life in the win column

A fair preface: it's 12:34am and nothing at this hour makes a terrible amount of sense. But I've found that writing at this time is the psychological equivalent of going out without a bra on, or what I can imagine that's like as I'm consistently sans-support. It's a very free-spirited, other-people's-thoughts-be-damned sort of time. So strap in if you're ready for the ride is what I'm getting at.

I have a dear friend who loves dresses with pockets and acknowledging the elephant in the room.

this piece of pure gold right here.

Back in the days when her and I got asked to leave karaoke night for getting too suggestive while performing Salt-n-Pepa's "Push It," she had a saying that, while not hers exclusively, became a sort of mantra for our group of sinners and saints:

Who really wins?

It started in reference to drinking games, as the loser usually ends up drinking the most. But as that's the ultimate goal of a solid binge session, bellowing out "who really wins?" while tossing back warm Coors Light became an acceptable rebuttal to the taunts of the victorious.

On paper, my weekend wouldn't jump out at you as one of many victories. Friday night I drove from Long Beach home to Hollywood (meaning: not close) at 4am after going on a date with someone who I wasn't sure was dating me back. Saturday I spent nine hours moving very heavy furniture and reassembling an Ikea entertainment center that I'm convinced was designed by Satan himself. I showered once, ate out every meal, and spent my free hours on Sunday drinking beer across town and questioning why I continue to love the Miami Dolphins when all they do is cause me pain.

So who really won? Oddly enough, I did.

While my only self-imposed rule of el bloggo is not divulging matters of the heart, I can say it's worth a long drive home to feel like after twenty-four years you've finally learned how to man up and say what you need to say. You move friends because afterwards, when you're sitting on their rooftop deck pairing gin and tonics with s'mores made over a firepit, you realize good friends help with the shitty stuff and that's why they're good friends. And as for ignoring the laundry and the diet and the looming five days of responsibility in favor of an impromptu beer pong tournament and couch naps....well, sometimes mental health comes at the expense of seeming in control.

And now I'm propped up on my frameless bed, exhausted and alone except for an oversized stuffed beaver and some sort of Armenian soap opera coming from the next building over. I should be deep in the REM cycle by now, but instead of adequately preparing for another week of pimping the pretty folk I sit up with the beaver and the Armenians and do what makes me happy at the expense of the logical choice.

I'm tired, broke, romantically perplexed and physically drained, but I still feel like I'm coming out ahead. And in this crazy life, that's all you can hope for.

Close out September on a high note, my lovelies, and remember winning is simply a matter of who's keeping score.

-J