Sunday, June 04, 2006


I am really fucking happy. Most people who read blogs typically enjoy taking an emotional dip into someone else's stress or misery. That's completely understandable. I don't know anyone who would rightfully admit that he'd like to hear someone tell him, "I am SO HAPPY!" on a daily basis. But right now? I am. And I'm not always happy. I had approximately 1.5 years of blogging misery, cynicism, depression, and anger after my dad died. I complain about missing Awesome all the time. I always tell you how stressed I am. But today? This week? These past two weeks? Really. Fucking. Happy. So, since I'm not always a jovial little munchkin, I am not going to be self-deprecating in the least, and revel in my currently explosive joy. If you do not wish to read pure Happy Happy Joy Joy, and instead desire only misery, please click elsewhere. (Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be back to my cynical self soon.)

This said, though, I am so sick of using my brain. So I've resigned from doing so for a little while. Well, at least at the rate I usually use my brain - I still have quite a bit of work to do. See, on Tuesday afternoon, I submitted to my thesis advisors my dissertation (which is, at present, approximately 600 pages of meticulously researched, composed and edited prose and theoretical density), along with my whopping 20-page bibliography, and the massive list of my upcoming publications, past/present/future academic conference activity, among all the extra scholarly things I've obsessively been doing. Once I clicked the Send button and the hefty email finally squeezed its way through virtual reality, I sat there staring at my laptop screen, blank-faced and confused about the rest of my life in its entirety. So I'm tired of my brain. All I want to do now is have sex, eat, and drink - anything that is excessive to my body but does not require thought.

And because of this, I told Awesome that I will be returning to him as a fat drunken whore. His response was so genuinely sweet. He told me, " You've always been a drunken whore." So, it was sweet in the fact that he did not call me fat, only an alcoholic slut. See? Sweet. Of course, he then followed up with, "Please only concentrate on the drunken part instead of the whore part."

To further explain my happy-go-lucky-ness, my past four days in Manchester was just fanfuckingtastic. I forgot how friendly Mancurians are, especially compared to Londoners. Wednesday afternoon when I was waiting for my friends to get off work, I went to a pub that had wireless internet access. When I couldn't properly configure my laptop, I asked the barman for help and nine (9) strangers ran over to help me. Thinking back now, though, perhaps they were all trying to rob me.

During the past few weeks, I have met the most phenomenal people whilst galavanting around the UK, many of which live in London. Why am I just meeting all these wonderful Londoners right before I move back to Manhattan? I gave another great conference presentation this weekend, and really, genuinely, whole-heartedly enjoyed the gaggle of people whom I met at this conference. It was all just I think I've made more friends in the past month then I made during of all elementary and junior high school. And I've still got multiple trips left this month, too.

I also just spent three nights with my Mancurian friends Dexter and Dunkan, whom I have just demanded must come to play with Awesome and me in New York this autumn. I've known Dexter longer than I've known Awesome - we met in Manchester five years ago and spent nearly every night during a 10-day period going barring, clubbing, and/or playing at his flat. Now? We still went out a bit this trip, but now that we're old men (i.e. I'm almost-28 and he's now 30), he and Dunkan were highly domesticized and had people over for boozy nights full of Bree Van De Camp-esque appetizers, and their lively children (i.e. dogs). Awesome will be so proud of me when I report to him that I went with Dexter to take the dogs for walks in the park (for some reason, Awesome likes to do humane things such as this). I'm not particularly fond of animals (and am allergic to most of them), and I don't even know how to microwave soup from a can. I can only make coffee and martinis; the only pet I've had during my adult life was my fish, Nicholas Poindexter Godiva XVIII, and he committed suicide just to get away from me.

Yesterday Dexter and I had a playdate all afternoon where we drank approximately 42 bottles of wine in the sun at a table on Canal Street until we could no longer feel if we were burning to a crisp. Nor could we tell how loud our shameful commentary was as we watched the stream of colorful people parading down the cobblestoned catwalk that Canal Street is (the original British Queer as Folk was not actually fictional, you see). After drinking said 42 bottles in the unexpected blasting sun, I think at one point I climbed on the table and took a short nap from dehydration. At another point I may have peed myself, I don't know.

I have dissertation meetings this week. I've got more conferences coming up. I leave for Portsmouth on Friday morning. I'm going to Italy again next week. There's a helluva lot going on. But usually, at least for me, a psychotically busy hedonist makes a happy hedonist.

If you see someone in Manchester with a tan, don't believe it. They've just gone all rusty. - Anonymous old woman