Welcome To The PGPT Pity Party

Both K. and I are feeling quite sorry for ourselves at the moment, for very similar reasons. Because life likes to fuck people over in pairs. This makes living in two different cities across the country suck even more, because there’s nothing I want to do tonight more than buy a wheel of brie and a bottle of wine and polish both those bitches off while we watch my new boyfriend James Franco host the Oscars.

Oh, I didn’t tell you we were dating? It’s no big deal. He was all like, at this point in my successful career I’m basically just looking for a really great girl who has the emotional health of heartbroken poet. Maybe a blogger. And I was all like HELLO JAMES, EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY, I’M HERE NOW.

So we’re going through this together, which is good. Me and K., not James – but he’s here too. In my mind. At night. Under the covers.

There is a lot of peace to be found in the rawness of suddenly being alone. There is also peace in drinking enough vodka to astonish even the Russians, dancing with your hair in your face, sobbing on the street in the snow at 2:30AM and then waking up with a hangover and big plans.

Such is life. We are not the first to feel these feelings and certainly not the last. So you’re never really alone.

Welcome to the PGPT pity party.
There are no gift bags. Just hangovers.

Sorry I can't hear you over my RAGING GOOD LOOKS and amazing capacity for academics.




      Oh yes. It’s because I’ve been busy feeling sorry for myself all week and texting S. about 1.1 million times per day planning not one, but TWO cross-country trips to hold each other and berate reality TV stars in an effort to not feel like total rejects who will die alone.

      PS – It’s my birthday next week.



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