Happy Hour

Last night’s drink: Xtremo [sic] Mango Gatorade

I’m writing from a hotel room in San Francisco where I am swollen with fertility hormones, fighting off a virus, broke and alone. Surprisingly, the worst aspect of this for me is that I’m not at home, but I guess all of the aspects are sort of interchangeable. If I weren’t broke, I could get myself out of bed to do something cool since the hotel is very close to Union Square. If I weren’t sick, I could get a lot of work done and catch up on my narcissistic blog. If I weren’t incubating my eggs, I could go for a jog along the bay or over these crazy hills. Instead, I’m sort of half-assing on all of the above. Taking walks through Chinatown, window shopping, and writing this post. Still, I feel optimistic.

This post has been a few weeks coming, but not because it has anything particularly poignant to say. It’s the first since Josh and I completely broke up. We each moved into new spaces, and are moving forward separately. So this blog marks the first in my re-entry into writing whatever I want, whenever I want without inhibition nor inquisition.

I’ve been cooking up some interesting activities already, but nothing is quite ready to serve. This week will mark one of the first dishes, though, as about 3 dozen of my eggs swell within me and eventually join the sperm of a man I’ll never meet. Outside of my body, I should add. I’m not close to ready to be a parent, more or less Octomom.

On the menu are stories of law enforcement, divas, coffee shops, high school reunions and flipping the bird. Maybe even a few hardline decisions mixed in for taste.

But for now, it’s time to get in the shower and tower above San Francisco’s Chinese, and otherwise.

After all, I’m still a young (wo)man.