song of the moment: "The Worst Hangover Ever"--The Offspring

I have now only been drunk a whole whoppin' two times in my life. And I don't know if I want to get that drunk ever again. I didn't like how I felt last night. Oh yeah, it's nice to get that buzz going, but the next thing you know it's coming back up. Maybe if I hadn't have gotten that drunk, I could have enjoyed myself. I don't like vomiting. The last time I vomited was last year. I had a Philly steak and cheese sandwich from Subway, and it didn't agree with me at all. I woke up the next morning, felt like crap, went to the bathroom and puked it all up. I still felt miserable, and I had to be at work to open up the store, and I tried calling up to call off, but I didn't get an answer (because since I'm just a lowly sales associate that Jan doesn't want to give any advancement to, even though I'm an exemplary employee, there has to be a supervisor on duty to open up the store, and usually they have to come in advance). So I didn't get a chance to call off. I called up at ten, when we open, and told Jan I wasn't going to be able to come in because I was sick. She gets bitchy with me, told me I should have called in advance, I argued and told her I tried calling but I got no answer and there was no chance of me coming in because I was violently ill. And it resulted in my one and only write-up at work. Oh darn, I don't really care. I fucking hate that place anyway. Hence, the mad job hunt for the last year or so. But no, I don't like puking. And next time I'm at a party with alcohol, I don't plan on getting drunk...well, not that drunk anyway. This is just my attitude towards drugs and alcohol. I see it like being abducted by aliens. I wouldn't want it to happen because they will probably alter my thought process. It's just scary. Last night, I felt sick and like I couldn't really control what was happening, but hell--that was my own fault, and I couldn't even enjoy the party because of it.

May I also mention how much I can't stand my family? Dad got in one of his cooking moods again and made fried chicken. Fried chicken. That's all he knows--frying shit. It's either a deep-fried Southern style breakfast with fried eggs, bacon or sausage, grits and those buttermilk biscuits...or fried chicken. No more fried stuff!!! It's not aggreeing with my stomach, it's giving me problems in the bathroom, and it's just not healthy. Now maybe it was me coming down from my hangover, or it was me just getting damn sick and tired of having to choke down that crap (no matter how enticing it looks, it still makes me queasy, and he just doesn't get this), but I just ranted about it, how I wasn't even that hungry in the first place, how I didn't feel well anyway, and how he just wastes food like this and he prepares it when no one is even going to eat it all. I just picked at my plate. He will prepare you a plate and want you to at least try it, but that means, "Come on, just eat what's on your plate, I went through all that trouble to make you a meal and you aren't even going to eat it."

I feel like I'm still thirteen years old. I absolutely fucking hate this. I need to move out so damn badly.

And why the hell do I keep smelling stale smoke?

~~fin~~