My Dream Intervention

As I poured a glass of vodka for myself tonight and prepared to binge-watch some type of crappy "reality" show, probably about a minority group who live outside their means in hilarious ways,thus making me feel equal parts happy/sad. I started thinking about my sister's upcoming wedding. And how happy I was. And how ridiculously anxious I am about returning to my hometown, still out of shape and only slightly better than most of them (which merely means my grip on real life is becoming stronger and less demented which I'm not proud of). Then I got distracted by the cat rolling around on the floor which was the CUTEST THING YOU EVER DID SEE Y'ALL! I can't wait for the party, that's the best part of the wedding. I like parties. I especially like pretty parties after a wedding where everyone feels like no laws of social etiquette apply to them. Like, "I put on a suit, I can do what I want" kind of mentality.  They get outlandishly wasted and all the old white people forget the rules to rhythm that they never really knew in the first place, yet they remember that once they DID see a Michael Jackson video but they are too drunk to attempt to recreate any of it. It was after the cat rolled around but before the crappy show started when my mind forgot anything about whatever wedding I was thinking about and started realizing...I will never have that fancy party after a wedding for myself. Let's be real. It has zero to do with politics so don't get all weird about this, it has everything to do with the fact that I would never put the curse of "living with me forever" onto another human being.  Nor do I ever want to meet the person that would be okay with such a fate. Good god, can you imagine this person? I'm doing it right now and if I get my wits about me, I'll try to sketch a picture for the end of this ramble-blog. ***later edit: I did but I'm not sharing it, he's mine and only mine!***

Let's catch up. I drink alone. I like horrible television. My sister is getting married soon. I am never getting married, out of choice not because I'm a horrible ugly beast with issues regarding real relationships not based on fantasy worlds I create in my head or the fact that I really hate wearing suits or am the only person who thinks they look fat in black.  But I want SOMETHING. I deserve SOMETHING. I've worked hard, my parents deserve the "coming out" debutante party to show off their college graduated, bar-tending 32 year-old-of-a-son! Which means, I'm doing this all for other people and not for personal gain because I'm a beautiful, selfless individual (WHY WON'T ANYONE MARRY ME!...ahem...hack...cough...stupid autocorrect).

When I was a just a small drunk child, I used to read a lot of celebrity autobiographies and there always seemed to be a common theme, a common keyword that threaded the ones I read together. I would tell my mom my plans of becoming famous and she would say, "For what?" (with all the confidence she could muster) and I would earnestly tell her "For going to the Betty Ford Center!!!".  I mean, I seriously told her that up until I was 15 or so.  So ever since I was a young child, I've always known I was destined for rehab.  But, as I grew older and wiser and drunker, I realized that rehab that cushy was not only very dramatic of me but taking a week or more off of work was simply not feasible and the celebrities these days have really taken the punch out of going to rehab anyway.  Celebrities ruin everything.  So now what? No wedding. No rehab. I NEED ATTENTION! And the more I write about it, the more it's dire that I get it soon (READ MY BLOG!!!).  Well, bringing it all back around to my love for crappy television, I remembered my college days of drinking a box of wine whilst watching "Intervention" and crying because no one had ever cared to write me a letter that I could rip up in their face before! That was college. This is many many years after college. I think I'm finally in that place where I have enough people who truly love me that they WOULD write a letter. They WOULD gather in a cold church basement where they lured me under pretense of a surprise party to celebrate the birth of Diana Ross.And they would definitely be well armed (physically and emotionally) for the dramatic backlash that would come after letters were read.  What more is there to discuss??????? WE SHALL HAVE AN INTERVENTION! And it shall be the world's grandest intervention that A&E (who should really rethink that name these days) will want to start having a "Gypsy Intervention" show just to try and outdo me.  If there is a God...this will be the way things happen.

On my next birthday (33rd, pay attention) I will finally have my Dream Intervention. Something I can shove in the faces of all the substance abusers I've known throughout the years and say "mine was better than yours!", something they will be talking about in every bar from here to...wherever the furthest bar away is.  It will be the new definition of Epic.  And god help you, if you are my friend and are reading this, don't fuck it up. This is a one time thing. Anyone who has more than one intervention (much like those with more than one wedding) are never looked upon the same. I will not be shunned by society because you can't follow simple instructions.  From here on, I will strategically give you every detail and helpful hint to help you pull this off by December 5th. There is no longer an excuse not to shower me with love, I mean, it is in a sense...my wedding day.

1) Normally I prefer my birthdays to be in very showy places, so everyone can see how many people love me and watch me levitate on said love. Not this time. Pick a locale on your own, but pick a cold, sterile environment. Like a church basement where there are only folding chairs and donought crumbs from last night's "Overeater's Can't Be Anyonmys Because It's Very Obvious Who You Are" meeting.  But pick a nice people church, I don't need to burst into flames or anything...this year.

2) Decorations are a must. Like, spend some money. If I'm going to spend my birthday in a damn basement, you're going to make it look half way decent. I swear to the god of this church basement, if I see any g-d crate paper, you're all going to hell if I have to drag you there myself. Think "Rhianna's Intervention" when choosing diamonds for the punch bowl. Shine bright like a booze bowl.

3) Since we're on the diamond-encrusted punch bowl already, let's talk refreshments. Let's not get this twisted in ANY way at all. It's an intervention, not a...what's something you don't drink at? Waiting in line to get a drink. It's not that.  There will be booze. Like, fancy tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas and leis that are not made of crate paper (seriously y'all, don't do it). But, I hate theme parties so there needs to be an assortment. Whiskey bowl. Fancy drink bowl. Turlet wine bowl. Fireball ice sculpture.  All of it. I imagine, if you know me at all, you know I want everyone and their mother at this thing and with that comes the knowledge that there's ZERO chance I'm going to like everyone attending. So there will be booze. No drugs because this isn't an intervention for a punk band full of 45 year olds.  Booze. In pretty glasses. Make sure the event locale will allow glass in their precious basement, if you guys are gonna berate me about my addictions, I'm not drinking out of plastic.

4) The intervention itself. Tears. There will be tears. Not from me, I'm a robot and I don't cry unless I look fat in any of the facebook pics that we post later. I want letters, heartfelt letters. Damning letters, tell all my secrets (but please run these secrets past me first, lives are on the line here). Marriage proposals, "If you get clean, we will make this work, I promise" kind of stuff. I've SEEN "Intervention", I want hello kitty stationary and ghosts from my past.

OOH! NEW ONE!

5) I want special guests. Lots of them. Hide them in closets and make them dress super stupid so I laugh at them when they come out, instead of being horribly horrified that you found the mailman I touched inappropriately when I was a teen because I was really happy to get my 10 CDs for a penny (seriously, I want that guy there, we've got things to talk about).

6) There has to be a moderator. And here's how I'm picturing it. One of you dressed like a sexy librarian in a porn.  At any time things get boring or out of control (I expect both) just undo that hair bun and shake it out. Please and thank you. Moderator should be chosen by drawing straws and by having a "who knows eric better" contest. The loser, I want as the moderator....because I don't care to hear your half-assed letter if you don't even know if I like Huey, Duey, or Louey better.

7) There will be plenty of dance/drink breaks. Maybe a DJ that only plays 90s R&B. I want that guy to write a letter too because if we're not already, we should be friends.

8) The ending. Some of you have been around during some very dramatic, ridiculous outbursts in my career. And we've all laughed it off...over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. When the sexy librarian asks me if I will accept your help that you are offering to me on my beloved day...you may want to be ready for the truth bombs and make sure none of that glass is anywhere close to me or to your eyes.  This will be my theatre degree finally put to use. It will be Lady Macbeth meets Ernest Goes to the Mental Ward.  And just typing that sentence makes me wish it was December right this second.

9) If you WANT to buy me a plane ticket to somewhere to entice me into going on a "vacation", I will probably take it.

I know I've put a lot on you. But ya know, when you're a child and you dream of something for so long, you just want it to be perfect. Something you tell other people's grandchildren about.  I want to wear a pretty ball gown and be showered with love/with affirmations about how my actions have negatively affected your life. It will give me great joy going into my 33rd year of torturing the people I love.  I'm thinking I may need a wedding party for this too, like a groomsman and all that to stand around me and look pretty during the whole thing. So, in closing, don't destroy the only dream I have left. Just don't do it.  No pressure. And just to nail the money into the doorway (is that a thing?), I may act out just a little more so that you feel this is a much needed thing in my life.  Just fair warning.

Love,
me.