On the Wagon

After last week's debacle, I've committed myself to not drinking. Or, because as both Jess and the boy said this will be difficult, I'm committed to drinking far, far less. The boy says three beers and two glasses of wine (and not at the same time). I agree. I'm crazy enough without having liquor in me. For the record, though, Hemingway was a drunk and look what he did. Fitzgerald liked to party it up. James Frey liked to go boozing. Ugh. So do Paris, Lindsay, and that chick from Real World Hawaii. Ruthie. Yeah, that's it. God, I don't want to end up like Ruthie.

So instead I will work toward getting one of the several jobs I applied for last week. I already got one rejection letter, but that was inevitable. I went way outside the pond with that application. I'm back to wanting health insurance. Of my own. So the boy doesn't have to pay $200 a month. I'm back to wanting to get the hell out of this house, away from crazy doggies who fight all day. And I'm certainly back to wanting money that is mine.