Avabot 9000: the consequence.

When I really, really need to focus, I like to pretend I’m a cyborg. In my mind, laser beams shoot from my eyes that evaluate my surroundings that determine, mathematically, the probability that I will crash into something, or the impending doom that awaits me if I choose a certain route. So far in the twenty-three years of my life, this tactic has kept me safe, but most importantly, incredibly entertained.

The cyborg feature of my imagination comes in most handy when I’m driving in inclement weather. The laser beams shoot from my eye sockets and check the road conditions as I’m driving. (Black ice — function: eliminate acceleration. activate blind scientific faith. jesus, take the wheel, por favor.) I haven’t had any issues or malfunctions.

As with everything in life that comes in handy, especially when trying to determine the possibility of allowing a gentleman suitor to escort me home (evaluate: popped collar, etnies, gum chomp. determination: major bro. likelihood of venereal disease acquisition: imminent. recommendation: accept vehicular transport. feign illness. coital denial imperative) the robotic feature to my demeanor has also helped in situations of absolute unpleasantness. 

In general, I’m a fan of the holidays. Food, gifts, family, and all the shit that comes along with it is for the most part enjoyable. This year? I’ve put serious consideration into taking up alcoholism as a New Year’s resolution.

2013 will be the Year of the Drunk. Check your Chinese calendar and look out, folks. Shit ’bout to get real.

I’ve also become considerably more hood since I started dating Team Jacob. He gets his name because he looks like Taylor Lautner in the first installment of Twilight. He’s been asking me out for the last year and a half, and I’ve finally taken him up on the offer and find him absolutely charming and adorable. Both of those qualities I hate, because they make me like him, and liking him goes against my robotic nature. He’s shaved his head since the dubbing of Team Jacob, but that’s his best identifier. And you know how I’m a fan of identifiers.

At any rate, this holiday season has really brought out the drunk ass mess that’s been locked up in me. My younger sister — three years my junior — is newly engaged. My older sister’s boyfriend, two days after the engagement of my younger sister, asked my father’s permission to marry my sister.

While I’m delighted that they both found happiness or whatever, I also kind of want to find myself in the bottom of a bottle of tequila. With the worm.

Nestled up next to its wrinkles.

Happiness.

This evening was a delightful celebration of the wondrous cheer and fruitful love that the holidays bring. My parents invited their best friends, their sons, and their sons’ wives to dinner. While we gathered in the kitchen, basking in the warm scent of roast and sipping the savory Merlot I brought, exchanging obligatory congratulations to the new engagements, my younger sister looks to me and says, “I’m sorry, Ava. This winter’s been rough for you, huh?”

“Yeah, it totes has. I cry myself to cleanliness in the shower while I’m clutching the empty bottle of tequila. If only I had a man in my life to pass me the limes while I curl up in the fetal position on the floor of the tub, scraping away the scales forming as a result of loneliness and desperation. P.S., I’m pregnant. And the baby could be one of four races.”

So I raised my glass, toasting to the local economic boost due to the increase in alcohol sales.

Six glasses of wine later, she gave me shit for not cleaning the dishes. My reply? “Yeah, sorry bro, I’m not training to be a housewife. That’s all you. And hey, can I get a refill on this glass? It’s almost empty.”

Fuck the holidays.

But in all seriousness, I was extremely grateful for Avabot 9000 at this particular junction in my life. He/she/it allowed me to keep a smile on my face with mechanical interaction to the guests.

Now, if only I could get Avabot 9000 to serve as a permanent stand-in to all family holiday parties. She can keep her shit together better than I can.

–AM.

P.S., I love the fact that I used “robots” as a tag in this blog post. I feel like I’d totally be okay if the world ended.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Shit’s been going down.

Mostly because I went to Wal-Mart on Halloween, and as I looked at my cart before I checked out, I realized just how awesome (sad) I’ve become. The contents of my cart:

• cat food (with coupon for free bag of cat treats)
• cat litter (with coupon for $1.50 off said jug of cat litter)
• a six-pack of Smirnoff
• a bag of pears
• Wal-Mart brand Apple Jacks (I think they’re Apple Smacks? Stacks? Something catchy)
• two gigantic bags of Halloween candy (that I had no intention of sharing)
• Zombieland on DVD
• The Last Unicorn on DVD

That was my Halloween. I polished off the 1.5L of Pear flavored Arbor Mist while I watched Zombieland. I know it’s a funny movie, but I couldn’t help but be mildly terrified because I live in a 100 year old house with creaky floors, poorly insulated windows that shake and shudder with the wind, and two ridiculous beasts that jump about and stare down empty hallways as if there’s something at the end of it. So then I watched The Last Unicorn and reminisced in childhood bliss.

I told my students “Be safe. Make good decisions. And if you don’t make good decisions, at least be around someone who can make good decisions so you don’t die from alcohol poisoning or stupidity and I can see your smiling faces on Friday.” That day, our writing prompt was “20 rules you’ve broken,” and I learned more about them than I intended. I even prefaced it with “You don’t have to tell me everything and I will never collect your daily writings,” and shared my own broken rule of taking tags off the mattress even though it says not to. Some of their responses were concerning, though they hedged their language smartly (I have taught them something!) by saying “I’ve inhaled THC” rather than “I’ve smoked THC.” Silly pupils.

Now that we’re in November, I’m delighted. My birthday will be in a few weeks, then Thanksgiving, then I will make the GRE my bitch, then we’ll have finals, and then it’s Christmas.

Pseudo-homeless man that I’m hopelessly in love with is back in town (which I learned from a phone call about seventeen minutes ago) so I’ll get to see him again before he moves back east. It felt almost like a break-up phone call. “Have you seen my black shoes? Did I leave those at your house?” “I don’t know. All I have here is your bag of clothes and your hockey gear. When are you coming to pick them up?” “In due time.” “Well, I’ll be around tomorrow. And if I’m not, you still have my key, right?”

It’s like we had the shitty relationship without any of the perks (euphemism). As much as I’m trying to hold onto the whole wonderful-time-of-the-year goodness that the season brings, the precedent set within the last two years is the end of one five-year relationship and the end of a two-year whatever-the-fuck-this-was relationship.

I swear, one day I’ll get this right.

Sexy like a cotton ball.

I recently purchased the Pussycat Dolls Workout DVD. I’m a slave to marketing, and fell victim to the commercial’s upbeat advertising tactics and the promise to have the body of Nicole Scherzinger (because I definitely don’t).

I popped it in the DVD player, wearing my black sweatpants and Tegan and Sara t-shirt with my hair in a messy ponytail, ready to dance myself to killer curves.

“Bring it, dolls,” I said to the TV. Then I saw this:

So I tried to loosen up my buttons, baby, like the very best baby giraffe wrapped in leather. What happened next can only be described through this:

I’m pretty fucking talented if I do say so myself, but I just wasn’t feeling, you know, sexy enough to slutty dance like Nicole Scherzinger and her dolls which is extremely frustrating because when I go out with my girlfriends and dance, I’m a beast. Like, watch out ladies and gentlemen, you’re in the splash zone of awesome.

Then it hit me: the thing I was missing was booze.

So I moseyed on into my kitchen, took a bottle of vodka out of my freezer, and took a shot. Nothing. Took another shot. I tapped my foot anxiously on the linoleum floor, and decided a mix drink might help. I poured vodka into a tall glass and topped it off with a splash of pomegranate juice (I’m also an extremely talented mixologist).

I’m not entirely sure what happened next, but I can only assume it went something like this:

What I do know is that when I woke up the next morning in my bed, I was wearing my fuzzy pink bath robe, a single black stiletto, and the contents of my underwear drawer and every piece of lingerie I own was either on the floor or draped across houseplants. “Buttons” was playing on repeat from my iPad, and I discovered I bought every single song made by the Pussycat Dolls.

Leaving my bedroom, I discovered a trail of dried soap suds, leading me to my bathroom where the bathmat was still wet, the bottle of bubble bath was uncapped and on its side, the candelabra was in the sink, and an empty bottle of wine was in the tub. The trail also led to the kitchen, where every single pot and pan I own was on the floor, cabinet doors were open, the bottle of vodka (now empty) sat on top of the stove, and a box of noodles was spilled over the floor.

I still don’t have Nicole Scherzinger’s body.

–AM.