It's me, the drunk that ruined christmas!

If I were to be completely honest about myself and why I've been so upset with everything this week, what I would really say is that I am mean, I'm disappointing myself, and I'm frustrated how I haven't turned it around yet, even though I quit less than a week ago now, and I know I need time. I do feel right about doing that, for the reasons previously stated and so much more. I'm argumentative and I don't know what I am supposed to be doing right now.

Plus, I ruined the holiday party. Which was so nicely pointed out to me, days later, by my former CEO when he said, "I don't mean to embarrass you, but you ruined the holiday party."

Now, why would you say that to me, really? I had already put in my notice. Why would you say something like that, other than to upset me, when I'm already leaving? I can say, if nothing else, this helped push me a bit more towards the way I'm supposed to be going. Which is not that way.

So you know that horrible feeling you have after something truly terrible has happened - not trivial terrible like a fight or even a bad breakup, but something that bends the direction of everything - its the stomach feeling that I had after my mom died, the one that made you feel like raw nerves and when you're resting or asleep, you've not even calm then - that feeling, it's how I've felt the rest of the week, up til now, and I'm not sure why.

I don't really care how many times my face hits the pavement, or that people in an industry I never want(ed) to work in will never take me seriously, but maybe I can't shake the feeling that someone told me I ruined something.

On my face hitting the pavement at least 50 times in a single night

I am so thankful that I did not break my glasses. And amazed, mostly amazed.

So to start near the beginning, early/mid October I accepted a crappy assistant job at an advertising agency. I don't know what made me decide to try this out. That's kind of a lie, I was sick of being broke, and although my heart is in publishing as I have come to realize, I decided to try something new that wasn't in danger of folding. I decided that I would be gung-ho about this and smiled my way through the interviews, assuring people that I didn't mind starting out at the bottom, since I was new to the industry, as long as it meant I would be considered for internal positions as they opened. 2.5 months of personal errands for the CEO later, and zero creative work done, despite my background in pitching, media experience, etc., I put in my two weeks on Monday, aka the day of the holiday party. This was a hard decision for me of course, because I don't quit things, but there really wasn't any other way. And I didn't want it on my resume, because it was/is seriously much crappier than anything I've done before. I may have sort of hated my first job after college as an Editorial Assistant, but at least I was miserable while holding down real responsibilities and tangible projects. Real work, in other words. This was a far, far cry from any of that.

Let's go back to Monday. I verbally gave my notice to the HR person, and told him that I was planning on giving it to my bosses in writing that day as well, except for one thing - I had just been asked to come to the company holiday party to hold the box for the raffle. Think about it. I must have had a look of mild horror on my face, because the CEO dude was like, "What?" and I responded that I wasn't dressed up (jeans, chucks, track jacket) because on Friday I had been told that I would be running around town buying gifts for the raffle. He said that's ok. Someone else chimed in that they could get me a Santa hat. So that day I was given the task of going out to get wrapping paper and pretty-ing up an old Poland Springs water box. So as everyone else packed themselves into cabs, and set off on the train downtown to the party locale, me and my box trailed behind.

They set me (and my denim and bright blue chucks) up at a table near the back, and every now and then someone made an announcement on the mic to come drop your name in the box for the company raffle. Now, since I was told to man the box, some kind souls offered to get my drinks from the open bar. I was ever so grateful, since it was just me at the table, furiously texting with Jive Turkey about how people were already getting drunk and asking me about what the prizes were, and how I didn't know, and hey, let's meet up at Metro in an hour.

I know it sounds lame, but I hadn't eaten all day. Not a damn thing. Sometimes I just don't. Blame drugs, blame my irresponsible and unhealthy nature, who knows. I must have been carrying some residual anger about the box, because I pounded a few g+t and declared them weak (to myself), probs because I am used to the strong drinks of the gay establishments I frequent. So I switched over to dirty martinis. Why? Why? The last thing I remember was finishing a martini and then I woke up in my bed.

I wandered into Jive Turkey's room where he so kindly informed me of how the evening played out. The short answer was awful. As I began to feel the effects on my body yesterday, today it is basically just one big bruise. I hit the pavement a million times, my legs stopped working, someone called JT to come get me, we all got stuck in a revolving door, I don't remember a damn thing. I sent a heartfelt Facebook apology and thanks to the dude who I thought, from JT's description, basically carried me out of the venue and into the cab. And of course, it was not him. I did have him fill me in on some of the events before JT showed up to come get me. Apparently he tried to make me eat and I refused. I am always a class act. I inquired politely, if by any chance, I vom'd in the raffle box? No, I did not. But I wish I had. And later, in front of my apartment building, I laid down in the street a few times, and also, passed out in the trash. One of our fine, sturdy landladies assisted the weak JT in getting my corpus up the stairs and into my apartment. She thought it was hilarious, apparently.

Consequently, I took Jive out for diner food after my very shameful work day, which I did manage to live through, despite the many shrill inquiries of "ARE YOU OK??" and the fact that one of the accountants said that she was there, if I ever wanted to talk. I basically made it through the day by volunteering for every single out-of-the office mission. And I got myself some new art supplies. For fucks sake, my jeans fell on the way to the cab (I need to start eating regularly, or get smaller clothes) apparently, but not my underwear. I am ok with an entire agency thinking I am an alcoholic, is my mantra. Although I do shudder each time the lovely Jive points out the irony of the fancy advertising agency's only person of color (who is of course the lowly bitch employee) being the one who gets entirely crunk at the office party, and yells "My roommate got this, yo" as people try to assist her into the cab. I do my heritage proud.

But let this single story not speak for the bigger picture, if it can be called that. Despite the fact that I am still filled with lots of shame, I am feeling a little better when I think about What Will I Do Next? I've actually felt the urge to write something again, thanks to some great books I've read lately. I'm painting, and I'll be fine to pay January's rent. I'm maybe warming up to the idea of j-school, and I've discovered the thing that is the craigslist odd jobs section.

Now I really want the weekend to get here. I've got a date with some pastrami, and also I hope by then my body looks less like that of an assault victim.

On heart-ing Ira Glass before Showtime did.

Last month I got one of the new video nanos for myself. I must say, I first started listening to This American Life back in 6th grade - which was a year or two after the show started. It aired here on NYC NPR right after Selected Shorts, which I've also been rabidly downloading. I listened to these shows on that old timey device, the radio. I loved those damn shows, and I was also, needless to say, really fucking nerdy. And although I went off that track a bit, sometimes, I still would manage to catch both those shows over the years sometimes. But yeah, radio? So its been a while. This is a roundabout way of me saying that the soothing sounds of short stories and Ira Glass are both really helping me out these days. Probably in the same way that they transported my 12-year old egghead self back in the day. Which lately is pretty on par with myself now, aged 25. I holed up alone in my room, wishing I was in a P.G. Wodehouse story, or looking forward to when I would be clever, important and doing something like producing This American Life. Cut to now. Yeah.

I finally got myself a copy of The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao this week. I was so excited for this book to come out. Sometime in high school, the short story of the same name, by this author appeared in the New Yorker. I loved it so much that I made a photo copy of it and managed to keep track of it all these years. I've lost important documents, some of my best academic papers, cute + touching letters, but I've kept this story safe. Whenever I moved in and out of dorms, crappy apartments, I always knew where those photocopied pages were. Junot Díaz moved me so much then, and to this day not for my own recognition of self, and references to New Brunswick, Rutgers, and all that other familiar turf, but because it was some of the best fiction I'd ever read. I'm a sucker for immigrant generational family conflict misfit stories with a good healthy dose of myth and history, what can I say?

Oh, everything else? Is pretty fucked, but I've got all my limbs, a book, an ipod, and I'm going to work on the rest.