Nymphomania or Narcolepsy? 2.0

Lately, I have been giving a lot of thought to other things I would be willing to do that are not writing. After stumbling upon this article it has become clear to me that I too could be come a police sketch artist. Apparently, Baby Huey’s cousin “Pock Mark Face” has been making appearances in Oregon as a “rapist”. What I like most about this police sketch is the teeth. They look like set of corn teeth I would have drawn for some project in the 4th grade. I also appreciate the total lack of chin. It takes me back to my days in the ICU where I would stumble on people with worse physical conditions then my own broken neck. One I learned much about was the dreaded face melting into neck syndrome. Really, it’s just too bad the artist didn’t get a little creative and put bolts on the side of the assailants neck and I could have told them to find Herman Munster on 1313 Mockingbird Lane. That fucking rapist.

Drinking from four in the afternoon until two in the morning is a work day. That is ten hours. Catch that. T-E-N. That’s more work and effort than most people care to admit they put into their job or hobbies. Drinking for t-e-n hours is like drinking for t-e-n people. And things suddenly stop being fun and they get super fucking serious. And you stop being a total hit and the life of the party and you turn into a monster. And the people you think you’re hitting on–you’re eating them up with your non committal to life and your dedication to nothing but falling apart because you cannot stop drinking until the sun turns into milk and the first fifty times you tell them that it is fucking great, then they realize that is your best material but you don’t–so they desperately try to get away. This starts around hour f-i-v-e, but by then you’re so far gone that you’ve lost your ability to decipher people’s reactions. You find yourself becoming hyper-emotional over just about anything and doing things that most people consider stalking because the social filter that distinguishes between good, awesome & jailtime died way back at hour f-o-u-r. And as you become increasingly difficult to handle the people around you just about give up hope and are praying your body will collapse so, at the very least they can drag you to the car to pass out in. Because then, you will stop behaving like a primate and join the twenty-first century. Emotionally though, you can’t, but you find ways to take advantage of that twenty-first century technology, and you start doing it around hour t-w-o when you first start calling people and babbling about your failed relationships with them or ones they love. So by hour t-e-n you’re doing things like screaming wildly as you throw your body into the street and roll around like a dog. No one wants to give you a treat though. At hour t-e-n people leave you doing that and you find yourself waiting in your car to pass out or die and you also realize that you are spoiled and conceited because you’re throwing a fit because at hour s-i-x you it dawned on you that you sort of fucked yourself over with the guy you should be seeing but he doesn’t want to deal with your shit because he is literally more insane than you and he only drinks to even himself out. You drink to throw yourself out of wack to the max because then, at least, you feel mildly interesting. This is achieved with steady drinking way back at hour o-n-e, but you don’t want to admit it. So there you are waking up in the backseat of your car without your pants and you don’t even care to investigate why they’re gone because you’re only into the first minute of your hangover, which really means it could be hour o-n-e of drinking for the next day in a r-o-w.

This is my favorite part of the week. The part where I recap the things written in my magical notebook of fun. To begin, let’s take a moment and pay homage to my previous notebook. I lost it at somepoint last week when I was on my continuing two month binder. All of the magic of said notebook will be found by some lonesome soul and they will be freaked out forever. I am responsible for literal fucking awesomeness.

Here we go:

“I was a zombie or Frankenstine’s Bride. I was something that shouldn’t have been and I stuck out.”

“I like to get drunk and fall down–tumbling in slow motion like a penny rolling on its edge until it eventually plops–flat on its bottom.”

“After a couple of drinks I cannot distinguish the difference between diet soda and rootbeer.”

“I think the number one reason I’m not a heroin addict is because I don’t want a fucking creepy haircut.”

“I can’t stop having casual sex and I blame all men.”

“He looks like the kinda guy that could build a house with his hands or you know, kill a bear, or win real big in a bar fight. And that last one could come in fucking handy.”

“There is drunk Sabrina and then there’s Stromboli. And whiskey is the leading proponent of of Stromboli.”

A really important rule that I have learned to live by is to never inform anyone that I have sex with or maybe date about this wretched blog. It’s not that I am embaressed about it or that I have anything to hide, but let’s face it–I have stuff to hide. I want to be able to come here and write about whatever it is that I am into and about currently and not have to answer to anyone about why it may or may not hurt their feelings. My friends realize this. My family realizes this. Men never realize this.

I refuse to censor myself on this creepy blog. No matter what. So, let’s say this morning, a guy I’ve sorta been spending time with was driving with another friend and myself in the car and my friend says, “Oh man, that was great–you’re really gonna have to post that to your blog.”

Then she began to laugh. I almost vomited. He started to ask about my blog. For one moment I was gonna stab my friend, but then I had to go on the defense about my creepy blog saying, “It’s not a big deal,” and “No one really knows about it or reads it anyways.”

Because the last thing I need right now is someone going through years and years of psychotic ranting in order to see how incredibly mentally ill I am, or in the very least the fact that I am sorta a raging alcoholic, and any man that’s been spending time with me but hasn’t figured that out is a fucking retard. Also, I sorta have enough men to diversify my “portfolio”which is basically how I look at the fact that I have a few men. When it comes to dating I am fucking Merrill Lynch. I think having a diversified “portfoilio” of men is important. It gives you options and let’s you know what you’re capable of. Also, the fact that I am sorta on the hunt for one man inparticular, which is none of the guys that I have right now. And I want to write about that until the mental illness seaps from my fingers onto the keyboard and goes back to Madagascar where it belongs.

At some point my friends and I were listening to T-Rex and drinking. One of us made a comment about the fact that their music makes you want to party as hard as humanly possible. Everyone agreed with this statement. From it was born the T-Rex Party Stipulation. I implemendted this rule. Bascically, whenever we walk into a bar if we happen to hear any T-Rex songs play then we gotta get tanked beyond human possibility. Tuesday night, before the Vence Canal fiasco, I walked into a bar and said, “Let’s take it easy cause I got plastered last night.”

The second I said that T-Rex began to play. I looked at my friends and said, “Fuck, who’s got the first round of shots?” Before I came up with the T-Rex Party Stipulation I never heard T-Rex when I was out. Now I hear it at the very least twice a week. What the fuck is going on. I am pretty sure, at this point that the furies have it out for my liver.

Monday night: get drunk–go home with someone.
Tuesday night: get drunker–go home with someone else. This someone else. It turned out he couldn’t read and I got violently drunk and threw all of his patio furniture into the Venice Canal. Then I went out to my car and passed out. I threw most of his really cute martini glasses into the canal. And I threw a birdhouse or something. I don’t really know why I am admitting any of this other than the fact that it made my friends piss on themselves they laughed so hard. He is really handsome. I’ll admit that, but once he opened his mouth I wanted him to die.

On a more important note–I changed my AIM screenname to = Cognawesome so if you want to talk to, or bother me anymore, I recommend doing it that way. Or you could go the route of google talk, sabbyc@gmail dot com

I am the most awesome person you have ever known or not known.

A Place For Awesome

if you know me, you may or may not have heard from me last night–in the case that you did. I was so drunk I am not capable of remembering anything that I told you. It would be fucking swell if you could memo me on it because so far I realize that I have:

a.) lost my house keys.
b.) lost a pair of glasses
c.) lost one pair of dignity
d.) lost my date. i will be honest aboout this and tell you that I wasn’t so into him and i basically left him to die at the bar while I walked away and went to an entirely different bar with some other dude because i am a trainwreck and a whore.
e.) lost my phone, to find my phone to have one of my bestfriends call me and tell me he broke up with his girlfriend, which got me to using my phone which means i started calling people. i realize that i started calling people and got confused calling my ex and called someone else and left an insane message. if you are this person, you know, deal with it.
f.) i am a trainwreck.
g.) I went to the bathroom at somepoint before I ditched my date and before I went nuts–and i kicked open the door with the might of zeus thereby knocking over a table in the bathroom and consequently knocking over the vase on that table and breaking it into a million little pieces. then i proceeded to fall on the glass and water and when some bitch snickered at me i told her very insanely that i would fight her like i was a fucking gorilla of jesus and smash her face into the fucking mirror.
h.) i woke up in someone’s bed without my pants. i realize that this is not a monumental even as I am known to de-pants myself when i get drunk enough, but it also clearly shows that i am taking a page out of the brian brennen school of drinking.
i.) i told a stranger they had an “aids face”
j.) i woke up my sister’s boyfriend at 330am and told him i wanted to keep drinking.
k.) while on the phone, at some point, i put it on speaker while talking and proceeded to puke into the street and continue my conversation–when the person i was talking to said, “what the fuck was that?” i responded, “some puke–a lot of rum and vodka and a cookie i didnt want to fucking eat.”
l.) i don’t care if anyone talks to me ever again because i had the best time i could by making an ass out of myself. my legs are all bruised up. and i may have destroyed the harem of men i was building, but sometimes the pursuit of awesome is more than i can handle. also, i think i am a full fledged drunk and i don’t get hangovers anymore. if you want to be my best friend, or go drinking with me, please memo me as things are getting incredibly out of control and you all should be apart of it.
m.) i am about to get ready to start drinking again. i am on my way to my friend’s party and i plan to kill myself in the very least.

the end.

I am oftentimes the subject of controversy and rumors. Most of the time I am not bothered by them and I know better than to entertain the thought of them as they might be true and I may have been so drunk that I have little to no memory of the situation. In this way, I was confronted earlier with a rumor that has been going around the little corner bar I frequent in Hollywood.

Wednesday night, I was there, and ran into some guys that swear I have gone out with them before. I swear that I don’t know who they are, but they always get up and hug me like we did an 8 ball of blow off the ass of a stripper once. While I was trying to tell them I had no idea who they were, one of their friends tells me, “Brad loves you!” He screams it in a wild slur. So I ask him who Brad is and he waves his finger in my face and says, “Oh, you know!”

Then I walked away and spent the rest of the night talking to this band of guys with thick accents and a penchant for trouble. Apparently, after I left a friend of mine hooked up with one of the guys. At some point he asks her, “Hey, your friend with the big tits–what’s her name?” And she tells him, “Oh, Sabrina?” And he says, “Yes, Sabrina. Brian told me she’s fucking Brad Pitt.” So my friend calls me and says, “Sabrina, there is a rumor going around that you’re fucking Brad Pitt.” And I tell her GOOD. The more people that think I am fucking Brad Pitt the better. That is like fucking a physical demi-god. If any of you want to know if I am actually fucking Brad Pitt. I am. Also, I am in Africa right now playing mid-wife to Angelina Jolie and her unborn baby. Also, I have the gift of flight.

I love rumors.

People keep e-mailing me asking me if I am alright. I am fine. My world is not falling apart. I was just having a mentally ill moment because–like, you know, I can. It’s Friday. It’s raining. I have plans later so I need to actually make the most of the time I have today. If you are thinking to yourself Sabrina, don’t you always have plans? Then you wouldn’t be far off, but you know even party central Sabrina has to re-group before she ventures back out into bosom of the Pacific to meet and greet with everyone she has ever met and some she hasn’t.

In a little bit, I am going to make a pitcher of mojitos and pretend that it is not raining. It isn’t that I hate the rain. It’s that I hate the fucking wet and mud. I only hate the rain when I am stuck in it and currently I am in my house so everything is right with the world. I’ve been reading a lot these past couple of days and as often as I am not impressed with what is out there–I found myself incredibly excited to finish T.C. Boyle’s The Human Fly and Other Stories. It’s always nice to stumble upon a piece like that because I am tired of reading so much shit. On that note, I am going to read some more shit and then write some of my own.

True to everything that I stand for, and some things that I don’t I zapped my off days by going to a psychic. Some people think this course of action is more insane than actually admitting that I am going bonkers inside of my own head, but I disagree. I don’t really give a shit if anything that was told to me comes true. If anything it just gives me some new insight about my life. It’s almost like another author’s perspective. It might not be agreed with, but it is, at the very least, respected for it’s “artistic merit”. I can’t explain why I feel so much better, but I do.

From now on, whenever I am complaining about, you know, men, drinking, writing–my life, please direct me to re-read this quote by the creepiest Scientologist, Tom Cruise:

Sex is about the connection. Great sex is a by-product, for me, of a great relationship, where you have communication and it’s an extension of that. Where it’s just free. And that’s how it should be. It’s spectacular. If you’re not in good communication with your partner, it sucks. (Meaningless sex outside of a relationship) is really horrible and pathetic and lonely.

First of all, what connection? The connection of your penis to the non-existant woman’s vagina because who are we kidding? Tom Cruise does not know what to do with a vagina. If he were the keymaster, then some other dude would have to be the gatekeeper because dick and anus is the actual connection he is after. Also, all this “communication” talk is killing me. He can probably talk forever and ever because he is like a goddamn girl and sometimes I just want to drown people like that. Drown them in a sack like an unwanted litter of kittens. Seriously though, that entire rant sounds like something someone comes up with after they’ve had a round of tag team enemas. I mean, maybe not, but that is what I’m seeing.

I have to hurry up and get dressed and take my sister to her car. The funny thing is–I maybe sort of implied to someone that I would go out with them tonight, but I am not all that sure I want to. I kinda wanted to lie in bed and write most of the day and then bake sweet bread for Easter because it’s the thing to do, man. But now that I have to get up and see civilization I might just suck it up and go to Chinasville and hangout and get drunk or whatever.

I was suppose to be at work today, but I didn’t feel the urge. I didn’t call in. I don’t really care. I hate to admit it, but I might be hitting an emotional lull. I hate to stop drinking when I have been on such a spectacular stretch like I currently am, but I think I am killing myself.

Last night I drove to the beach and watched the sunrise. Some guy I know kept texting me to come over but I texted back, “I am at the beach.” And he texted, “What for?” And I told him that I had to sail away to my home country and this was my Bon Voyage party. We only text because his Irish accent is so thick and my speedy rhetoric basically make us incapable of understanding one another over the phone. Also, he is perplexed by my non-sensical riddles and I am probably better off speaking to him like he is a tiny dog.

I think that people are incapable of satisfying me. I like to think I can somehow, psychically explain to people–men–what I want without ever saying a goddamn word. I hate this. I wish I could stop and that I could write out endless pages of exactly how I feel and what I want, but I can’t. Being a woman is so fucking lame. I always empathize with guys when they are going nuts over some lame bitch because I have been–will be that bitch. I hate women. I hate games. I hate toys. I hate. I hate. I hate.

Last night, I stole a giant serving spoon from the restaurant I ate at. I placed it neatly in my purse and would take it out periodically while at bars and poke men in the ass with it. I was sober the entire time. I really enjoyed doing this. Later on, after we left the after hours place and politely declined the invitation to go to the Beachwood house and do copious amounts of coke and crystal meth–I went to my friend’s house and put the serving spoon I had used all night long to poke in men’s asses in some fruit salad sitting in her fridge.

I hate her too.

I talked a lot about blogging this weekend. About blogging and tragedy, which are not the same thing, but they can be. A blog done wrong is tragic just like those people with little to say and a completely uncreative way to say it.

I freak out and over-obsess all the time and people know this about me and have started to pay little attention to my sort of freak out sessions. It’s almost as if, in my head, as long as I am in charge of everything going on I am totally cool. When I feel like I am pulling the strings nothing can bother me I am a pseudo-god. I am the deity of my own life. When things are moving along like my red hot candy finger nails against the keyboard–I am completely as ease with my life. But then I have to go and introduce new people and new jobs and new situations into my life because I am getting bored being in charge all the goddamn time. Besides, I am never really in charge.

I was talking with a friend of mine and we were talking about how fucking drunk I get. She told me that she’s seen me drunker than she’s seen most people get–and I told her that maybe she doesn’t know too many super awesome people. And she said, “Can you guess the time you were the drunkest I’ve ever seen you?” And I said of course I could because it was when we were in Manhattan. And she says Manhattan doesn’t count because I never sobered up the entire time because I was on “holiday” and anything goes. So she tells me it was this time in February where I went to a psychic and the psychic totally ninjad my life by telling me some dude that I was into was like my “soul-mate” but it could never work–which is something I already knew, but hadn’t actualized. So I went to my favorite bar and told Bob, the bartender, you have to get me totally slaughtered tonight. I want to remember none of this. I remember none of it. Apparently, I started freaking out and threw my body into the streets and said that I wanted to die because I was a worthless liar, a madeup fabrication of myself. I was on the curb lying in the gutter mumbling insanity and then my friend took me home and washed my feet. Later on she asked me why I went to the psychic. I told her it’s cheaper than therapy and twice as quick.

I was lying in bed thinking about that as people conducted durability testing on the house I was in and I wondered if maybe I am just so goddamn diluted that these worthless thoughts I have all the time zipping in and out of my head–were really just random erroneous pieces of crap that flip in and out of my skull like the flashing light on the telephone that screams to me that I have a voicemail. So many blogs are so fucking stupid and I’m apart of this insanely boring microcosm of nothingness.

My neck hurts and I am in a bad mood. I still haven’t done my taxes. I am irresponsible. I am falling apart. I am drinking too much again–which probably doesn’t seem like an again to you since all I ever do is whine about writing and drinking. I am going home and hiding in bed for a month.

I miss you.

“I’ve been cheating on her,” he says slowly while looking down into the bottomless well of his cup. “Did you know that?” Under the table his legs is rubbing gently against mine. Two sticks starting a fire. I look him right in the face, folding my arms across one another and pause dramatically.

“I had no idea.” I tell him, rubbing my leg against his, applying more pressure and keeping my face expressionless. “I mean, things seemed alright with you and Carol.” According to Carol thing are alright, they were more than alright. Every time I speak to her I have to hear about their perfect life—Carol and Jake—a match made in heaven, while the rest of our group of friends dated around unsuccessfully.

“It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. I mean,” he pauses. “I mean,” he stumbles over his own words. I unfold my hands and place one on his leg.

“It’s ok. I understand.” I tell him. Jakes places his hand on mine. “I’m flirting with you. You know that? I don’t care about Carol or any of it. I’ve always liked…” Before I could finish the speech I’d been working on for years Jake leaned in and kissed me. My body concaving and falling into itself. I know the trouble I’m getting into—even before Jake takes his free hand and places it up my leg and under my skirt.