My roommate and I recently came to the conclusion that drinking a lot of alcohol, from the first vestige of pregame to the final stage of hangover, is about on average, a fifteen hour commitment.
For the first time in a while, I didn’t feel so alone.
In my first month of being sober, I took all of the money I had saved not going to bars and I put it towards my first and only tattoo. It’s on my thigh, in a place that even the skimpiest of shorts and skirts would cover so that only I and a select few would ever see it. It says “Jesus is my only drinking partner.”
For Don: Copious affairs and swanky possessions. For you: Watching so much Netflix and Hulu that you will now watch entire seasons of a show you do not even like.
Sober boy was the 5th boy I’ve kissed.
It feels so crazy to go out on a week night, but you read somewhere that weekday parties are the new “thing.”
A few years ago, I was totally underwhelmed with my life. I spent most of my evenings crying over my ex and attempting to numb the pain with an overconsumption of sandwiches.
So many of your tagged Facebook photos have had to be deleted for professional reasons that you now have put an approval filter on them, just to streamline things.
Cook a steak, draw a pirate ship, write a poem, take a photo of the sky, whatever. Make something to feel good about.
At any given moment, at least two of my coworkers are involved in a sexual relationship. Put thirty young, attractive people in a room together week after week and it’s bound to happen.