It’s been a while. I must confess, as recently as August, when I lived alone and wasn’t as terribly busy as I am now, it was regular practice for me to stay up and chug a bottle of red wine or a crapload of whiskey in lieu of dinner, and just sit around and mull, or read, or watch movies, or abuse IM, or write.

I have more to do, these days, which is awesome. But I periodically miss those times of inebriated solitude. I don’t know why. However, now that I’m distanced from the ritual of getting needlessly drunk and staying up really late while staring a dead and glowing screen, it’s nice to realize that it wasn’t my identity; it was just a role I sometimes played. And tonight I’m revisiting it to discern whether or not it actually had any value whatsoever.

For one thing, the enjoyment level has diminished since I moved to a place where I can’t smoke indoors. That’s okay, though, especially since my cigarette consumption has considerably decreased, and this is one of the first times I’ve missed being able to smoke while writing.

Ho ho, and now it’s time to tell you what it’s like to be twenty-seven.

Because I have a whole ten days of being twenty-seven under my belt.

Which means I have about fifty weeks to prove that I can outlive Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and Kurt Cobain, all of whom died when they were twenty-seven.

Here’s where all the Woodstockers and diehard grungers clutch their chests and yell, “WHYYYYYYYY”, and I go down in history as being an insensitive as fuck toward dead rockstars. But, really, I love all of those dead people, and I really feel for Francis Bean.

ANYWAY!

I’m so done with my early twenties. Being in your twenties is about floundering and insecurity, which is just tiring. Oh, there are definitely fun periods of independence and partying and irresponsibility … but when you’re still single and in your LATE twenties, there is just as much fun to be had, with a whole buttload of increased experience and self worth to accompany it. That’s what I think, anyway.

Here’s a brief outline:

· Twenty through Twenty-three: “I feel so invisible that I don’t even know what I look like.”
· Twenty-three through Twenty-six: “Hm. I have stuff to work out, and the world would be a better place if it were socially acceptable for me to wear a bag over my head. But I’m okay.”
· TWENTY-SEVEN: I still have stuff to work out, but man, I can be really (I will not use the word “fabulous” I will not use the word “fabulous” I will not use the word …) cute. LOOKIT!”

So now, I may be in the minority of American women who are looking forward to their thirties, because generally, I think life’s only going to get better, or at least BIGGER. I see fine lines on my face now that I didn’t see a year and a half ago, and I’m all, “Hey, cool! New waterslides for my sweat and tears!” I’m expecting the novelty to wear off pretty damned soon, though, which is why I might start working towards stemming the aging process as soon as I can.

That’s why I love me some red wine. Antioxidants, dontchya know.

I find myself wanting to look really good. This isn’t because of a fear of aging or a need to relive my younger years. Because, I’m not old. Honestly, I think I’ve been looking forward to my late twenties for some time.

I want to look really good because at this point, I know I’m capable of it, and my definition of “attractive” has morphed into something both more attainable and more genuinely beautiful than it used to be. For example, in my definition of “beautiful,” the word “thin” has been replaced by the words “pizza,” “sex,” and “beer.”

As far as fashion and makeup and all those shitfuck Cosmo things are concerned, I’ve always been very low-maintenance, and I don’t want to change that. At the same time, I hate all of my clothes, and I’m sick to death of looking frumpier than I feel.

Which means that I need a complete wardrobe overhaul. And I need help with that.

Luckily, I recently made a fashionista friend whom I fully intend to exploit to the point where she becomes my personal shopper. She’s good at clothes, and loves working with them like Michelangelo liked working with clay. I’m NOT good at clothes. I find shopping to be a miserable and overwhelming experience that makes me want to find a giant moving car and roll in front of it. Jodie Foster once equated shopping with having pins stuck in her eyes, which only further solidified Ms. Foster’s status as one of my own personal heroes.

Anyway, my new friend suggested some stuff that would flatter me, and so intuitively honed in on what I’ve always loved and wished I could wear but never dared to try for fear that it would disappoint me enough to make me regress to my BAG OVER THE HEAD period. (That was quite the run-on sentence. Read it again. Go on.) She was so cool about it that, to me, she might as well have been screaming “KELLY! KELLY! YOU ARE BETTIE PAGE! GO OUT THERE AND WHUP UP SOME JUICY BLOODY SKANK GOODNESS! HOT, HOT MAMA! CHA-CHA-CHA!”

I wish I was kidding.

The day after I talked to her, I found myself online, researching very, very expensive jeans.

Now, okay, in my world, a pair of jeans that costs more than forty bucks falls under the category of very, very expensive.

In the world of women’s fashion, forty bucks is a goddamned change purse.

I was seriously considering purchasing a pair of jeans costing almost $200.

Do I have $200? I am a grad student living in Northern California. I have apparently not passed “Go,” because I do not have $200. And that was a lame fucking joke.

At any rate, I was, and am, thinking about dipping into my student loan cash to buy a hugely expensive pair of jeans. Denims. Dungarees. Stuff that was invented for gold miners, most of whom died poor and drunk before getting rich.

But, these jeans promised a BUTT LIFT!

Okay, so I’ve never had problems in the butt area. I have ass to spare, and it does not spread in an awkward way that necessitates lifting. I also have heredity working for me in the ass department, as all of the women in my family have a lot of really cute ghetto booty goin’ on.

But, dude, jeans with a butt bra? Somehow very appealing. Okay, so with my current ass, a butt bra would hike my trunkjunk somewhere up to the vicinity of my neck, which doesn’t sound either attractive or comfortable. It would come in handy on plane rides, though, because hey! Built-in headrest!

Wow. I’m so not buying $200 jeans.

I’m drunkish. It’s late. I have class tomorrow, two huge presentations next week, and three huge papers and another big presentation due the week after. I’m done with this entry.

In other news, I was in an improv show tonight. Afterwards, a bunch of my classmates approached me all, “You were fucking hysterical,” because I’ve totally been phoning it in during improv class. It was really nice to perform again. And I was funny! Me! Funny!

Twenty-seven! It rules.

Thanks to everyone who sent me birthday wishes.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Bad Movies, Good Holidays, and Humu-humu-nuku-nuku-apua'a - 02.05.06

HO! - 01.12.06

Spike the egg nog! Unless you don't like egg nog, in which case just drink the brandy. - 12.24.05

Say Hello! - 12.14.05

Black Friday - 11.27.05

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