- Alyssa Shelasky, one of the lovely ladies who blogs for Glamour, was nice enough to mention me in a post of hers last Thursday.  For this, I am grateful. (And for the record, I have never blurted out "I love you" to a woman, if only because, as mentioned before, the only two emotions I’m capable of at this point are lust and hunger.)  But for the 20 or so Glamour/Alyssa readers who came to this site, read my recent post(s), and then emailed me to tell that I’m an alcoholic and "should be ashamed of [myself]" or "really seek help"…not so grateful.

In part, I can’t blame strangers for reading what’s on here and thinking I’m an alcoholic.  Last week was an especially alcoholicy week, what with me blacking out and fracturing my ribs in a drunken blur (and I didn’t even mention all the stray dogs I killed after spending the night dancing with Mr. Beam).  So yes, I understand that that sounds like the behavior of an alcoholic.  I don’t think you need a Ph.D. in the psychology of dependence to make that leap, Doctor.   

But why, tell me, would anyone feel the need to write such harshly-worded, holier-than-thou emails to someone they do not know?  I’ve never understood this with "hate mail" that I sometimes get.  I’ll be the first to admit that I am full of hate, and many things bother and annoy me.  Poors, for example, or that fucking guy who works at my local soup place (what a cocksucker).  So I’m with you guys there.  But, as hateful as I am, I don’t think I’d take ten or twenty minutes out of my day to email someone I don’t know and berate or (try to) belittle them.  Not only does that seem like a lot of work, but it’s just…weird.

I know I may sound like a whiny bitch, but I don’t mean to.  Nor do I mean to sound defensive.  I actually like getting these types of emails.  Though I never respond to them, I sometimes forward them on to friends and we have a laugh.  The latest, from the Glamour/Alyssa readers, were especially enjoyable, since most of the people who visit this site are more likely to read Oui than Glamour.  As such, the emailers were particularly appalled and vituperative, which made for great reading.

But people, let’s make love, not war.  A wise man once said, "When you’re judging, you’re not loving."  I consider this website a judgment-free zone, where we all can come together, enjoy ourselves, and talk about our deepest, darkest secrets, free from any and all judgment.  And sure, none of what I’ve just written may be true, but it certainly sounds nice, no?

(So if you’re keeping count, the latest emails I’ve gotten have all revolved around either me being fragile and grossly out of shape or calling me an alcoholic.  The good news is that I fucked up my email account and accidentally deleted all my emails from Thursday to Sunday.  So if you sent me an email during this time that didn’t relate to my obesity or alcoholism and would like me to read it, please re-send it.  Thanks for your understanding.)

- Speaking of being an out-of-shape alcoholic, I had the day off on Friday (thank you, Jesus – or rather, thank you Jews, for killing my Savior) and after running some errands, I started drinking with my old roommate Brian at my place at 5pm.  We had big plans to go out to a birthday dinner, but instead ordered pizza and didn’t leave the apartment until after 1am.  Whoops.  However, in the eight hours that we sat there drinking, many other friends joined us and soon I had a little party going on in my apartment.  There was also an uncomfortable amount of guitar playing and singing, (poorly) covering such classics as The Band’s "The Weight," Van Halen’s "Dance the Night Away," and our piece de resistance, "Handle With Care" by the Traveling Wilburys, with each of us responsible for our own Wilbury (because of the physical similarity, I was Roy Orbison).

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(I still contend that the Traveling Wilburys would be an awesome Halloween costume.  Mark my words: this will happen.)

We eventually did go out, the nine of us caravanning over to The Tile Bar/The James Fucking Iha Bar, where I must have been breakdancing or something.  I say this because when I woke up the next morning/afternoon, I was in such pain because of my fractured ribs that I actually threw up.  Surprisingly, throwing up is not the best cure for fractured ribs, as doing so made them hurt much, much worse.  Saturday afternoon was not a very good time for me. 

- Nor was Saturday night.  I tried my hardest to rally, but was convinced my insides were bleeding, despite the fact that I was drinking cranberry and vodka (it’s good for the kidneys).  I wound up watching four hours of "The History of Metal" on VH1 Classic, smoked about $160 worth of pot, ate a giant bag of pretzels dipped in the best mustard on the planet, and passed out on my couch.  And yes, I am single.  I know – I can’t believe it either.

- Sunday was Easter.  Easter was a big deal in my house as a kid, what with Jesus rising from the dead and all those Cadbury Creme Eggs.  But instead of dressing up in a suit, going to church, and eating a ton of candy, I woke up, put on some sweat pants, laid on the couch, and, um, ate a ton of candy.   

(Seriously - I want to eat my computer screen when I see that Cadbury Creme Egg picture.  I love those fucking things.  One of these days, I’m going to make a sundae with them.  Then I will stab myself in the heart.  Because I doubt my life could get any better than a Cadbury Creme Egg sundae.)  

The errands that I ran on Sunday, as well as the lonely/homoerotic dinner I had with my buddy Jeremy, I will not get into – mostly because I’m kinda riled up after mentioning the CCE sundae.  Suffice it to say that my Easter was tame.

- When I have a weekend like this one, in which nothing overly exciting happens and I stay in a night, it bums me out.  However, I can deal with this past slow weekend, because on Wednesday morning, at just about 8am, my old roommate Ben arrives from Seattle.  The next day, five others are coming from Seattle.  Remember, the last time we hung out with Ben, all hell broke loose (pictures here).  So if we want to think of this in the bigger picture, I should be unemployed by Friday morning and in the hospital by Saturday evening.  

So wish me luck. 

(Also, if anyone can pick up a gross of those Cadbury Creme Eggs on the cheap, please do so and I’ll get you back.  It’s going to be a long, lonely summer/fall/winter without them.)