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

Each year, we at the house take an intimate look at the last 12 months, in a frighteningly frank way. This is to keep things honest, despite anything else that may have been written. This year it seems more important that ever, because we haven't been checking in as much.

As always, if you think you may be offended by cursing, graphic sexuality, talk about death, destructive relationships, or substance abuse, among other topics, turn away now. Have some kittens.

In addition, if you feel that such talk might ruin your holiday, save the read until after the new year.

And now, on with the show. Read More »

We do this every year. Frank, R-rated discussion of friends, drinking, sex, music, money, illness, politics, and many other subjects follow. If you are a sensitive, delicate flower, I suggest you go elsewhere. Particularly if you are over 50 (if you baby boomers proceed anyway, I'll bear no responsibility for possible heart attacks). Read More »

I had a chance to finally open up on Saturday. I cried. In fact, I sobbed uncontrollably. But before I could feel any kind of catharsis, I pulled myself back together. I have this intense desire to not burden anyone, so when I am in fact falling off the edge, it feels like no one sees it.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm sitting alone in the dark, crying.”

“Really? Why?”

“I hate my life and I wish I was dead.”

Things aren't like they used to be. My short year where I had a nice, middle-class living feels like a previous life. In that life when I was upset I would go out and get drunk, or buy myself some shiny thing, or treat myself to a dinner out. I know now that those were not much more than quick fixes, but now I can't even utilize a quick fix. Now I know that one night can't fix me. I feel totally damaged and worthless all of the time. It takes every ounce of everything I've got to get myself out of bed. And lately, sometimes even that simple act — the act of pulling myself upright and out of bed — is impossible. There are days when it hasn't happened. The strange thing about being self employed is you can give yourself the day off because you are feeling blue, but you can only do that for so long. I am broke, with overdue projects and no concrete prospects and this feeling of hopelessness permeating everything. I really don't want to go on.

But of course I will, because I don't have the balls to do anything drastic, positive or negative. I always worry about the things I might miss if I make any big decisions. It's why I don't lose the weight I want to lose, it's why I don't tell certain people just how I feel about them, it's why I don't leave Athens, it's why I don't move back in with my parents no matter how much money I'd save, it's why I haven't offed myself even though I've had the desire off and on consistently for the last ten years or so.

Even though I often feel like I don't have any deep relationships, I'd still miss these people. I'd miss the conversations, the dancing, the hugging, the getting high together, the getting drunk together, the high fives, watching people play pool, my nicknames, being loud, being quiet, watching movies, exchanging mixtapes, telling stories, and most of all, laughing.

These are the things that keep me going, when I think I've got nothing to live for.

I had a blast at The Company's Xmas party. I took the Indian as my date, and at 6:00 pm we got on the bus that would take most of the Athens attendees to the party in Gwinnett. The thing that is both cool and dangerous about taking a bus to this party is the drinking begins the moment you get on the bus. So, my estimate was totally off. Drinks included:

• Something Neil handed to me on the ride down, ordering me to “Drink this!” Even though it was pretty weak the Indian determined for me that it contained bourbon.
• three vodkas on the rocks from the bar at the party (where I had this classic exchange with the bartender):
  

  “Vodka on ice, please.”
  (Incredulous.) “Vodka on ice?”
  “Yessir.”
  (Smiling.) “I like it when people say that.”

• Something an unnamed manager came up and offered. Possibly gin with sprite.
• All of what was in my flask. (5-6 oz. vodka)
• About half of the whiskey in Neil's flask.
• and several hits off of Neil's bottle of Gentleman Jack.

An aside: while making this list, I have determined I owe Neil a bottle of something in the near future.

The party had a casino theme, and while I didn't gamble, I did stand at the end of the craps table for a little while, cheering and blowing on dice. I felt like an archetypal Vegas blonde and I loved it. I stayed off the dance floor but shook my hips to the music anyway. CB and I rapped along to Missy Elliot while Neil gave us his best faux look of stern dissapproval in our musical tastes. I didn't express it but I couldn't get over how hot everyone looked. We clean up very nicely, part timers especially.

Silliness abounded, which as it turns out, was only a precursor to the drunken melodrama that followed on the ride home. Read More »

me: “But me and [him] is never going to happen. He's just not into me. I'm this great friend to him. I'm another guy, basically.”

her: “You never know.”

me: “I wish [he] was into me, because I think we are perfect for each other. We have the same interests and the same sense of humor... you know he's always telling me stuff that he says he doesn't tell anybody, because I'll ‘get it’... guys don't rest on their laurels the way girls do. If a guy wants you, he will let you know.”

her: “I could really see you guys together.”

me: “Well, there is no chance.”

her: “What you need to do is just get him drunk, lay it out for him and... let things flow.”

me: “I just wish he would've stuck his tongue down my throat already if he likes me so damn much, as you say.
      “But, honestly, I don't think it's a possibility.”

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.”

Went to Tastyworld on Friday with the Ab and Richard and saw my good friends in the Outfit, who pretty much always rock my ass off.

Saturday went over to Maggs' house for a par-tay. Maggie and Leigh are very gracious hostesses and I had a fabulous time, although I think I've given up Southern Comfort for good. It's just far too sweet. Also, it conjures up bad memories for my stomach.

Came home Sunday morning, took a shower, and made myself a sizable breakfast. Sat down in front of the tv and ate, then I rested my poor head which was unhappy about having slept on the floor of Maggie's house, and accidentally fell asleep. For six hours. What are you gonna do, really?

Got up, made dinner, then brownies, then hung out with my peeps, drank a beer and went to bed. Couldn't really sleep so I was mostly there symbolically so that was something.

Next thing I know, Maggie's calling me because it's time to go shopping, and off to the mall we went, where thanks to some lucrative coupons I got $200 worth of clothes for $100. And an awesome purse. And some pimp-tastic sunglasses with pink rhinestones on them.

Abie-inspired “pimpin' ain't easy” series

Time with Maggs + Pink sunglasses = a fabulous way to start your week.

This past weekend Will and Sam came to see me at my home in Athens and also to transfer me back to Winder. I was a lovely afternoon including Starbucks, people suspended in the air, Audioslave, and a trip to Barnes & Noble, where I bought, among other things, the Playboy Bartender's Guide, which curiously does not contain the recipe for a Sex on the Beach but does have one for Sex in the Desert. Somehow that seems rauchier.

A short trip in Will's ghetto-fabulous car put us at the Winder Sonic, where it promptly and quite suddenly died.

Just running along and then — nothing.

Will called up his "deddy" who arrived in no time flat and diagnosed the problem as the alternator. I have no idea what this means, but he and Will decided this after much standing in front of the open hood, frowning and nodding, so that's got to be significant somehow.

Will and his father switched cars, and we followed the ghetto fabulous car in the truck to the dealership where they left it for the weekend. Then we drove "deddy" home; on the way there Will and his father seemed like the older and younger version of one person having a conversation with himself.

On Sunday Maggie and I went to see Damien Rice at the Cotton Club and holy freaking hell! It was one of the best shows I have ever seen. I also have developed major Volcano-envy because he brought a girl from the audience up to sing the female part of "Volcano" with him. I was soooo jealous.

And also very happy for her.

After that this week has been a blur of stress, lack of sleep, art, mind crunching, and trying to stay confident in my abilities. Because I am a genius. Or something like that.

8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind