3. We’re all alcoholics.
A few days ago, I wrote this, discussing the detriments of alcohol abuse and the reasons that supported the assertion that I have a drinking problem.
An ability to drink is a badge of honor for many young men, especially aspiring writers. While I view this as a destructive trend, I also realize that I probably have a drinking problem.
I finished my beer and ordered a vodka cranberry. Someone standing next to me overheard my drink order and said, “What, are you on your period?”
When I was twenty-one years old, my mother told me that her twenties were the hardest decade of her life. This kind of puzzled me at the time.
Burn lasagna, overcook eggs, forget to add the baking powder to the chocolate cake you’re making. These are all mistakes that young people are allowed to make.
A couple of shots make it seem less odd that almost every nook—including an elevated, cushioned cubby accessible by ladder—is occupied by a twosome engaged in an aggressive round of necking and/or heavy petting.
My life since college graduation has been the most wonderfully uncertain, bumbling, transitional, fun, flailing, cacophony of experiences and existence.
I don’t know what it is, really, that makes some men think it’s cool to display their pale, moist and hairy feet in public.
Ten years ago, I blacked out and was raped by a woman who I proceeded to date for the next year and a half of my life.