Light beer is far too easy to drink.


At the same time, I miss Radler.

I’m starting my fourth beer. Strangely (is there an e in that word? apparently) enough, I have told me mother this. Huuh. I’m getting drunk on my parent’s beer, in the pure quest of getting drunk. I thought I was too old for this shit but dammit, I’m supposed to be on vacation. I miss real beer. Beer and water in their branded glasses. (If you mix Kilkenny Ale and Guinness, it typically comes in a Kilkenny Glass. Only one bartender put it in a Guinness mug- and he had the perfect foamy head on it too. Alas, no more pubs for me for another year or so.)

Nostalgic maudlin Pip, at your service. If this was tumblr, I’d open the ask box. I want to converse with people I barely know. Alas, this is wordpress, my go-to, long-text-post place. I always feel the need to type when inebriated. I write dreadfully. I am in a state of oddness. I’ve been cleaning, and managed to find my (autographed!) copy of the CD inset from the beauty of the rain. I cannot listen to that album easily, now. It has been on far too much play.

I feel starved of new human contact. i want to befriend new people, wade the minefield of personal interaction. I want to sing like I’ve never been able to, joyous and personal and true. I want a glorious change.

I want to be in the ocean. I don’t want to deal with family. I want so much, and all of it contradictory. I want to be able to speak with me friends and be original, new, entertaining. I want to be depth and warmth and flippancy and shallowness. I want to be more than my body, more than myself, and find achieving myself alone impossible. I want to work, more hours and connections. Money, feeling like I’ve earned something with both hands is a feeling I cannot get enough of. Even if all these hands do is fold towels.

I want so much.

I don’t need for jack. I am ridiculously lucky. I have both parents! I have the internet! A house! A home, even! No mental illnesses! Schooling! No debts! I sometimes feel as though my entire existence is insulting in the extreme, like snubbing my nose in luck’s eye. Sure, my medical history is shit. But I haven’t been raped in fifteen years. Haven’t been molested in eight or ten! How many girls can say that? I have no pressure on me, to become something I’m not. The worst I have is a shitty digestive organs and horrific driving skills.

Luck. Holy fuck do I have luck.

mmm. I have nothing of value to say, nothing to pretend to wax poetic about. I’ll leave this as is, and if I find it too whingy sober I’ll delete it.


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