Blech

Either it's Emily Gould's confessional influence talking, or the fact that I'm in this city virtually alone, and since "breaking up," I have no one to share such musings with (pathetic pathetic pathetic), but I'm gonna say it:

Last night, at age 24, I threw up from drinking for the first time. I'd had, over the course of maybe 5 hours, 3 drinks. I'd also eaten virtually nothing and cried a lot. This is perhaps also pathetic, but as the vomit was real, the milestone has been achieved.

Me, Myself, and Mnouchkine

I saw Ariane Mnouchkine's Les Ephemeres at Lincoln Center Armory last week. After four years coerced into singing her endless praises, part of me was hoping for a let down (she's not that great). No luck. It was amazing.

I went alone. It ought to be liberating to go to something so decadent alone; instead, it was profoundly lonely. Still, there's something to be said for being freed from the obligations of companionship: it's nice not to care whether or not it was good for you, too.