rorikatherine

costello's first law

the hills are alive...

…With the sounds of all kinds of shit. I sincerely apologize for practically being on a milk carton for the last three weeks. There’s really no specific reason or excuse for it other than I just have not felt like it. I’m an adult, that’s reason enough - I don’t have to answer to anyone - YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD.

I don’t even know where to begin….to start boring you to tears. I have to say the last month or so has been pretty good to me with only a few hiccups, those being the development of a seemingly irrepressible inclination to petty theft and the ever-present “unemployment situation”.  But as luck would have it, the former mostly compensates for the latter so really there is no for you need to panic (because I know that you would).

And while my period of (f)unemployment is temporary—really, it’s more of sabbatical from overcooking brownies and spitting in the cupcake batter—I have to admit I’ve developed a taste for this shiftless life I now lead.  The absence of responsibility leaves me free to spend all day in the library and all night in the bar, the two places that zoologists would label as my natural habitats should the Discovery Channel ever produce a Rori Costello Two-Hour Special.

So, with all that being said, I bid you adieu and warn you that it very well may be another month before I post since, historically speaking, the only time I gain followers is when I shut the fuck up.

birthday redux-x-x

Thirteen hours into 21 and the jury is still out on whether or not I can keep up with this nonsense. I thought I was a pretty dedicated boozer (and bruiser), but having spent the hours since 3am passed out in a pool of my own mortality…certain doubts have arisen.

I sound like Dina Lohan today and everything I put in my mouth tastes vaguely of liquor. This is not a good moment, but I have faith that the dust will clear and I will re-emerge as the reigning princess of youth, beauty and self-respect.

Anyway.  Real life pals: check your call log. I probably dialed your number at some point early this morn as I was writhing around the floor in an alcohol poisoned panic, and barely any of you came to my rescue. Shame! Curses forever on your soul! I am blogging dead in order to tell you that you are so fucking haunted. Burn.

for posterity's sake

Tonight, I put the capstone on My Life’s Work To Date, which is to that say I turn 21.

God and alcohol dehydrogenase enzymes willing, I will live to blog again.  But if not, take comfort in the fact that I died doing what I loved: drinking wine from a box while wearing a novelty crown.

I would also like to add, for posterity’s sake, that I love you and think you look good in your bikini.

May God be ever with you as you ride, Hunter.

here's to injustice!

Growing up, you have this notion that adulthood is going to be a glamourous affair rife with tinkling cocktails and sweeping city views from the windows of a 5-star hotel, all enjoyed in the company of a ruggedly handsome male escort named Alistair whose exorbitant hourly fee you pay by stealing money from the eleventh Congressional district of North Carolina which you are presently representing (rather indifferently, it must be said) in the House for your second consecutive term.

Well, maybe you didn’t envision this future, but sometimes I did.  I never would have foreseen an adulthood that found me laying down a line of rat poison in a protective circle around my bed and sleeping with one eye open and a rolled-up newspaper weapon at my side, poised to do battle with an occupying army of creatures that live in the walls. There is not a shred of dignity in it, though of course the thought of maintaining a modicum of self-respect in this life has long since been chucked to the side of the long long road.

and I swear it's not ours

here have some summer

Sorry I keep skipping out of your lives like some sort of whiskey-soaked deadbeat dad, but important shit was going down in the month of May.  Most of it involved bureaucratic authoritarianism and/or plate tectonics, so I will not torture you with a play-by-play.

A few days into summer and I am slowly readjusting my pace.  That is to say, I am quickly slowing my pace.  I think sometimes the hardest thing for me to do in this life is to let go of the prescriptions laid out by the example of my parents. Hard work and responsibility, mixed together with a dash of modest living, will suit you just fine.  And while certainly I take no issue with any of the above, more and more I question my ability to slog away for hours upon hours in an office doing boring work that has neither direct impact on nor direct benefit for me.

And anyway, who’s to say that working on the mystery of why those drunk Mexicans congregate in the parking lot of the abandoned wholesale grocer is not an adequate use of my time?  Certainly not me…