This Goodbye is Forever

My first big love got married. I’m going through so many fucking emotions right now. I don’t know how to deal with them. I’m either drinking or sleeping. Drinking currently, obviously.

I’d be happy if he was with someone he loved, but a guy doesn’t fly to Baltimore to see his ex for shits and giggles. I think he wanted me to tell him to stay. 

I slept with him. Not fucked. Just slept next to him. Jet lag is a killer. I remembered his smell; it was the same. I held back the tears. I knew it would be the last time. I didn’t want to ruin it.

Do you love me?

Of course. Always.

Can you say it…?

I’ll love you for always.

I drove him back to the airport and then laid in my bed, holding the pillow his head had rested on and breathing in his scent. It was the only thing that really proved he had actually been there.

I slept on the sofa that night.

And then I washed my sheets in the morning.

I’m numb. Jameson’s, my sweet James… You won’t marry Jose Cuervo, will you? He probably will. That’s how my life has always played out. Even my booze can’t stay.

I need to drink more. I’m starting to think of the house, the children, the love, the life I could’ve had with him. All gone. Fortunately I took a minor to the liquor store, and, honestly, who shops better for cheap booze that’ll fuck me up? The owner, a Korean man I call Uncle, gave us a free bottle of Absolut. 

Thank god. 

It’s the little things…right?

Goodbye, Seamus.

Bilbo Baggins vs Darth Vader

I just don’t think I’m ready for the adventure that is Jessica Fizz.

In conclusion, I think I suck at dating.

Or maybe I just need to chill with Bilbo fucking Baggins.

I’m glad my sister Timi is coming out for a visit from West Virginia.

She won’t give up on drinking until I do. Maybe we can go dance at a club after I’m piss drunk.


It’s about 2200 and I’m about to go into Baltimore on a bus.

I’m wearing shorts and a hoodie. My phone and card are securely tucked into my sports bra. Shoelaces tight. Knife at my hip.

I’m not sure what bus I’m gonna take. All roads lead to Rome as far as I’m concerned.

I feel like I have electricity flowing under my skin. All this other shit in my life doesn’t matter right now because I might have to pay out the ass. These actions could have serious repercussions, and they’re all I care about right now. It’s do or die. No time to think about passing classes, renting an apartment, landing a job… Michael.

Time to focus and get my head in the game.

I think about all the good stuff in life I don’t want to miss. I’m going up to Boston at the end of this month and I’m really looking forward to that. One of my sorority sisters invited me to a barbecue thing that has cornhole (I suck so bad, but I wanna get better). Soft serve ice cream with Matt. Back cracks from Abe. Bullshitting with Alex.

According to this bus tracking app, I have about fifteen minutes before the bus makes it to the stop.

My final destination is in Pigtown. Sam’s house.

Me: Hey, I’m coming over.

Sam: …. Are you running here?

Me: You know me too well. Just make sure you’re by the door so if I knock you can let me in right away.

Sam: You’re fucking stupid and reckless. I’ll come pick you up.

Me: No. I’ll be there by midnight. I’ll see you on the flip side.

If I don’t post something in the next day or so, assume I died.


I’m drinking it. I feel good. My teammate’s boyfriend, Sydney, is the bartender. He’s taking care of my mental health. Who needs a fucking shrink? 

Chris, my ex, is texting me. He smells blood in the water. My blood. He says he can come over. I’m about to hand my phone over to Justin so I don’t make any regrettable decisions, but first: “So how’re things with Bethany?” Drunk Jess has arrived.

The haze is kicking in. The good numbness that makes me think all is well, makes me feel nothing. All suggestions sound like Nobel Prize-winning innovations. I’ve placed my fate in the hands of Sydney, Justin, and Megan. 

Please put me to bed. In a flower bed… That means bury me in the ground. 

There’s a lady who teaches an aerial arts class. Her name is Morgana. I think she likes me. She told me I should sleep with the 27 year old virgin from OkCupid. I told her he’s probably not a virgin and just found the holy grail to getting women to do the kinkiest shit in bed on the first date in an attempt to corrupt him. Clever Will. 

I’m done. I won’t be ready for a new person in my life for a bit. Rebounds are unfair to the other person. I need time to hurt and heal. 

Let the healing begin. Sydney has placed another gin and ginger in front of me.

Summer Drinking

Jess why are you buying so much booze…? The sun is still out.

Doesn’t matter if the sun is out. My life is like an eternal darkness.

See, this is why I can’t take you anywhere when you’re drunk.

I swear I’m not.

You said you wanted to go dancing while we were in the car. Only Drunk Jess says that! Put the beer back; we’re going to McDonald’s.

YOU’RE SABOTAGING MY PLANS TO GET SKINNY! …I want large fries with my Happy Meal.

Bring Your Own Furniture Party

I’m still hammered from a party last night. It was called… I don’t even remember. I know “get fucked” and “Memorial Day” were in the title though. I think “Poop” was in the name too, but I’m not sure; in most cases I’d say it’s unlikely, but I go to some weird ass parties. You also had to bring your own furniture, so I brought a yoga ball that is now deflated in my living room… it’s next to a big roll of bubble wrap. How?

I think my buddy Pat tried to set me up with a guy named Dan because his name is written on my forearm in fancy cursive. “Don’t forget me!” Bad news for him; I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line-up if my hands depended on it. Speaking of names, the name on my Solo cup was “Pooty Tang’s Mom.” “Yellowish” also snuck its way on there too.

Fuck. That “cactus juice” did me in. It was half tequila, a third Sprite, and I think the rest of it was Pine Sol (the lemon kind). There was a nice girl in white (I think her name is Tara) who kept putting lime juice in my drink to cut the tequila. What a sweetheart. Or date rapist. I like strong drinks so I can actually taste the alcohol and not have that shit sneak up on me. I equate those sneaky drinks to euthanasia.

I sang Taylor Swift songs to the people in the basement, spoke with a British accent, and had a skeleton Lego thingy behind my ear.

I woke up drunk and hungry (bad combination) and felt like eggs. I didn’t trust myself with frying eggs, so I’m boiling them. Less chance of me burning the house down.

My fingers fumble across the keys; I’m pressing the backspace button far more often than I should. And the light from the screen is blinding. It’s like Jesus is here for round two and He’s making His entrance through my laptop. Good thing He’s here because He needs to take the wheel; I’m going to Sam’s 21st birthday party tonight.