On pretty much being awesome

I don’t always get an offer for a great job with benefits, but when I do, it’s contingent on a 90-day hair strand drug test. What the fuck? Praised be the Macujo method, because it actually worked! Maybe soaking my hair with ammonia and bleach helped, too. Granted, I have second-degree chemical burns on my scalp now (seriously), but I passed the test.

Then I accepted another offer, so all was for naught. I start work on Monday. Realistically I should probably see a doctor this week, but ain’t nobody got time fo dat. I’m a working stiff now. These burns will just have to heal themselves, and hopefully I won’t get Tetanus.

So, I tried something for the first time with my beautiful new friend last night: period sex. And, it ended up being pretty great. Technically I’d done it once before toward the end of a period when it was super light, but that only half-counts. This time it was my heavy day, and it made a big, sexy mess. Blood all over both of us and the bed. And I was totally into it! It felt nasty and primal and wonderful. So yeah, I guess I’m some sort of sick freak now. But I totally recommend it. Plus, it made me feel intimate with him, even though we still barely know each other at this point.

There’s something that I feel needs to be addressed. And it’s my braggy, show-offiness about how great my groupie life is. I really hate people that talk about how cool they are, because they’re usually not. If they really are cool, it might be fine, but the majority of the time, they just think they’re great because they earn six figures or got a new car or something. And that’s pretty much the worst.

It’s just that I’m really happy about my life now, and I truly am living through amazing experiences with some of Chicago’s most interesting, beautiful, and creative people. Fucking a hot guitarist backstage at Metro, or even just passing around a bottle of Svedka at a concert afterparty, may not be everyone’s idea of living the life, but it’s definitely mine. Why wouldn’t I want to swap spit and booze with a roomful of fabulous, artistic people?

Being a groupie is awesome, and I’m not going to hide that fact. I glamorize my naivety and irresponsibility, but that’s because it is glamorous and fun and everything it’s cracked up to me. I also know that, after a long night of partying with gorgeous rock bands, I ride the Metra back out to my parents’ house in the suburbs. The irony is not lost on me. I’m not clueless enough to believe that I’m some sort of badass rebel just because I’m an established groupie, when I’m also a loser who can’t afford to make rent yet.

What I’m trying to say is that, while I recognize how immature it is to revel in immaturity, I also know that, truth be told, I’m doing really well this way. Things are really, really good for me.


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