Red Wine Stain

It's 1:25 in the morning, and I really want some Taco Bell.

I'm an obsessive-compulsive, type-A control freak with ADD, so I'll make a mental list of reasons why I should/shouldn't go to Taco Bell at 1:25 AM on a school night. (Even though I'm in college, my school-teacher mother's vocabulary has rubbed off on me, thus, Sundays will forever be known as "school nights") Even if I have 20,000 more reasons NOT to go to Taco Bell, my inner fat girl will win, as it always does. As soon as I get to the car, I'll instantly be regretting my decision. I'll regret it even more the second the first taco supreme hits my lips. I'm such a weirdo, I know.

I'm anxious, hyper. I've spent half the night pacing around my living room like a caged ferret. I'm drinking Kool-Aid and eating pretzels dipped in cream cheese, the official snack of sorority girls. I need to get up, get out, do something. Be in control of something. I haven't driven my car in almost a week, and I'm getting itchy and antsy.


One of my best friend blew the only guy I've ever loved. I'm not as mad about it as I should be, and that scares me more than anything that happened involving his dick and her mouth.

I've run out of Kool-Aid, but I'm still eating my pretzels. I'm too lazy to get up and get more, which pretty much sums up my entire existence.

I've been let down so often, hurt so many times in so many ways that I think I'm numb to it all. My entire life has a giant callous on it. I can't feel anything anymore, because I've been roughed around the edges so much. Maybe I'm whining. Maybe it's all, "life's tough, get a helmet". I think about the people of Japan, how the nuclear workers know they're going to die soon from being exposed to so much radiation. I think about the people of New Orleans. I think about the little girl who got shot in the Arizona shootings, and suddenly I feel like a horrible human being. Like a selfish, inconsiderate worm. Putting your sufferings in perspective is really a great way to make you simultaneously feel a little bit better and a little bit like a jerk.

I feel like a slightly deflated football. Still fun to play with and be around, but doesn't quite have the old magic it used to. Something is missing. Alright, moving on. I sound like a bad depression medication commercial. But damnit, that depressed little blob is just so cute. I'll invest in psychopharmacology if that blob is happy again.


Something needs to change. I need to get better. I don't even know where to start. I can't remember where it started, and I can't fathom an end. I can't keep pushing it down, and ignoring it and pretending like it doesn't hurt or doesn't exist.

I'm watching American Idol (on DVR of course) and it's Casey Abram's turn. "You know what was wrong with that performance??" Jimmy Iovine shouts. "EVERYTHING!!!" Jimmy Iovine is like one of those sadistic high school football coaches who makes their players run until they vomit and pass out from heat stroke while he laughs and polishes his sectional championship trophies in his office. I look up to see his "transformation". He went from looking like the ginger love child of Seth Rogen and Zack Galifinakis to the ginger love child of Seth Rogen and Zach Galifinakis with a trimmed beard and haircut. It's a start. But the point is, Jimmy is right. What's wrong with me? EVERYTHING. This is a sickness, an illness that is invading and creeping into every aspect of my life. It's like spilling red wine on a white tablecloth. You could spill seven drops and the stain would still be massive as fuck. You look at it and wonder how in the fucking hell that the stain got that big. That's how I fell about my life. Sometimes I look at my mess of problems and wonder how the hell it got this out of control and how they somehow crept into every aspect of absolutely everything.


It's now 2:33 AM. Maybe I'll just get McDonald's.