Glory Days

I have just stuffed a vat of pasta down my face. And I don't mean a tiny plate of pasta which I'm just insanely over-exaggerating about. I mean that I just cooked myself half a bag of pasta and ate every last piece of penne and I am now in a food coma on the couch. Other than the wave of nausea that keeps sweeping over me from over-eating and the sweat dripping down my face from trying to digest this much chilli pasta and the fact that my stomach is distended in agony, I feel great. I also may or may not be allergic to gluten, so this meal was perhaps not the wisest of choices but I am pleased that I avoided creamy, cheesy pasta which has been my poison of choice the last few weeks (three times in one week in fact, which was awesome until my stomach started cramping up so offensively that I thought I might be lactose intolerant, hence the tests and the new potential gluten allergy).

This post was actually supposed to discuss happier moments of a life lived off the couch. This weekend, I went on a fun mini-moon with the bf and lived a lifestyle of pampering and champagne-fuelled baths (for 45 minutes, but hey, it counts.) We then watched a major motion picture of extreme sentimental importance to both of us: Glitter, starring the inimitable Mariah Carey. The bf loves her (he's into the busty type that look like cheap hookers. N.B. I am not in this category) and I think she's amazing (psychosis, insanely slutty outfits and a fab voice are a surefire recipe for success in my book) but this film also was particularly close to my heart because I am actually an extra in it (and no, of course you can't actually see me. I suspect my scene was cut because I bore a slight resemblance to Mariah at the time of filming through sheer accident, and we all know how she can get slightly diva-ish about a younger version of herself trying to steal the spotlight). Anyway, there was a time in my life when I made 75 bucks to dance/slut it hardcore in Tunnel nightclub clad in my favourite '80s outfit, complete with tulle headband, as an extra in Glitter. Contrary to popular opinion, this is not my greatest achievement in life (the joint bank account still trumps this). But no matter how long it takes for me to be excavated from the couch, no can take away that I was a part of cinematic history (albeit on the cutting room floor of possibly the worst film in history bar Gigli). So what if I've chosen a life of pasta and vegetating for my retirement years?

And we're back...

Another night, another alcoholic debacle...

Sweet Tooth

One of the advantages of the rotting lifestyle is that you don't really need to adhere to adult behavioural conventions. You can choose when -- and more importantly, what -- you eat, and for the most part do it without fear of judgement. I wish I could say that I sunk to a new low this morning after scarfing down the frosting off a carrot cake for breakfast, but sadly I've been there before. Many times. In fact, one of my greatest accomplishments (second only to the opening of the aforementioned joint bank account) is that I have a cavity in every tooth, except for one of my wisdom teeth. I've actually had my wisdom teeth filled! To be perfectly honest, I average about three cavities in most teeth -- it's terrifying. I've always loved sweets -- cupcakes, mini chocolate bars, milkshakes, gummy candy -- and I was doing alright until I turned 18 and suddenly every tooth had fallen victim to my former lovers. Unfortunately, this didn't inspire me to change my lifestyle. It just made me want to eat more sugary stuff since I figured I would be spending a substantial amount of time in the dentist's chair anyway. A notable moment occurred when I moved to England knowing I had an appointment to fill two cavities a month later when I returned to NY (to move the rest of my stuff over). I decided that since I'd hit rock bottom (this was the point when the wisdom teeth needed to get filled), I might as well go down smiling, so I would buy extra large Dairy Milk chocolate bricks to snack on for breakfast every day. I laughingly told the dentist how I'd prepared myself to get my fillings done by eating more sweets and he turned to me, gave me a stern look and said, "Well, congratulations. You've managed to get two new cavities in a month." I was horrified but in a perverse way, kind of proud. I probably have worse teeth than some people in the 17th century, and that's kind of an accomplishment considering modern dental technology.

My fiance thinks my rotten teeth make me trailer trash. I think they give me some personality. They're also crooked, despite years of orthodontal work, and I think they're rebelling against the veneered perfection that sneers at them from every TV set (although I live in England, not Hollywood, so maybe my teeth are just smugly thinking they've done pretty well for themselves). At any rate, sugar, despite the damage it may have caused, is still my bff. No one can tear us apart, not even dentures.

In pursuit of failure?

I saw Amy Winehouse's 13-year-old god-daughter, Dionne Bromfield, perform this week * She was completely fabulous and adorable, and inevitably, made me start to question my own level of success -- or lack thereof. I definitely felt a bit jealous of this zygote. So talented...and she was clad in a Viv Westwood prom dress that I would love to get my hands on and my ageing hips into. In the past week, meanwhile, my stats haven't been climbing. My debit card was declined twice (I am too irresponsible to even have a credit card, and have shopaholicism flowing through my veins) and my Tuesday night ended with me hunched over a toilet because I couldn't handle the three beers and half a glass of Champagne I'd consumed. Unlike my early-twenties, when mild alcoholism, an insouciant attitude and limited cash flow (although, worryingly, I did seem to have double my net worth back then) seemed particularly charming attributes, especially when paired with a black tutu mini skirt and spandex leggings, I feel like these qualities don't quite suit my 27-year-old frame, leaving me with a sickly pallor and an air of desperation.

At any rate, the bathroom incident provided a wake-up call of sorts: alcohol consumption was sacrificed entirely on Wednesday, and I made it through Thursday with the aid of only one Honey Dew beer. And I realised an important lesson today when I opened a joint bank account with my fiance: I may be non-functional but I have done one thing right. Attached myself (with urgency and in a claw-like fashion) to someone who is.

*Yes, I reluctantly made it out of the house for a work-related activity. However, I consumed so much booze at the event that I was in a virtual rotting coma throughout, so I don't think I really betrayed my cause.

The Rotter

Sometimes I feel like a truly revolting human being. I'm not depressed or anything, I'm just semi-terrified at the level of sloth that I've allowed myself to plummet to. I'm a freelance writer so I have the freedom to spend my days -- for the most part -- largely ungroomed and covered in my own filth (I do eventually shower, but sometimes not until 3pm. I know, it's gross.) I occasionally manage to do things, ie, I found out last night that I passed my master's degree at the LSE (with a merit, even) despite my best efforts not to. I did go to class, but my revision consisted of panicky moments where I was convinced I knew nothing followed by binge sessions of Lost (which I sneakily decided to watch from Season 1 immediately as my exam revision was due to start, because, hey, it's not like I could study AND deal with a commitment as intense as watching a trashy TV show that has no relevance in my life). I am actually almost prouder that I watched all six seasons of the show in about three weeks than I am of getting the master's! I feel like so many people get them these days. But how many can truly devote themselves to the art of the rot?

Contrary to what the above paragraph might suggest, I'm not a total hermit or pariah. I have wonderful friends whom I love to see (preferably on my turf, so I don't, in fact, need to leave the house) but I do on occasion venture out to hang out with them. I'm also recently engaged and I have to say the wedding planning is certainly putting a damper on my rotting schedule. Showing up at a 5-star hotel in London in sweatpants is not a good look. Trust me, I've tried it. I love my fiance and I love my friends, I also just love to rot. Don't think of rotting as decaying, think of it as calmly relaxing, being able to spend a day in whatever manner you please. That dream for me involves TV, alcohol and lots of food. Anyway, I didn't really want to start a blog but I figured since I am spending so much time glued to the couch anyway, might as well pretend I'm doing something worthwhile and blogs tend to be viewed as worthy projects these days. Something about encouraging self-expression. So these ramblings are basically another excuse for me to continue to sit on my ass and feel semi validated for it. Maybe I'll be able to analyse where I went wrong and will manage to become an uber-productive person while I'm at it. Hold on a sec -- need to run off to download the latest Gossip Girl...