Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

Tonight a drunk guy asked me where I work, and I told him I work out of my home. He then asked what I do, and when I told him, he went apeshit.

He gestured wildly, jumping into the air a little. “Oh my god, you're kidding!”

I was overwhelmed by his reaction. “Oh my god. I'm not kidding.” I replied as I rocked back on my heels.

“That is so cool!” A friend of his walked up, and he turned to him in a fit of enthusiasm, pointing to me and exclaiming, “Dude! She's a weapons developer!”

Why, oh why did I feel compelled to correct him?

I'll tell you a secret: I've woken up crying for the past three days. Woken up and just sobbed for 10 or 15 minutes.

This is strange behavior under any circumstances, but especially strange because today—the third day I've woken up wondering why I bother to ever get out of bed—is my birthday. I am 22 years old today. And I've been having one of the worst weeks I've had in awhile.

If it wasn't the crippling low, it was an equally crippling bout of anxiety that lasted for my entire workday on Wednesday—nearly 8 hours of tense muscles, rapid heartbeat and difficulty breathing—that only slightly let up after I got home and incoherently babbled to Abie about nothing that I can remember now. It's been not wanting to ever get out of bed, preferring to hide in the dark and not face the world.

Here's where I need to point out that trying to hide from the world and having a birthday at the same time are totally incompatible. Even though I didn't even think they knew about my birthday at the time, Crystal and Amanda showed up at my house on Saturday night (from out of state, no less) and forced me to go a show with them, even though I had no other goals for the night than to curl up into a ball on the couch and try to disappear.

I got out of my pajamas, took a shower, and put on a show of my own: the one where I am happy and normal and not incredibly depressed.

We went to Flicker. My roommates Emily and Melissa were already there. Michael Flynn played lots of mushy love songs. He's actually fantastic, but felt distracted and in a daze.

Between sets Abie showed up, and then Bill Carson played. He's equally fantastic, and writes really sexy music, and the whole time I was thinking about how I needed to get the hell outta there into the open air, away from the crowds. I did not want to be around people at that moment.

After the set I got up and dashed out, and Abie came and found me. I related to her nearly everything, how I felt like shit, smothered by my life, that things, at 22, where not going at all the way I wanted.

Saying it aloud did help, just a little.

Just after midnight we gathered roommates and house guests and all ten of us went to the Grill.

We were all being goofy, taking pictures of each other, generally making too much of a ruckus, when spontaneously all nine people seated with me sang me Happy Birthday. It was simultaneously special, embarrassing, and the exact opposite of imperative-be-ye-not-social.

I probably needed it.

I woke up late today. My Dad called me while I was still in bed, contemplating the work ahead of me, and invited me to Winder to have dinner. I told him I had too much studying to do. He said he would come to Athens and feed me on a study break.

I got in the shower, further putting off studying, and realized there was no way I was going to pass the test on Tuesday. I got out of the shower, got online, and dropped the class.

I called my Dad. “I don't have to study anymore. I dropped it.”

“You sound ten times better than you did when I talked to you before.”

My sister and I went to Winder to eat Zaxby's with Dad. Choices in Winder are slim, see. Being in Winder made me feel kind of relaxed for some reason. Sarah and Dad talked a lot about music theory. Dad made his usual quota of bad jokes, and Sarah talked about her recent admission to a fancy music school. It was good to not be talking about myself for awhile.

When I came home at least 3 roommates blocked me from the kitchen and told me I needed to get in my room. This is a customary Apartment 6 birthday greeting.

A few minutes later, they called me into the living room. You will never guess what my cake looked like. It was the Best Thing Ever.

After I blew out the candles Abie asked me to sit down.

“We have to tell you something about your present. We all went in on something for you but it's on backorder, so you'll have to wait.”

“You guys did that for me?”

It's really awesome to find out your roommates were planning something behind your back, as long as it's not your demise.

Allison: “If you want something to unwrap I can wrap something for you—like the Prince of Weasels.”

Catie: “The Prince of Weasels is not for giving away.”

Allison: “Oh.”

I love both my families. Not because they buy me things or make me iPod cakes or pick beautiful pink flowers out for me, but because I've got people pulling for me even when things seem dark and inescapable. They love me even if I am a grump for a whole week, and they think about me even when I'm not standing there in front of them. I've been up in my own head a lot lately and forgot that I'm in a lot of other people's heads too.

drunk IMs in the middle of the night, cape cods, dumb webcam stills, cute Grill waiters, totally being the girl who shows up at the Grill 2 times in less than 6 hours, calls from the Indian, seeing old friends, Sugarland, good company

Friday, my plan was to quietly eat my dinner, and wait around until someone else found me something to do. This is how I begin many Friday nights. Sooner than expected, the Indian rang up me up, inviting me to come hang with him at the rockstar's birthday, at an establishment offering two things: pizza, but more importantly, beer. Afterwards, I went home to change (or, as the Indian would put it, to “pimp out”), and on returning to what was left of the party, got roped into a scheme that involved sneaking alcohol into the dorms and making fun of 18 year olds for not being able to take shots. It reminded me of being 18, when the Indian and I were usually sneaking alcohol into the dorms and making fun of people for not being able to take shots. It was the same except I felt a lot older.

After the Indian spent some time recounting some stories of when I was less aware of my own tolerance (“So we're in Helen, and Jenna here proceeds to drink a whole huge bottle of—”) we headed back downtown, ending up at Half Moon Pub, practically underneathe my house. It was mostly uneventful, though tons of fun. We closed the place down, and headed out to the street. The Indian decided to do a good deed and escort one particularly drunk girl to her home and promised to be back at my place within the hour.

I headed upstairs, washed my face, took off my pimp clothes, and put on my pajamas. I conversed with my roommate Emily and her guests for a few minutes, and then sat down on the couch to watch a DVD while I waited for the Indian to turn back up. I had not been sitting on the couch for more than two minutes when my cell phone rang.

“Jenna, it's Gumby. We're in deep shit, we need your help.”

I won't go into the gory details, but Gumby needed me to take himself and M to the jail to bail out a friend. I called the Indian, told him I was going to have to leave him in town, because I had to go. “NO! Don't leave without me!” he commanded. “I'm running. I'll be right there.” He proceeded to run many, many blocks to get back to my apartment, and the four of us headed to my car and out to the jail. It was about 3:30 AM.

We won't talk about the passenger who almost got sick in my car, or how sloppy I looked having thrown on a wrinkled dress shirt over my pajamas, or the maneuver I pulled in the middle of Lexington Road to get us back to our turn. These are all things you will have to ask my passengers about.

I will say the Indian and I spent a better part of the next hour waiting in the parking lot while Gumby went and dealt with the justice system of ACC, coaxing our sickly drunk friend M into standing, walking around, and at one point we even convinced her to do jumping jacks. Jumping. Freaking. Jacks. Much later Gumby's father showed up, and Gumby dismissed us, asking us to take M home and thanking us for our help.

I nearly forgot the way to M's house (this was no so good, because she had completely passed out at that point) but relying on my gut, I got us there. When attempting to get her out of the car, she repeated told us to “fuck off” and that she “wasn't fucking moving”, but with much more pronounced sluriness. We spent a long time making her eat bread and drink water, and then got her into bed. It was just after 5:30 AM.

“Waffle House. We need some Waffle House.”

Starving and exhausted, the Indian and I gobble down way to much fat and salt at the Epps Bridge Road Waffle House, and I drive us home. Gumby calls to let us know that his friend is finally bailed out, and that he owes me 1 thousand, 1 million.

“Well, I'll keep that in mind, I'll hit you up.”

“Even if you need me to pose nude for a sketch, I would do that, just for you.”

“Um, thanks dude.”

I was supposed to go with my roommate Melissa the next day to a show in South Carolina, but before I finally went to sleep I totally wrote her a note punking out. After the night I had, I explained, I was totally not up to it. She was very understanding about the whole thing, but I feel terrible because I did something that is a huge sore spot with me (punking out at the last minute) to someone else.

I slept til 3:00 PM while the Indian watched almost every Disney movie we have in the house. Finally he forced me out of bed, and after running a few errands and sitting around the house awhile, we went to a movie—The Forgotten. I do not recommend it. Only the first half of it is any good, and once you see the end coming about halfway through, you spend a lot of time waiting for it to be over. It did have one small redeeming factor—the utter hotness of Dominic West as the rough but charming alcoholic.

Later, after dissecting the movie to bits, going home, eating some dinner, and dressing to the nines, the Indian and I joined Chris Brown, Neil, and their respective crües at All Good, and quickly moved to Copper Creek.

At Copper Creek we easily had one of the weirdest nights of drinking ever. I believe this was partially facilitated by the $1 shots being offered from midnight to 1 AM. It began simply enough, people at tables, socializing. I ran into Matty P, who has moved to Boone and was randomly in town visiting, in the same bar I was in. I kissed Chris Brown's girlfriend. Another woman tried to undress me. I got insanely jealous of a unnamed party, which got me down for awhile. An extended while. Then we all walked back to (Chris Brown's girlfriend) Lindsey's apartment.

The Indian, my official bodyguard, was taken in a bit by the wiles of one young woman, and that is basically how I came to be walking home by myself from Chris's girlfriend's house at 5:30 in the morning.

I'm not broken up about it. It's bound to happen every once in a while.

I'm climbing up the hill that is Lexington Road, sipping water, just a little drunk and heading to the Grill for some pre-bed breakfast. A random young man pulls into the drive ahead of me in a little red car, and actually attempts to speak to me.

“Hey girl, come'ere.”

As you can imagine, I was charmed.

“No!”

“Come'ere, just for a second.”

“No! Go home!”

Now, as we all know, I am prone to make light of even serious situations. While I was firing back with my pimptastic attitude, internally I could not make light of this. I didn't panic, but I could see that me on the street and this guy sitting 10 feet away in his car with not another soul in sight was not a definitely not a good thing. I started booking it into downtown proper, with him calling after me.

After I was well within sight (and earshot) of the city workers clearing sidewalks of evidence of post-game partying, I looked behind me. I wasn't being followed. I begin walking double time in the direction of the Grill, happy to avoid having been kidnapped, and there was the potential serial killer again, ahead sitting at the intersection next to Tastyworld, watching me. I walked past the headlights with my head held high, maintaining a holier-than-thou strut, which actually just came naturally in that situation. The bastard actually calls out to me again.

“Hey girl, come'ere.”

“No!”

“Just for a second, please?”

I don't even turn around as I declare over my shoulder, “You need to go home. It ain't happenin'.” I wave my hand dimissively and keep walking.

A little tip for any young men who may be wondering: cruising around for a date at 5:30 in the morning doesn't exactly exemplify outstanding character, so don't be offended when the ladies turn you down.

I made it to the Grill, unharmed and unafraid, ordered some food and chatted with Matt, who manages most of the night shifts. He looked tired, closing out the register for the shift, a long strip of register tape moving through his hand. They had obviously done a copious amount of business that night.

“Hey Matt, how're you?”

“I'm beat, how about yourself? Did you hafta work tonight?”

“Nope, I just got caught up in a lot of drama.”

“Oh man, that's the worst. Do I ever feel for you.”

Tonight was Jump at Georgia Theatre. I definitely had the best time ever, dancing and screaming and singing along. Completely revived my love for Jump. They played a lot of news songs and a lot of old-new songs and some Magazine and a little teeny bit of Vertigo (and even one off Early Years). I was quite satisfied with my Jump show experience.

After I galavanted with the hooligans, somehow it was decided that a caravan of people were going to come see my apartment, two blocks away. I was not involved in this decision but it made me very happy anyway, even though it was really not ready to receive guests, given the dust monsters forming in every corner.

We arrived and gave everyone a tour, and of course, since I am in rock star training and also the slut of the house, Alli insisted that I sing for the crowd of people sitting in our living room waiting to go to the Grill.

I attempted to entertain with (what else but) the song I call Christmas Blues, which was not written by me but by some old guy, and I'm also pretty sure I don't use the right name. Even though I could here my voice shaking a little at some parts everyone seemed to enjoy it.

We then made our way down to the Grill and had out milkshakes, pies, fries with feta, etc, and went our separate ways.

I arrived home at four o'fucking clock in the morning, with the street sweepers coming out and the whole scene around my block dying down. That's how you know you are hardcore.