Happy Gay Marriage Day, Ludge.

I miss you more than ever.

Yes, I’m fucking mad that I can’t bring a date to your wedding and yes, I’m fucking mad that you STILL haven’t given me my damn dress. Way to make me feel alone and fat in under 20 minutes.

I’m spending at least a grand on your wedding. I should be “allowed” to bring someone to amuse me even if we’re not “seriously dating” or engaged.

Not a massive ship-in-the-bottle project

I have a lot of titles: Esquire, daughter, dry martini drinker, friend.

Today I finally accepted and entirely new one: Daughter of an Alcoholic. After denying it for a long, long time, I couldn’t keep ignoring all of the empty bottles hidden around the house. And sweet Jesus, there are a lot of bottles. For the past six months, I kept wishing that I was exaggerating the problem….that my mother couldn’t remember anything because she’s stressed at work, or she falls asleep in the middle of a Saturday afternoon because a cool breeze is blowing and it’s glorious to be that lazy or that the hidden bottles were merely the first part in a massive ship-in-a-bottle project.

But no, she’s an alcoholic. And at this very moment I completely hate her for it.

I hate finding an al-anon meeting near my house. I hate figuring out the difference between a “closed” and an “open” al-anon meeting. I hate being the one to tell my father about the bottles. I hate that he doesn’t know what to do. I hate that he expects me to take the lead. I hate that I totally need a counselor of my own. I hate that I don’t have the insurance for it. I hate that she’s drinking super-cheap liquor. I hate that this means I’ll never have a glass of wine in my house again. I hate that I poured a bottle of my own scotch down the drain. I’m furious that it didn’t make me feel better.

But the gun isn’t loaded

Dude, my last post was so premature.

He’s still checking my damn blog.

I had a bunch of bitter posts planned for today, but then I went and got all emotional on my other blog and now all of the bitterness has been sucked from me.  And I’m bitter about that.  So there.

Left My Heart in SanGaySisco

Oh, and SanGayA? Fuck you and you upside down penis.

Thank you for allowing me the privilege of talking to you for HOURS ON END as you drove across the country to your new “job.” I really didn’t have anything else to do. Bar classes? Eh, whatever. They didn’t mean a thing.

And, thank you for never calling me again, even when Penny died. All that bullshit about you being the Anti-Ludge was just that…bullshit. You are just as sad and cold hearted. I would have cheated on you too, if only to give myself the chance to feel my body next to someone with a beating heart.

And, most of all, thank you for the email about the girls you’re both fucking. They will leave you, like I did. If they don’t leave you, they are more emotionally bereft than you are. Congratulations.

Also…the underside of the penis is more sensitive than the top. The surgeons must have reattached yours incorrectly. I wonder if it’s too late to send them an Edible Arrangement.

Dude, if you’re bitching about how sick the pre-natal vitamins make you feel, you ARE NOT ready for pregnancy.

Guess What?

Your photography? Sucks. You don’t know how to process photos and you ruin perfectly good pictures.

You’re getting paid for this: READ A FUCKING PHOTOGRAPHY BOOK FOR GOD’S SAKE!