The Daily Durvy

So I have just schlepped to Alex’s place for the millionth time this week. It’s not that I mind per se. I love spending time with him, and I love seeing him, even if it is only for a few hours before we fall asleep watching a movie. But sometimes I feel like seeing him goes beyond creature comfort. It borders on addiction and obsession.

As creepy as that sounds, I don’t mean that it is necessarily bad, just compulsive. Take tonight, for instance. I worked, then came home, vegged out in front of Psych with a beer and my gimpy roommate.

(PS- TBRE fell down the stairs and is now on crutches. So we couldn’t go to the bars.)

I originally asked Alex to come over and join us, but he was set on cleaning his room tonight. Which is far too responsible for my blood, so I was set on a quiet evening alone with a book and possibly more soft core porn.

But then, something came over me. It’s not loneliness, it’s not the inability to spend a night alone, it’s… Alex. I missed him. After a whopping 7 hours apart I just wanted to see him, and fall asleep next to him, and… be horribly mushy and responsible. So I drove over to his place at 11:40 at night to watch him clean his room. And as he’s going through his stuff, it is so obvious that two people live in this room. I have enough clothing here to clothe a small country and enough jewelry here to kill someone. (If I were, to say, ball it all up and throw it at a person’s head.)

Next year, he’s going to be living in an apartment even further away and I don’t know how much more of this I can take. We spend every night together, yet continue to pay two rents, clean two apartments, and pretend to carry on separate lives.

It’s driving me fucking nuts.

We plan to move into together after I graduate next year. The idea is wholly enticing and terrifying as shit. I love Alex with all of my being and cannot wait for us to irritate each other and make fart jokes for the rest of out lives. But at the same time, I feel as though I will never really strike it out on my own, earn my own money, my own apartment, my own bling. I feel like never living alone is like never developing an identity.

But who am I kidding? Even if I did move out on my own, I’d still be at Alex’s apartment every night, making space for myself in his space, and giving him all the space that I have to share. And I will share it all because that’s what mushy and responsible slightly batshit crazy people do.

I had a very graphic sex dream involving Ziva from NCIS last night.

All Alex had to say was “Describe it. Slowly.”

Last Thursday, my roommate TBRE and I threw a joint 21st birthday party. My birthday was back in December and hers was earlier this month. It started something like this:

Honestly, I do not remember much after that picture was taken. Somebody had the brilliant idea to mark the number of shots I took on the back of my wrist, and I brilliantly took 11 shots. If this were 2 years ago, those same 11 shots would be a pleasant drunk in which I danced on a table and probably made out with someone horribly embarrassing in a dark corner of a shady room. Because that’s how I rolled.

However, this time 11 shots was a tad, wee bit overwhelming. And by wee bit overwhelming I mean I woke up naked from the waist up with no comforter, sheets, feather bed, or pillows. I know, I know, I know what you’re thinking. Class-ay. Class up the ass. Classy, not trashy.

The next morning, Emily, who was sleeping on my couch, told me what happened the night before. Long story short, I projectile vomited all over my bed at, wait for it… 11:30pm. Ohhhh baby. I am a party animal.

To have to be filled in on, you know, my life, is not only embarrassing but irresponsible.

Not to mention I must have been oh so sexy at my own party.

Not.

So as Alex likes to now tease me about, I have very potent puke. I soaked my comforter. Thankfully, Emily and a few other friends who are not easily frightened managed to pull all of my bedding off and put in the laundry closet for me. Which I really appreciate, but I don’t think TBRE did. Her room is right next to that closet and I’m pretty sure her room smelled like puke for the next 48 hours.

On Sunday, when I was finally not hungover anymore, I looked at the damage done. I washed the sheets and duvet cover, and the feather bed was fine, but the comforter was… not. Absolute carnage, in the most disgusting way possible.

I called the dry cleaners to get a quote. A very nice woman on the phone politely said, “Your left arm and first born child” and then I cried.

I decided that I didn’t like the comforter enough to give up my children, so I went to walmart.com. And cried again.

As horrible as Walmart is, capitalism, yaddayaddayadda, I found a brand new comforter for $35. I drove over to the store with Alex this afternoon to pick it up, and made sure that it was fluffy and soft and wonderful. And for $35 it totally was.

And it’s $35 I spent on a very disgusting life lesson: 11 is not my limit.

Let’s all say it again, 11 is not my limit.

On the one hand, I try so hard to be funny, but on the other hand I am so young that I am filing my taxes for the first time ever. Experience is funny and all I have under my belt is 2 and a half years of drinking to excess under the age of 21. Most of it is embarrassing, and almost none of it is funny. Except this picture of me and my ex-boyfriend:

Now that is fucking hilarious.

So the only reason I’m filing my taxes at all is because I have been bombarded with ads about the free federal return I can file in 5 seconds on the Internet. I am taking the quarter off of school to work on being undepressed, and I got so bored that I actually went to the site to check it out. The Prozac is working, people.

My first thought was of apprehension; am I really supposed to supply my social security number on a website? Granted, the site is obviously secure; some pasty guy with a pocket protector and no girlfriend wrote some brillant bit of software to prevent Ocean’s 11-style hacker from seeing my information. But I watch too much TV.

(Meanwhile, the actual programmer who created Turbo Tax’s security system is some tan, beautiful woman with a house in the Hamptons and 3 kids. She’s thinking ‘way to perpeuate the stereotype, asswipe. Now I’m the one hacking you…’)

I pretty sure I was suppose to file my taxes last year; I did work. I worked a lot, actually. I worked as a secretary for some huge company that treated me like shit. My story is like every other person out there working to be underpaid or at least under appreciated. And then I didn’t file taxes.

Ever since I started thinking about taxes, I have an irrational, uncontrollable fear that I’m going to be audited and sent to IRS jail, which is, coincidentally, real jail. Because I didn’t do my taxes last year. The whole $2000 I made.

In any event, I didn’t file my taxes and I didn’t write on my blog for weeks. And all of my really good stories involve me drinking and watching soft-core porn on HBO.

No one’s perfect.