At around 2am on a Friday night, I was standing outside Dorman Street, drunkenly whining into my phone. On the other end? Matt Wilson, Brooklyn. My best friend since high school.

“I need you to do me a big favor. I need you to tell me that boys are stupid. And that I’m pretty.”

“We’re idiots, all of us. And you’re gorgeous.”

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[Raises hand]

You: Yes? Jenn?

Me: Hey. Yeah, um….WHEN DID IT COME TO THIS?

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Seriously.

Is this because I rejected a bunch of guys in high school? Is that what this is about, Universe? ‘Cuz THERE’S YOUR KARMA. [Sorry. I always wanted to do that - say the name of my blog in an entry. Thought that would get a chuckle, like it does in the movies.] Somehow I got to the point when I am out in the freezing cold, slurring into my blackberry to get validation from a man 700 miles away?

This is stupid.

It was just a few months ago that I was telling Bess how things are so much different when you’re older! I’m not fourteen anymore! I don’t have tear-stained scribbles in my journal asking why I never get asked to couples skate to “Water Runs Dry” at the Plainfield Roller Rink (IT’S SPECIFIC BECAUSE IT’S TRUE). I am a W.O.M.A.N and I know what I want now, and it’s liberating, and watch me flirt with all the boys at the bar, but wait, I don’t really remember how to do this anymore, oh God, I suck at this actually, and wait, the boys aren’t pooling at my feet, there must be a horn growing out of my head that I don’t know about.

It’s exhausting, trying to get you to fall in love with me, Boys. So I’munna go ahead and sit this one out for a while. And maybe not drink as much, so Matt Wilson can catch some Z’s.  I refuse to be That Girl. A pity, because drinking was the driving force behind this whole entry. See, I opened my laptop this morning to find my browser logged into Twitter. In the text box was a tweet that I wrote, but never sent.

It read:

“Argh. Conclusion: Don’t try so hard.”

I have NO recollection of writing this, on account of The Drink. It was like a tweet-in-a-bottle, sent from a different version of myself. Good advice, Drunk Jenn. It was like when Jim pranked Dwight with faxes from the future.

Heh. Classic.