New Beginnings?

I sometimes forget that I have been actively living on my own for three years. By “on my own” I do mean living with three other girls who are quite aware of my incompetence and failings in little matters such as “eating normal meals,” “sleeping the recommended amount,” and pretty much “life in general.” My Philadelphia roommates are nothing but saints to put up with me, especially my actual roommate who not only understands my routines, but accepts them.

For example, if I don’t come home I am either:

a) Passed out on Natalie’s couch, clutching the TV clicker with a death grip. Adult swim can’t watch itself, people.

b) Passed out on the brotherhood room couch. Probably after cursing out the freshman pledges who hadn’t learned my name yet.
“Why is she still here, and why is she blacked out and STILL correcting my grammar.”

c) Passed out on the fraternity porch. Because West Philadelphia is just full of people who LOVE to sleep outside.

d) Passed out in our hallway, because I couldn’t make it to the room.

In some sort of bastardized attempt to turn myself into a decent human being, I’ve decided to set myself goals.

Firstly, I will stop eating loaves of bread. This is an awkward and highly caloric habit, and faintly reminiscent of an Oliver Twist situation. However I doubt the little bastard was familiar with Iggy’s sourdough. I feel like he had bigger things to deal with, like dancing for change in order to buy penicillin. “Please sir, it’s not just a flesh wound.”

I will find cool sunglasses, because I have this weird paranoia that Manhattan-ites are secretly judging me because I don’t own Ray Ban’s. My douschebag aviators are missing, and with those go any sort of pretension I can muster.

I will attempt to cook…things. I was browsing in Anthropologie and came across some of the most darling measuring spoons imaginable. Brittany had to forcibly make me put them down, even though I was a mere $7.95 away from domestication.

I will stop downloading awkward apps for my phone. For a month and a half my phone would scream “THIS IS A TEXT MESSAGE” in a King Leonidis voice akin to the famous “THIS IS SPARTA” we heard in 300. I had to keep my phone on vibrate because although I deleted the app, it would still go off because my Droid is an evil and possessed being. I had to go to the Verizon store to make it go away, but they will have to pry my “highway to the danger zone” ringtone out of my cold, dead fingers.

I will drink less, before my life slowly spirals into one extended happy hour. Granted that sounds amazing in theory, but I think I’ll have to save it for middle age.
“Mommy why are you throwing crudités at the TV?”
“Because Daddy is a whore.”

At least the first step to change is accepting that you have a problem. No matter how well that problem goes with cheese and crackers.