I’m often commended for my bravery. Especially with regard to traveling alone. However, keeping the following information to myself does not align with my goal of being more honest this year. So here it goes:
I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was just really fuckin drunk.
Once upon a time:
I earned a career opportunity that I fell in love with. I wholeheartedly believed in the work we wanted to accomplish, and I worked towards this vision with some pretty amazing people. Living the dream right? Impossible, when the dream is funded by Bay Area greed. To say we worked under horrifying management, would be a complete understatement and injustice to the nefarious “leaders” of our organization. When some of us began to question management’s antiquated systems and questionable practices; I believe they feared their exploitation would be exposed. And one by one they laid the majority of the staff off, myself included. In hindsight, we shouldn't have been so naive. We began the year with 80% new staff. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the unnamed organization’s present turnover rate continues to be sky high.
Be that as it may, I was devastated. After losing my brother and ending my engagement, I felt like I was finally working towards healing. Only to have all efforts completely crumble in my grip. For a month straight I applied to jobs, day in and day out without avail. Now a month may not seem like a long period of unemployment to some, but for context, I had my first job when I was 11. As my negative thoughts began to bully my perpetual optimism into a corner, my support system felt my distress, and they came through as always.
How Channing Tatum’s gyrating pelvis was supposed to help me out of my financial and emotional decline; I couldn’t tell you. But my friends invited me to the movies and their presence and the promise of liquor sounded a heck of a lot better than the job listings I was encountering that afternoon. Shout out to the set assistants at that porn studio in San Francisco by the way. It’s a dirty job but I suppose someone has to do it. Actually, now that I’m typing this, maybe the studio job pointed me in the direction of Channing’s fillm…
Now if you’ve ever drank with Mexicans you understand that it is a triathlon with absolutely no prize.
1) The Pre Copa.
Where drinks begin to flow and we are still capable of eloquently discussing different topics.
2) El Evento.
Whatever that may be. A concert, the movie, etc.
At this point we’re still drinking… and it would be the ideal time to stop.
Lastly 3) El Áfter.
For every 2 good things that happen at El Áfter, 8 more embarrassing stories are born.
Trust me.
That’s why you’re reading this.
After beers at the wing place(1), sneaking Jameson into the movie(2), and I don’t even know what the fuck happened after(3). Those gyrating hips of Mr. Tatum inspired me. 1) I made a call 2) sent a text 3) rang a doorbell… but I think I wasn’t the only one who watched a movie about male strippers that evening because my intended companion, already had another companion in his bed… That had never happened to me before and I didn’t know what emotion I was experiencing. I mean technically I wasn’t rejected, I just wasn’t there first. If he was so Juan Camaney he could’ve suggested a threesome… So somewhere in my inebriated thought process I did the only thing a spiraling gal could do...
When I woke up the next morning disoriented and eager to participate in the bonus round of micheladas (a round not intended for novice drinkers), I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was unmistakably off. I woke up alone, in my own bed, so that was a good start. My car was in the driveway, in one piece. Another good sign. My phone? My phone was dead. I charged it while I showered in hopes of delaying or possibly washing away what I thought might be the culprit of my additional and phantom woes.
I’m sitting there in my towel, phone in hand, vowing to boycott alcohol, right after my michelada of course, and I start tapping at my phone’s screen. Aside from my little hookup fail, calls were clear. Texts were in order. Bank account. Oh boy. A significant amount debited, in one transaction, from an airline. Praying for a fraudulent charge, I open my email in another application, and it was clear as day. A one-way ticket to Mexico for July 19th. It was July 1st. If I intended on going through with this desmadre, I had 18 days to break my lease, pack up my whole life, figure out my finances, and leave without turning back. Hungover me could call the airline and ask about their cancellation policy. Or sober me could follow through with what drunk me thought was best. And even though that drunk bitch gets me in mad trouble, she knows how to have a good time…