also make a great gift, for the record. If you have money like that. I like these home-good stores in Boerum Hill because I get to imagine myself as the type of person who shows up for dinner parties (my friends rarely host dinner parties) bearing gifts like serving bowls that cost $200 dollars, or cute dish towels, or glasses with fish in them, or random purposeless ceramics and funky candle-holders that are maybe presumptuous to give, assuming someone else would like the style.

I went to The MET with my Nana the other weekend, after going to the Museum of Ice Cream (which she’s been requesting to visit for years). I put my nana in a wheel chair at The Met because I didn’t feel like walking at her slow pace. She had me wheel her infront of a glass case of trinkets, which I wouldn’t otherwise have stopped at. They were small and I go for the big stuff, usually. The trinkets were very pretty and interesting, and I read the little info card. Apparently, in the olden days, rich guests would bring colorful porcelain trinkets for the rich host. The trinkets are meant to bring joy and entertainment (the host is probably really bored, because they didn’t have phones back then. I should tell my friend this, that the olden days people would probably rather scroll for 4 hours than play with little trinkets). So that’s what I take away from this info card. I think I will start looking at the smaller-stuff in museums.

So, I thought of this when I looked at the trinkets in Boerum Hill. I am not in the financial position to bring my friends trinkets now, but if I ever am, I have photo evidence of what sort of thing I’d bring them, in hopes of bringing joy.

My love language is not giving or receiving because I haven’t really gotten into the practice of being a Total Capitalist. But if the opportunity presents itself, I suppose….

I also found a candle that both smelled great, and had a different Saint attributed to each smell. I thought once as a kid that maybe I could become one of those saints that is a Shit Head their entire life, then becomes Holy in the final hours and is canonized. I thought very highly of myself as a kid, because I read books and saw myself in The Chosen One characters. I also thought: this candle would be a great gift for my Grandma, who loves Jesus and always makes me pray to Saint Anthony with her. I mostly pray to Saint Anthony when I lose things, and I usually find them. I think if I had $80 to spend on a candle, I’d skip diptique, give up the boujee candle name-recognition clout and go the holier route. I don’t really have to worry about decisions like these right now, but pics below if anyone else happens to be in the market.

I tell my friend out loud in the last shop: “I’m taking all these pictures so I can remember these things for when I have money to spend and I know what to buy.” I say this in part as an apology/excuse for all of the photos. In the uber back to Williamsburg, again I bring up the fact that I took a lot of photos, sheepishly this time. She said “you only took as many photos as you always do” and I feel wasteful and silly for feeling sheepish all day. I forgot I always took pictures like that. I was secretly worried about being manic, with the photos being a symptom. Or worse, her thinking that I’m manic and me not realizing it. God forbid I do something I enjoy doing. God forbid I’m annoying without acknowledging it. How crazy would it be if I just enjoyed myself without a judgmental eye, or accepted the fact that my friends love me and don’t think I’m annoying. How crazy would it be that my friend plans to spend a day with me because not only can she tolerate me for days at a time (we lived together for 2+ years in college, and post grad) but because she enjoys my company.

We ride back to Williamsburg with little snacks from Nuts Factory. I am smug because my bag was cheaper than hers, and I snack on the most delicious thing, and I forgot to look at what it was called.

Luckily, I took a picture so I can remember it forever.

For the record, I love modern technology and I am very glad I was born in this decade. I did try to google reverse image search this delicious treat, to no avail. I even went to nutsfactory.com which prompted me to log in, and I knew I was in the wrong place. It’s actually NutsFactoryNYC.com and it may be the shittiest website known to man. Perhaps I offer them to craft a website with my newfound website-building skill, and I get so much money from that freelance NutsFactory gig that I can buy my friends trinkets in Boerum Hill to celebrate.

I will probably find myself in a Nuts Factory in the future, not just waiting in the cold from an uber (but maybe) and then I will learn the name of this treat.

But I’d rather not, and instead I’ll think of this treat for years and when I stumble upon it in the future, it wont be as good, because that’s what always happens.

I mentioned a few times that I was tired, and I’m not kidding. My dad told me it is probably the mouth surgery and the antibiotics, and a few people mentioned Daylight Savings during small talk. There are probably a number of reasons why I’m tired, including the fact I always stay up until 2-3 AM doing not much. But, I was so tired by the end of Saturday that I napped on my friends couch. I napped before we went to dinner. She popped open a bottle of wine and I loved watching her drink because it meant Celebration and Weekend, even though I was not partaking. That is how I look at drinking now, and I really like being around it when I’m in the mood. Wine was the perfect drink for her to be drinking when I fell asleep, because wine is a cozy drink. My family loves red wine, and it was always cozy when we would pile on the couch in the living room, and my parents would drink wine. Sometimes I would drink wine too, though I preferred to get wasted with my friends, and waste the drunk and the calories in that way. Sometimes I would drink the red wine and watch movies with my family drunk, but I am an annoying movie watcher when I drink wine. I say weird shit. I think red wine is not for movies.

In college, my senior year friend group piled on the couch in the party-apartment where our guy friends lived. We were watching The King, with Timmy Chalamet and we had a few nice bottles of wine, and a box of it. I was drinking the most wine of anyone there. I tapped into the box, which was disgusting. I ad-libbed the movie The King so much, that my cinephile friend rewatched it on his own, and told me he is Never watching a movie with me again. I knew he secretly wanted to be Timmy Chalamet, and I was like, alright weirdo, I know the real reason you rewatched The King alone.

Even watching movies with my family drinking wine, I would wake up slightly embarrassed with a dry, red stained mouth and a vague memory of saying something kinda weird. No one needs to get that wine-drunk on the couch. It’s one thing to do it in college with your friends. Kind of unnecessary for family movie nights. Again, I don’t think wine is for movies. Soda, maybe.

My friend did not get wine-drunk, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it was time for dinner. She kinda wanted take out but I kinda wanted to eat in a restaurant, to people watch and feel like a part of something. So we did that, and walked to Inday, which is near her apartment. Inday is cuter than the alternative indian spot we’ve eaten at. The less-cute indian was way way better, which is to be expected. But Inday had a fun crowd, and some couple was making out at a table. Surprisingly, it was a hot couple. My friend told a hilarious one-liner about the scene, which I don’t remember verbatim, but you can fill in the blanks. Personally, I am not one for PDA, especially not in a franchised We-Work style Indian restaurant. But its a Saturday! So anything goes, I guess. It made it worse that they were hot though. Make out somewhere better.

We meander back to her apartment and her fiance is roaming around in my neighborhood for a birthday party. He reports that there are lines at every bar, everywhere packed, they tried three spots and wound up settling for the spot they’re at. I tell her, and him, it’s a good bar actually, and they have a good chicken sandwich. Hearing this report makes me Very grateful that we did not attempt to roam and go out tonight. Not that it ever really seemed to be in the cards, but still.

My roommate is a big party girl in her own right, and I live vicariously through her recaps every morning-after. I moved in with her about a year ago, a few months into sobriety. She worked in alcohol PR at the time, which I thought was both hilarious and ironic. My friends in AA thought that was an interesting choice. Not that they said anything, but the eyebrow raises were enough of an indication. There was never an issue, because I appreciated that she helped me feel like a part of The Culture (drinking culture) without me having to actually participate.

She also was a rock for me when I felt my Ego Crushed by ThatLastGuy, who loved substances, and made me feel like a bit of a sober loser. She told me: “You are Not a sober loser”. She also gave me reasons why I’m not, which was great because I do usually need Lists of Reasons. I did cry in front of her for the first time (every other time I cried was with my bedroom door closed, dry heave weeping into my pillow, borderline scream crying, one time she left the apartment either to give me space or to spare herself, unsure, we never really talked about that time). But she said, “No, he’s the Loser” and she gave me reasons for that too. Which was crazy for me because like, how could anyone be a loser if they love to party? Doesn’t that make everyone Cool?

She is a very supportive roommate and friend, and to this day I appreciate the ways she makes me feel a part of The Culture, and makes me feel like I’m Not a sober loser. Sometimes I hangover rot with her, even though I am obviously not hungover.

We often have exchanges like “is it bad if I don’t leave the apartment today” or “is it bad if I go home early”…

And I was happy to receive a Saturday night text from her asking if not going out was lame.

She never saw me drinking, and if I were still an active alcoholic, I would probably be at a bar, and say yes that’s very fckng Lame….come here right now, don’t be a Loser.

I was instead flattered that she thinks that I, her sober roommate, who often spends weekends not going out at all, has a Trustworthy barometer on lameness. Of course its not that deep, but to me, everything is deep. Yay.

Sunday

On Sunday I woke up in the nick of time to remember that I had an AA meeting that I was tentatively going to. My old neighbor, who actually was one of a few friends who helped push me into the program, despite her not being sober. She is now counting days (without alcohol).

Since moving out of our shared building, I’d see her from time to time. Like: let’s catch up on a walk here, I’ll come with you to do this it’s on my way there, come to this party (I wouldn’t actually be able to find her in the crowd but that’s fine). She actually took my sober 1 year pics , which was a G-move. Those pics came out good and I cared a lot about posting something good to Let the World Know (No one IRL really GAF, but I ignore the truth sometimes). I need to show-off-how-good-I’m--doing-now type thing. And she threw her back out for the shot. I need like, 10000 tries to get one good pic, on a good day. Kudos.

We became friends when the Super of my building sent a tit-video of me to the building group chat. It was a weeknight (shocker) and I simply Had to go out because my friend had a table at The Box. I had been to the box once before, but I was in the balcony and wasted and not in view of the stage. This time, I learned I actually hated performative sex stuff. I guess I am just too ~ cleangirl to appreciate a taboo kinky sex act. I got really wasted to cope with how uncomfortable I was. Then I was proper drunk and still uncomfortable, so I thought Fuck This and I pulled an irish exit. No one noticed I left, seeing that these weren’t my close friends.

When I was drinking, I’d go out with who-the-fuck-ever. Sometimes this was because it was a Wednesday, and I’m grasping at straws and shooting out texts like: why do you guys care about work so much? For the love of God, live a little. Work hard play hard? Work to live, not live to work? Did you guys know It’s weird to make work your whole personality? Just make drinking your personality instead! You get it. Anyone who raised their hand for weekday plans was my BFF cos I’m like: you Get ittttt. Your priorities are straight, your fun-pretty-carefree, love-life and living, you are so good at being alive! Balance! (I’ve mentioned in previous blog how I actually feel about life and living).

So, I left the box, in an outfit I had borrowed from the girl I went out with that night. She has a nice healthy rack, and I do not, so the top actually was not safe to be wearing in public. The Box was not that far from my apartment, but I was too cross-eyed drunk to see my phone map, or the cross streets. To be fair, I didn’t know my way around the city very well at this point, because any time I left the apartment I was usually drinking, drunk, or hungover. Some guy on the street noticed me swaying and looking stupidly at my phone, and asked if I needed help. Upon further assessment, he asked if I needed food. I said “Halaal”, because I’d never had it (to this day), and I’d been wanting to try it. So this guy gets me Halaal, and starts helping me back in the direction of my apartment. I dismiss him on the corner of my block so he doesn’t murder me, and I’m on my merry way, Halaal in hand.

I buzz into my apartment, and the halaal is slippery with grease I guess, because in the video, it splatters right out of my hands and onto the floor. I don’t really notice that, which is apparent, because I trudge right through the yellow slop (as seen on camera). My top had also given up at this point, and my boob is zoolander at the security camera. I look like a zombie as I swing up the staircase.

My super sent the video with the text “thx for making us clean up after you!” and immediately my old neighbor jumped to my defense (I later learn she is very active in the building group chat, I was a fairly new building resident). “This is distribution of porn.” A slew of similar texts follow. I wake up drunk and send this shit to my friends as I boot up my work computer, ready for another hungover workday. I needed them to answer before I could form an assessment of the situation. My friends are like, Kelley WTF, you’re really lucky these people are defending you, they could’ve been mad about the spill bla bla bla. Well!

Anyways, that’s how me and my old neighbor became friends. She has described herself as “intense” which makes me laugh. She talks a lot, and she has a lot of interesting stories. They make my stories seem less interesting by comparison, so I mostly listen. As she has begun counting days, I notice her listening for my stories or comments more than before. I get a little self conscious, because I know she has lived more life than me, so I preface things more than I otherwise would. Like, I remind her of the fact I’m not as Cool, basically. In the past, she would pop into my apartment and put on Sex and the City, or host me on her private-roof when I was simply popping up to grab a vape charger. There was a night she dragged me to a club for an event late one night, as her +1. My parents had been crashing at my apartment that night, and they were like, why the fuck did you leave at 4 in the morning? And I was like, you wouldn’t really get it? I was going to a Fun Club.

As it turns out, she grew up in the city, and she’s pretty connected downtown. Before she got into AA, she told me what sceney meetings I should go to. When she got into AA herself, she knew the sceney meetings X10, and she knew the people in them.

I break my anonymity here because it would be very helpful for me to have seen/heard/read about someone being in the program who is my age, and who drank like me. I am okay with breaking my anonymity for this purpose, but the tradition states you shouldn’t. I don’t want to get shunned, and I do understand that the reason you shouldn’t share is because it might make someone shy away from the program if they don’t Fuck with your vibe. Or something like that. Hopefully if someone doesn’t fuck with my vibe they aren’t reading this deep in a blog I wrote about my weekend. Idk. Again, it maybe would’ve been helpful for me to know AA wasn’t full of like…creepy crawlers.

The excuse I told my dad about Not going to AA was: “you don’t want me to wind up fraternizing with the dredges of society, do you?” As it turns out, I rolled into my first few meetings hungover. Like hungover til Wednesday after my last-hurrah bender-weekend. I was the dredges of society and everyone in the rooms (the sceney rooms that I had been directed to go to) had a glow about them. Like legit, fresh faced and seemed actually happy to be there. They were on their way to work, or doing Something. Everyone looked chic and put together. I was like: I want what they have. (I’d later learn that was actually a side-effect of sobriety, and I too could have it).

So Sunday, I wake up, and its time to finally go to a meeting. I didnt go all week because my face was monstrously swollen from mouth surgery. I didn’t want to run into anyone Hot in a meeting looking like Monstro Elisasue from The Substance. But by Sunday, I am not as swollen.

My friend texts me that she also was so fckng tired (I’m still on about how tired I am, I slept til 10 AM), but we both agree we can make the meeting if we get up now. We can actually squeeze in a cute-sit-down-coffee if we get up now. I’m like, good, that will make for a good outing, coffee and meeting, since I didn’t make real plans for today and it’s sunny.

Meetings feel like a plan. I love a good meeting, and the good meetings usually happen on weekends. It feels like I’m a kid again, and I’m a part of something, and people are friendly and interesting and social. Unfortunately, most of them happen weekend mornings, when I like to sleep in and be slow and have coffee in bed and debrief my roommates fun night.

I heard someone say that meetings are the ultimate afters. Like everyone who was at the afters’ afters, is at this afters. They describe the fun personalities that arrive at AA’s door. It makes sense.

So I meet my friend at Cafe Gitane, a sometimes sceney neighborhood spot in between our apartments. I walk in a few minutes late and she’s like WTF you look cute (we both said we weren’t gonna look cute). I tell her “yeah I’m actually a bad friend” and I laugh, but I realize thats actually annoying of me. We catch up over two coffees, start with iced and then warm because I need to warm my belly before the walk to the meeting.

I snap a picture of the lighting fixture because I have a fixation on good lighting. I’d say it replaced my alcohol fixation, but the lighting thing was going on while I drank, too. Some things just Are.

I realize its actually a kinda good pic so I toss it on my personal IG story.

The waitress kinda steps into my pic and I’m like damn bitch was that on purpose? Do you not want me to enjoy things like Life and Lighting Fixtures? And I shake off the potential rumination because of something I said recently:

I was walking with my friend and I said “oh that’s shit” about a story, as a regular-height but on-the-shorter-side guy emerged from a door. If he has a chip on a shoulder about being short, he could’ve auto heard me say “Oh he’s short” meaning him, and then had a shit day over it. He would think that in passing and be like, those bitches, the world sucks, everyone thinks I’m short. So, I try not to do things like that. Like- auto-fill what I am thinking about myself and make it seem like someone else thinks it.

So instead of geting more self conscious about being a photo-taking bandit every day, I admire the pic I posted, and then of course I wonder if ThisLastGuy would remember the spot. He once complimented the way I frame my photos, and he still views my stories, and he made me pick a date spot in my neighborhood and I panic picked here. I say panic-pick because I have decision paralysis. It’s a good spot.

Anyways we go to the meeting bla bla bla. It’s nice and dandy, I’m eyeing up the room and appreciating the outfits. The speaker is good and funny and keeps name-dropping the city of Berlin. I’m like, damn, his life was kinda sick. It’s always nice to hear about someone’s sick-life and then hear that they are #lovinglifesober. So I go to sceny meetings and see Cool people and hear them sharing fun cool stories, and then reminding me: but wait! It gets better. Cos it was actually bad. It was all fun and Cool until it out of control. And I’m like teaaaa.

We go to a coffee shop on the way back to our neighborhood, even though we just had two cups of coffee. I myself know no limits when it comes to caffeine, which is horrible for my anxiety. But it doesn’t stop me because I’m agro. However, I am being cheap and I say I’m gonna buy milk instead of this over priced-coffee-shop-coffee, I’ll have my overpriced Nespresso instead.

We go to a pricey grocery store, because everything is overpriced actually, and my neighbor invites me to go to this arty thing in Red Hook before this Birthday Party, that I could also come to if I wanted. She actually bitched about having to go to Brooklyn a few times this morning, and she had me feeling bad for her cos Red Hook is far for a Sunday Night. I’m like, wait, why do you want me to suffer too? But the plan did sound appealing, and I appreciated the invite. Unfortunately for myself, or fortunately given I was spared the travel, I said No Thank You but Next Time, truly hoping there would be a next time. I was tired, and wanted to finish what I started on Friday: Alone-time with myself, reading and writing.

It just so happened that my best friend also texted me about a Premium vintage market. I was too tired to be take her up on that appealing plan. Her being my closer-friend didn’t change anything.

By this point, with two good plans on the table, and the potential of a Sunday Funday, I’m feeling mad at myself. Like, I am manifesting bad things from the universe by not leaning in and saying Yes. I used to live for a Sunday Funday. Now I am only going to be handed rubbish plans since I told the universe I hate fun, type of deal. But the tiredness I feel overcomes me, and I have a full week ahead, and I’d prefer to get myself right. Like, I do have plans for the week. I also remind myself that I was too depressed to function about 1 month ago, if that. I also-Also remind myself that if I push myself too hard and spread myself too thin, I could get manic. I constantly ponder things that could get me manic, just to ensure that I never fully enjoy anything (that was dark, I’m being dramatic, but it’s kinda true).

So, I putz my way home, I make my tea with my new expensive milk, and square up to read my book and have a nice day alone. Lo and Behold - I fall right asleep! I nap for four hours. Like, it’s getting dark when I wake up. I wake up confused and sweaty. I missed out on my fun plans to read and write. I fckng hate naps.

I was supposed to debrief with my roommate about some exciting life events that happened for her that I actually am very curious to hear about, but for the whole weekend I can’t seem to find the time to stay awake And do the things I wanna do like read and write and post on social media, And talk to her. Or talk to anyone actually, I’m too tired to make my rounds of phone calls.

I sometimes get this tired, it’s not the first time. I’ll diagnose myself with something, though. I like to spend all my time worrying about the what-ifs.

To Summarize:

I didn’t go out once this weekend. That is not what my weekends are for anymore. I went to dinner, which is often more fun than going out. Also, going out during the day counts as “going out”, but not going Out-Out.

For some reason, I feel like going out-out proves something. I don’t know if I feel this way because I’m sober now, or if I always felt this way. Going out at all (day or night, sober or drunk) seems to prove that you’re Cool. Like even in the Meetings I go to, I hear about some of these nights out and I’m like….that sounds fun AF. Maybe they are just a good story teller, and a fun person, because they tell me they are still having fun sober and I believe them.

I know when I was depressed and not leaving the house at all, I felt like a fckng loser. I was like, excited to leave the house for one day and post something stupid and LARPy on my IG story, so I could prove to people that I was still alive, and doing things, and a part of society. I’m not sure if society notices or cares, when I’m an active participant. I’m barely a good capitalist, so it probably doesn’t make a difference.

Anytime I have been depressed and done that LARPy B.S. I am performing and faking. But it doesn’t take depression for me to be a performer or a faker. I probably over do it, to say Look! I can keep up! I’ll get into it more when I talk about my hyper-curated instagram. It’s just like: trying to control what other people think of you. Trying to prove I’m normal despite my glaring mental illness. Trying to prove I’m Cool and Fun and A-Girl-About-Town despite being sober. That sort of thing. It’s always despite, like I can’t let it be both. I’m like, fighting myself on this, and it doesn’t even need to be a battle. And it’s the same with going out: trying to control whether you are Cool and likable and Hot, Somebody Worthwhile who Belongs and Participates.

Sometimes when I am not depressed I post like something is great and it’s really mediocre. Sometimes I post and things are great, and look great, and you can never really spot-the-difference. I story-spam from a weekend trip, like when my best friends in Brooklyn got engaged in Block Island, and all the pics are flawless and the weekend was scenic and fun and special. But not a perfect weekend, because it got cold and cloudy one day and I didn’t have a sweater, and life isn’t perfect. I did end up thrifting a super-cute sweater for cheap though, and the skies cleared, because God blesses Angels.

To summarize my take on going Out: If I look amazing and love my outfit and have fun plans with fun people, anything is fun. All those conditions must be met to have a fun night out sober. A fun night out drunk doesn’t require strict conditions. Booze makes everything seem fun and feel cool.

Sometimes (even when I was drinking) going out-out doesn’t have super-fun results. I forget this, because it’s much easier to feel cool when I’m drunk and can fill in the blanks of what actually happened, and take life raw. When I was drinking, I couldn’t really have a fun day sober. All I could think about was when we were going to hit the bar or mix in a beer or end with cocktails. Now I want to fill a fun day sober up with all kinds of things: time alone, time with friends (meandering or posted up),….I’m like, actually appreciating all that for once. And I like when they drink and make me feel like I’m part of the celebration of life. I just celebrated too hard, or tried to make the celebration something it wasn’t. Or tried to make life something it wasn’t.

But posting aside, and good weekends aside, I’m talking about feeling, and Being rather than trying to Prove I’ve Been.

If I have anything from not drinking, it’s More free brain space to think about things like this. I’m not always thinking about Going Out, who will come with me to party on weekday, Will there be Afters?