Don't even think for a second that you don't still owe me. Cause you totally do.

My mom called me over the weekend to tell me to get some new material for this here blog blarg because she's tired of reading about what a sloppy alcoholic her daughter has turned into since moving to Massachusetts and don't I do anything less alcoholic-y with my life anymore because all it seems like I do is sit on boats and beaches and bars and drink beers. And I was all "false, mother. Thanks for playing, come again." But then I looked at some of my recent posts and realized that I might have to change the tag from "I'm not an alcoholic I just write like one" to "I'm just an alcoholic."

And for your information, this long weekend of Independence Day celebrations involved a bit more than sitting on boats and beaches and bars and drinking beers. It also involved five-gallon coolers of rum punch. TAKE THAT, MOTHER. At least my drinking habits are well rounded.

In other Holiday Weekend news, no one was eaten by a shark. Wamp wamp. And it looks like they caught the poor sucker. Wamp wamp wamp. I guess we'll all have to wait a little bit longer for JAWS 6: Imma Fuckin' Eat You, Scituate. Oh wells.

Also, this weekend is the weekend that I let slip to B that I love my life. I'm a little disappointed in myself because I've been doing a great job over the past six months of holding my misery and homesickness over his head because, obviously, it's entirely his fault. The reason? He OWES me. When I was gnashing my teeth and writhing around on the floor before, during, and after we moved up here, B was always eager to comfort me. If I wanted to spend a night in the city, we would spend a night in the city. If I expressed any form of homesickness, B would throw me on a plane to Philadelphia before I could even say "Ifuckinghateyouforruiningmylife." If I wanted pizza for dinner and B wanted spaghetti, a simple "You. Owe. Me." usually did the trick.

I'm not saying that I'm not hit with some seriously painful pangs of missing for the city of Philadelphia on an almost daily basis (because let's be honest, Boston doesn't hold a candle compared to my hipster haven) or for my collective family unit and Philly friends. I'm also not saying that I still don't writhe around on the floor every once in a while and occasionally break some shit because "YOU'VE STOLEN MY PARENTS' GRANDCHILDREN FROM THEM, YOU MONSTER" and I don't even have children. Lawd knows I have enough trouble taking care of myself.

But all in all, I'd say my life these days isn't too shabby. I love my job. I live at the beach. My mode of transportation of choice is a pimpin' bright blue beach cruiser with white rims. I've made some pretty awesome friends who fill my weekends with every means of ridiculous fun. I have a partner in crime. And this weekend, while cruising to our favorite beach aboard our friend's boat I looked around at some of my favorite people then out at the passing beach scenery then back to some of my favorite people then back to the passing beach scenery and I let out a low half grumble half mumble "Iflippinglovemylife." And B was all "EXCUSE ME?" And I was all "I flipping love my life." And he was all "one more time now?" And I was all "I. FLIPPING. LOVE. MY. LIIIIIIIIIIFE" and then I tore off my shirt and bit the head off of a live chicken. And B just kind of snickered. Asshole.

So now I'm a little worried I've lost some leverage. NOW whenever I want to get what I want when I want, I pretty much have to rely on B just being nice. I've totally fucked myself. Thanks a lot, life. You give and then you take. Tweet