Original post date: 9/5/2013

Last Saturday I drove my happy ass to the west side to work a Craigslist gig serving drinks and handling the draft board at a fantasy football draft party. I made $45, plus free food. But I guess since I bought a slutty sports shirt (aka a little boy’s size medium) for $14.99 and white knee-high socks that I didn’t even wear for $2.50, plus tax…plus the money I spent driving to and from…I probably only made $20, if that.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but I am not a graceful individual. I bump into shit a lot. Like all the time. I’ll clip my shoulder or hipbone on a doorframe or wall as I turn a corner. I bang my knees on coffee tables, table legs, etc. Elbow on the arm of a chair (and it’s always right in that mother fucking spot where it makes the whole lower part of your arm feel tingly and horrible). I’ve run into an open door more than once. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve accidentally knee-d myself in the face; it happens at least twice a month…don’t ask me how, because I don’t have an answer. And the list continues. I am typically bruised in odd places, with no recollection of the causes. It sucks. I used to be a dancer. I was balanced and graceful and didn’t bump into walls. And now I do. And it’s embarrassing.

I arrive at the party in a normal-person ensemble, with my slutty shirt/shorts/shoes stuffed into my low-hanging purse. I’d later regret being non-slutty because if I had walked in with my ass and tits diverting attention, this next part may not have seemed so bad. Here’s how the first 15 seconds of the gig went:

Knock on door. Open door. Walk in house. Two guys on a couch to my right, focused on their laptops, preparing for the draft. Extend my hand and introduce myself. Low-hanging fuckface of a purse swings around, hooks onto one of the laptops like it has god damn hands, and pulls the laptop off of the table. Laptop is still connected to headphones (not earbuds) that are connected to the guy’s head. Slow motion laptop falls…hits floor. Violently pulls headphones off dude’s head.

So I’m like…

I tried to make light of my dramatic, destructive production of an entrance, but really only made it worse…”Oh fuck I’m already fucking things up…and I’m here to serve drinks…heh…right? Oh boy. Whoops. Sorry, really, oh god.” And, oh great, my purse is still flailing around like a god damn wrecking ball.

The two guys just stared at me, confused and—what I perceived as—slightly disgusted…kind of like they were thinking “…the fuck? Who invited this bitch?” People in the kitchen came around the corner to investigate the ruckus. And there I stood. Looking stupid. I picked up the laptop and continued to laugh-apologize, hoping I didn’t just cost myself a fun little trip to Best Buy to replace the laptop of a no-name dude I’d shared air with for 30 seconds.

One of the other girls rushed me into a bedroom where I was expected to get into sporty/sexy mode. All I could think was “Um…there’s no fucking way any of these people are going to look at me as anything but an awkward, clumsy-ass stranger who walked in the door and started breaking shit.” I mean, let’s get serious. Sexy was no longer an option. Not then and maybe not ever. (#foreveralone)

I chugged a beer immediately. Had a shot. Had another beer. Felt out of place—probably acted like it. Then later, I’m in the kitchen chatting with the helpful girl who had saved me from the laptop incident. If you know me, you know I’m pretty animated when I talk…arm motions and such…add a shot and two beers to my thoughtless arm swings and whatdoyaknow, off the stove goes flying a pot of baked beans leftover from the barbeque they’d had earlier. It bangs on the floor and then it’s quiet and people are looking and (this actually might surprise some people) I really really hate being the center of unnecessary attention, so my face turns bright red. Again, I had knocked something onto the floor, except this time around it was louder, messier, and had more witnesses. I cleaned up the mess with the utmost level of shame and decided to go stand somewhere in a corner, quiet and alone where I couldn’t do any more damage to electronics or cheap linoleum kitchen flooring.

I can’t decide whether $45 + a free meal is too much or not enough.

Also over the weekend it came to my attention that some of my former co-workers (individuals that I considered friends) have spouted nonsense to one of my exes about the Erin Who? blog. From what I understand, these people have not only called it “gross” but have also alluded to my having sex with randos all over Craigslist, yet these same people follow my posts and give me kudos on my writing. My ex refuses to read the blog to make his own decision, which is unfortunate because the individuals chirping in his ear have convinced him that the things I write are despicable and chances are, if he read it himself, he wouldn’t think so.

The point is that someone I still care about as a person and had finally made peace with after our messy breakup called me a “freelance whore” and told me “I’m ashamed to say I was ever involved with you” because of a whole fuck ton of exaggerated bullshit. Shyeah. What a prick. Although I may seem jaded beyond emotion, I absolutely am not. I do have feelings. And that one stung a bit.

So I’m going to say this one time and one time only: If you can’t find anything better to do with your time than sit around and tell my ex what a whore I am (while at work, too…tsk tsk), consider yourself the most unimaginable of cunts. Yeah, I’m putting people on blast today. I have a short list of suspects and as far as I’m concerned, y’all can go get fucked. You are not my friends.

Final Thoughts

2013 just started and now 2014 is only four months away. Did I really not even notice that 9 months passed…and I accomplished nothing? Unacceptable. I need to make changes, and fast. I really don’t want 2013 to be the year I fucked up and didn’t bounce back.