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Still Doin Carbombs After All these Years

I drink too much. Often when I’ve drank too much the only person I want to talk to is one of two people: my ex, and the person in the room that I think is most likely to sleep with me. Yes, I’m that person. But chances are, you are too.

A couple Friday nights ago I got undress-in-the-kitchen drunk. It was a St. Patty’s party, and the Irish in me was ready to fight, fuck, and generally disrupt the peaceful week I was having. The Irish succeeded. I downed vodka, Jaeger, tequila, and moonshine in order to catch up with my already gone friends. By midnight my friends had already decided the party was a bust, and had went to one of their apartments to smoke and watch movies. I didn’t want to give up on the party just yet. So I continued to mingle and talk to the Elvis Costello doppelganger. His name was Matt. That’s all I know, because after a few minutes the sad wave of alcohol overtook, and I stumbled across the street to my empty apartment. I’m sure I sent several texts messages I should not have. And then I made a weird cheesy rice thing and watched South Park. Too many of my nights end this way.

Why even dress to impress anymore? I never meet anyone when I go out. How does one meet someone? People talk about meeting people at parties all the time, but I’ve never met anyone at a party and it go anywhere. Am I doomed to a life of loneliness? A life of getting dressed up and within a few hours I’m back to sitting on the couch in my underwear watching cartoons? Is this what it’s going to be for me?

There’s no way, right? I don’t even meet people in class, really. The one person that I met in class that actually led to anything was a HORRIBLE mistake. He’s gross and rude and obnoxious. I put myself out there, I started texting this one guy in my Public Speaking class. He’s funny and nice and seems cool enough to not be a complete turnip. However, I can tell, I can smell it in the air, he has no interest in me in the least. He replies to my texts only to be polite. It’s terrible. It’s embarrassing. I continue to text him though.

Maybe it’s a form of masochism. Maybe I enjoy feeling like shit. If I’m not feeling like shit I’m waiting in anticipation for the next moment that I will feel like shit. I have no optimism. I’ve never met someone at a party. Somehow I still assume I will, every time I leave the house. I go in with a blind hope. That’s not fair to 2 a.m. drunk Hailee. She’s the one who has to deal with the defeat. Hungover Hailee just drinks coffee, goes to work, and gets over it. Drunk Hailee will remember it the next time she comes home in the a.m. alone and with no numbers. My entire life is the chorus to Semisonic’s “Closing Time”.

But, hey, at least I still have South Park.

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