I've been trying for weeks whether or not to tell you fine folks what's up with me. I've gone back and forth, consulting the inner circle and writing and re-writing some brilliant way of explaining my regrettable lapse in blogging. The opinions of said inner circle are mixed, but after a long talk with my brother this afternoon, I'm spilling the beans. And I'm doing it on my personal blog because you bitches are far more loyal readers than I'd ever deserve, so you get the moderately interesting scoop first. Plus, I'd rather you hear it from me than from, say, some shithead commenter. Needless to say, I'm saving the good shit for a book.
Fuck it. Here goes:
It ain't no picnic, I assure you, but after seven days, I feel pretty goddamn amazing. Turns out, 648 Gibsons a night can make one feel like shit. So I'm nipping my little habit you've read so much about in the bud and, as my dear Andy put it, drying out in the 28 day spin cycle. I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away. I mean, I tell you folks when someone gets my order wrong at Peets. I assure you, I've got a lot of drunken versions of this post. But being below the legal limit's got me all honest and shit. So if we could spare me the crap in the comments, at least for now, I'd be forever grateful. Or I'll just rip on you in group.
Today was the first day I could have visitors, at least since my folks dropped me off a week ago, my arms folded across my chest and mascara running down my face as I clutched my pillow and suffered through my last hangover. I feel like a totally different person, and yes, I realize that this is my karma for calling him Mayor McRehab.
Again, the good, dicey, hilarious, totally-worth-the-wait tales are on their way someday. But for now, I really, really miss you...