Confessions of a Grey Goose

  "We'll walk around pretending we're all grown up. Hey, rich girls! Well, can you tell me why you're so stuck up, and act so down."—The Virgins, Rich Girls

"We'll walk around pretending we're all grown up. Hey, rich girls! Well, can you tell me why you're so stuck up, and act so down."—The Virgins, Rich Girls

When vodka speaks, the world falls silent. Or, well, at least it seems like it's silent, because of all the vodka you've been having. Either way, a drunk confession is as close to a religious experience as it gets, at least in my book. And more importantly, it doesn't require getting locked up in a stuffy room with a perfect stranger to give him a glimpse of your dark side. Well, not unless you really want to.

But that's also the reason why some of the "holier places" I've been to are also the ones I shall never return to. You know, not to tarnish the magic. Or come face to face with the people I've blabbed all my secrets to in a liquored haze...

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Big time."

As the old saying goes, everybody sins, but not everybody spills (or something like that). Sometimes keeping private things private is especially important―especially when you get it on with all the wrong men, especially if you're inhibiting a conspicuously tiny geographical dimension with the aforementioned men's ex-girlfriends, and especially when everybody thinks they know everything already. So as you can see, some people are really ought to keep to their sober selves.

To blog or not to blog was not an easy question for me, but, after all, I've decided that there's no harm in a bit of semi-anonymous gossip accompanied by the clickety-clack of the keyboard. If I'm wrong, I should find out soon enough, but until then, there's a couple of stories I still might get to share with you. Some are about me, some are about certain people in my life that shall remain anonymous forever, and some are urban legends, stories passed from girl to girl in the strictest confidence of a pajama party variety.

Everybody needs a diary of sorts.

A.