In the wee hours of January 1st, “Mo Bamba” was wringing in my ears. Fueled by equal parts champagne and misguided optimism, I proudly declared three things: I’d abstain from drinking, smoking, and texting the man I am (was? am?) in love with. I was at a New Year’s Eve party in Los Angeles's Koreatown, jumping up and down with a plastic glass sloshing dangerously close to my faux fur. Despite the festivities around me, I felt a pang of solitude—a stark contrast to the impulsive kisses I shared with three friends at the stroke of midnight. Blame the flowing drinks. Had I paused for a moment, I might have taken stock of the insane amount of love already present in my life. Instead, I tumbled into the intoxicating depths of self-improvement, trying to identify what needed to be removed or rebranded to make myself more… digestible.
The first domino to fall was the moratorium I put on my communication with Mr. Wrong. It took exactly five days. Five. He texted me, “Should I get glasses like these?” and a photo of Andrew Garfield at the Golden Globes. “Yes,” I replied. Some might think that a five-day standoff is child’s play. To them I say, you’ve never met THIS man. Let’s face it—I was already five days off alcohol and nicotine. One tiny textual relapse felt like a just reward.
I also want to clarify, mostly to my dad who will likely read this, that I am NOT an alcoholic. I’m a 24-year-old hot writer. I made the decision because I thought that sobriety would provide a new level of intrigue. Admittedly, I’ve been known to drink a bottle of pinot noir at a UFC fight and make cock jokes to Netflix execs. Eventually, though, it’s time to stop making cock jokes to Netflix execs.
Other than my ocular stumble, I was feeling great. I made it through some Golden Globes pre-parties and family dinners without even a whiff of martini and I felt like my body was healing—like when they released Tilikum at the end of Blackfish.
I’m interjecting here and I hope you can really hear my voice when I say this. I googled to make sure they released Tilikum at the end of Blackfish. They didn’t! He died in captivity in 2017! RIP Tilikum!
And then something that I truly never could’ve predicted happened. LA caught fire. I went from sending “Happy New Year & Welcome Back!” emails to packing a panic bag with an absolutely screwy amalgamation of items: a perfume that my mother had engraved for me, various irreplaceable vintage garments, and a framed photo of me and my father from when I was in kindergarten. My stress levels spiked as I relentlessly refreshed Watch Duty. It was time to smoke a cigarette over a bucket of water, so as to avoid creating any additional fires, like a real pervert. My vision for Roxy 2025 was crumbling before my very eyes.
(I recognize that in comparison to homes, schools, and livelihoods, the loss of my promises to myself is a small road bump. But wouldn’t it be virtue signaling to get on a column, centered around sex and culture, and talk about issues that I haven’t experienced first hand? So, for better or worse, I'm keeping my eyes on my own paper.)
Recently, someone told me that I’m clearly the kind of person who needs to destroy things (better than their original choice of words, “burn things all the way to the ground”) before I let them go. If I’m letting go of a friendship or job opportunity or my evil man… I’ll let myself get dragged by the feet before I pull my talons out of it. I’m eternally gripping. It's my unique brand of self-destruction; I’ve already reignited my habit of smoking, reconnected with beautiful wrong evil bad men, and I'm scrolling through TikTok, watching the places of my childhood turning into nothing but melted asphalt. So, what’s next? I’m off to tip back some cheap wine in a plastic cup at a comedy show.
The last cog—alcohol. Thirteen days after the proclamation. I have a friend named Zach, who, unlike the usual beautiful, toxic man I can’t seem to shake, is refreshingly decent. We flirt exactly once a month—just enough to keep things interesting, but never enough to mess with the chemistry. He has a traveling comedy show, and he had invited me to the LA installment. In my dreams, all my girlfriends are sleeping with clowns, and this was the easiest path. So, I stood in line with the other comedy WAGs (that’s a sports term I learned for wives and girlfriends).
Zach was one of the few people who checked in on me when the LA fires started, which I learned was an inherently romantic act. Women around me started to trim and grow their rosters depending on the various “you okay?” texts they received. I learned that fires function like birthdays and Christmas: You’re supposed to text the person you’re sleeping with.
And yet, here I am—laughing hysterically, having circled all the way back to the woman I swore I’d never be. I’ve scrapped every expectation I have of myself at this point. Not one thing that was predictable in my life happened after the stroke of midnight on Dec. 31.
So, I’ve admitted to you my three sins. And now I’ll admit a fourth: I’m going to Mr. Wrong’s house tonight. I’ve let all my proclamations go. I’ll be there at 10 p.m., with a glass of wine in my right hand and a cigarette in my left.
I’ll try again next year.
