Do old antics really die hard?

I used to be a funny blogger. I was mentioned on Gawker weekly, when people actually gave a shit about nobodies sitting in the basement of their homes and writing “real accounts” of the dumb shit they did all day. I had an apartment in Greenwich Village. Access to expense accounts where my facials, booze binges, and Marlboro light habit was fully paid for by agency fairy godmothers called ‘vendors’. I had a phone filled with the numbers of dirty old men who I could call any day of the week for free food and drinks, and my only method of payment is a kiss good bye on the cheek. My credit card bills were magically paid, and frequent flier miles accumulated. I routinely traveled to exotic locations for vacations, and could tell you my favorite restaurants in at least five international cities. If it wasn’t for my average sized body and negative savings account, you would have thought I was a socialite living like this.

I lived the good life. And when most people would have curbed their spending during a period of long term unemployment and a record strength pound, I didn’t.

Saving money?! “Why on Earth would I ever need to do that?” I asked myself throughout my early 20’s. “Life is for living!” “Wait, I’m supposed to ask myself if I can actually afford that bottle of champagne at Hotel Costa?” “Thank you God for Mastercard!”

A little thing called life bit me in the ass, kids.

A few of you may be wondering what happened to me. Here let me fill you in on the details since we’ve last communicated:

Currently, I’m 26. I live with a 37 yr old man I met off of Craigslist who plays a derivative of World of Warcraft whenever he isn’t at work. However, he is only at work between the hours of 8:30am- 5:45pm and sleeps from midnight until 7am. “But Shannon,” my observant readers would reason, “according to your math he plays WoW for nearly six hours each day! He can’t spend all that time at the computer, right? He has to go to the bathroom, attend to his hygiene. HAVE SEX?!”

“Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Clause”

Yes, my dear readers, I couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes, but people like him really do exist.

But don’t worry, my living situation misery is only temporary. In a few short days I move to SpaHa where one of my besties from HS is renting out the extra bedroom in her apartment at a highly discounted rate—the ‘my friend is unemployed, has $50K of student debt and cannot move back home’ rate.

It’s not a bad area. It’s still within the confines of Manhattan’s DMZ (De-Militarization Zone) but has the flavors of El Barrio. Actually, I must confess the juxtaposition of the area is fucking brilliant. One block South is a Gourmet Garage and two blocks North is the bodega where I can get my Forties of Coors light to play Edward 40 hands.

My father wanted me to carry a gun for protection when I told him where I’d be living, but I told him, the pocket knife in my purse should be fine. Or the nice young men who sit on the stoops on my block smoking this sweet smelling substance should be able to offer me protection.

I would have asked for a raise at work, except I’m at a start-up and my boss lovingly told me that I should begin to have another job lined up…”just in case”.

I wish I could tell you about the classes at Oxford. I think they were ok. My area of expertise for a little under a year was rugby, ale, drugs, fetish clubs, and the London landlord/tenant laws. Oh, and some how sociology was thrown in there…somewhere.

But I have my degree from Oxford. a reputation at one of England’s most oldest and prestigious universities. And a near-miss of spending time at rehab.

I wasn’t writing for the last few years because your author was complacent—an ugly word for people like me, however the perks were wonderful. For the first time in my life I wasn’t playing keen observer, unable to interact with people on a human basis. I wasn’t compelled to stay up all night, chronicling my observations of the human condition, thinking that I had some gift that allows other people to see into the emotions of their fellow human being. For a little over a year I was pretty average. Actually, I’d even go as far to say mediocre. And I liked it. For a bit. But then my life stopped being so cushy, I got in touch with this little motivating factor called ‘anger’ and ‘jealousy’ that fuels my foray into the depths of the human soul, and here I am.

26. Over-educated. Spanish Harlem Resident. “Freelancer”, which is a nice way of calling yourself unemployed. $50K in student debt. And a credit card that weeps whenever I need to use it. And I have absolutely no idea what to do next.

So that is why I re-started my blog. When I began ‘Drunk and Single’ a few years ago, I was working my first job, over educated, underemployed, and scared of my own potential. Funny how when you take yourself out of the rhythm of normal life you begin to question the assumptions that you are supposed to follow. That’s where I am right now.

As long as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to shake this writer’s thing. I carrying my notebook with me. I stopped reading great works. I even cut down on the interesting people in my life, all hoping that those things would deprive the fire inside me, and put out the flame.

It didn’t. So now I’m here.

Wanting to reignite my passion and finding I’m about a year and half out of practice. I restarted this blog so I could practice writing, force myself to post daily, and use strangers as my soundboard for when I plot my next move, and do little warm-ups before I write pitches and work on my book proposal. I mean, if you could make the boring shit you do all day interesting, then you know you are on to something.

I wish I could tell you that I’m Still Drunk and Single in NYC, except wisdom has a funny way of creeping up, reminding you that spending night after night drunk and making out with random boys *may* be a waste of precious time. I still have my adventures. I still have dirty old men to take me out. But I think there may be some other things that are just as interesting, if not more.

So with all of this talk about growing up, redefining priorities, the million dollar question remains. Am I still drunk? Still single even? Maybe. It’s hard for a tiger to change its stripes. But you’ll have to find out for yourselves. I won’t make it that easy on you.