Me, Myself and Irene

So, I am stuck inside of my apartment because my five-dollar Duane Reade umbrella finally decided to quit this bitch. I ventured outside to get some coffee and decided drinking mimosas by myself on the couch would a MUCH better idea. Although, I did get a tasty invite from a homeless man to come to his Hurricane Irene party because, and I quote, “It’s about to get crazzzzzy.” Yeah, yeah it is. You don’t even have a roof to party under, so we can’t let that mutha fucka burn. As tempted as I was to party with this man who smelled like Colt 45 and wet dog, I decided drinking at home was a safer option. Plus, when I am bored, I can stumble out and make friends in the elevator bank. We will have all kinds of cool weather phenomena to make small talk about. Hell, I could even slip something in about Steve Jobs’ resignation: 8/24 Never Forget.

Now let me preface this by saying I will feel really bad if some shit pops off in New York, but Hurricane Irene is about as powerful as the stream of a 60-year-old man with prostate problems. Getting a little sprinkle here in D.C., and my friend down in N.C. just referred to it as Hurricane Asthmatic Kitten, so there’s that. But I am going to take this opportunity to sit on my ass, drink like it is Snowmaggedon and watch really trashy television – something my roommate is already knee deep in. She is realllllly watching “She’s The Man.” For those of you with actual things to do and some brain cells, ”She’s The Man’” is a zany tween comedy about a girl who dresses up as her twin brother to win over the love of her life at soccer camp. Hilarity ensues or it is supposed to.  (And I know some of you asshole friends are sitting there saying, “Whatever, Jamie, you watch Toddlers and Tiaras and Dateline.” Well you can just shove it!)

Anyway, last weekend marked the final party that I had to plan for my sister’s upcoming nuptials: The bachelorette weekend. I had an amazing time even though I ended up sharing WAY too much about my sex life, something usually reserved for the soon-to-be bride. Woops. Looking back at it, it is pretty hilarious because all of the wedding gatherings turned out very well, and they were a large part of why I got a one-way ticket to Xanax-ville. All of that worry over nothing. But don’t tell my doctor, or I will not get the good shit anymore.

While I was at the airport waiting for the plane that would take me to the beautiful coasts of North Carolina, I had a bit of a revelation about how excited I was to get the hell out of D.C.

I had an original entry that I furiously scribbled out when I was in the airport (in my journal titled: My Dysfunctions), but I thought it was a little schmaltzy and forced. But I might just share it anyway.

I felt like a pretty massive dweeb journaling in the airport. A far cry from the hipness of Carrie Bradshaw smoking a cigarette in her NY studio, typing furiously away at her MacBook and coming up with the most clever puns and one-liners. Nope, I was sitting, sipping on some Dunkin’ Donuts–that tasted oddly char-grilled—watching ‘the suits’ stand around with the proverbial stick-up-the-ass look.

This is D.C., I thought. And if we ever got our own iconic t-shirt (instead of ripping of New York’s), I think it would be something like: “I [uptight, self-important man in a suit graphic] D.C.” I bet I have some out-of-work graphic designer friends that could knock that one out of the park. Thinking about it, why don’t we just go dirty seventh grade phallic humor and throw in a Washington Monument? I can’t be the first person who thought of this. Anyway, I digress.

I used to call D.C. my pit stop before New York. But someone better call the Guinness World Book, because at three years and still going, this has to be the longest pit stop in history. It also happens to be one of my longest and unhealthiest relationships.

Also, disclaimer: If you like D.C., you may hate me after this. If you’ve been thinking about visiting, disregard everything I say because, hey, diff’rent strokes. I wouldn’t want to sully anyone’s good time…not this Negative Nancy. NEVER!

I came to the nation’s capital right out of undergrad and I wanted to be a journalist – but not a political journalist. Mistake one! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am very passionate about being an unapologetic, flaming dirtball liberal, but writing for a Hill publication sounds about as fun as watching Danny DeVito and Snooki have sex, which I am thinking the 69 position would be the only thing that would work for those little nuggets. (Too much? Never.)

Mistake two: I came for a boy.

So here is my open letter to the District:

D.C.  --

I would just like you to know that I’ve never had such an intense love/hate relationship with anyone in my life. And you don’t even provide me with sexual tension or hate sex. Thanks.

Instead, everyday I wake up, another friend has relocated, Chinatown smells a little more like a petting zoo and the “Thriller” video extras now walk the streets during daylight hours. I have been mugged at knifepoint and hit by a car. I have no savings because of your insane real estate prices. I work for people who single-handedly destroy the environment with every over-indulgent business lunch at Charlie Palmers’. I’ve been called snowflake more times than I can remember. I’ve watched teens brawl on the metro, and I’ve turned into that person who upon meeting someone immediately asks some analogue of “What do you do?” or “Where did you go to school?”

But I still love you. I love you after three years.

You’ve taught me how to be street smart. You’ve built my resume. You’ve given me the pleasure of watching fat tourists fall of Segways.  You were there when I witnessed the inauguration of the nation’s first African American president. You’ve shown me that people from both sides of the aisle can get together to jam to the O’Jays and celebrate sanity. You’ve also introduced me to Kal Penn, or Kumar as many of you know him.

Even though I hate you a good amount of the time, D.C., I don’t think you are the worst.  After all, I can say that I discovered myself here – now I have some idea of what I like, what I don't, who I want to be, what I want to do and how I want to do it.

But I fear because of my own wanderlust, you may not have me much longer. However, I am always down for a self-loathing booty call. New York may have me next, maybe Boston, who knows – but always remember: it will just be sloppy seconds.

Always yours,
Jamie

I will say though that I needed that vacation. I needed that vacation like I need Alexander Skarsgard to be naked in my bed with a medium rare Shake Shack burger, a beer and five million dollars.