Is it bad to assume that what the drunk heart wants the sober heart agrees with?  I think most of my friends would say, “Yes! Anastasia, get your head out of your ass!” and talk me down from this Blue-Moon intoxicated state I currently find myself in. However, I can’t help but think that those close to me want what is best for me but don’t necessarily understand what that is yet. I‘m guilty of this same fault with my friends. My best friend on earth and I engaged in quite a heated textual conversation the other day about ex-lady friend.  He, somehow, missed all the signs I gave him regarding my ex-lady friend, and finally said to me…”Well, you have to follow your heart because I know you need to.”  Did he really miss those blatant signs, plastered across his phone with neon lights and bold font, or is he allowing me the opportunity to learn from mistakes? I think the latter trumps the former because no lesson is really learned until one experiences it for themselves.

It doesn’t even matter though. Arguing this point is merely semantics, because in my experience (whether you agree with me or not) no matter what anyone tells me, I need to follow my heart. Believe me, I know my heart has lead me astray many times. But that’s how I learn, right? You can have the utmost educated and life-experienced people on earth tell you not to touch the stove top when it’s hot, but you never really learn until your fingers burn.

My fingers are reaching towards that hot burner and simultaneously begging it to singe off skin to teach me to learn.

It’s true. I see it happening in slow motion and every piece of me that knows better is praying that I pull my hand back, but we all know I won’t. Because it’s those damaging third-degree burns that deliver irrefutable evidence of our poor choices. And my skin has not been scarred enough for me to make the right choices, believe it or not.

In this infinite wisdom,  I find to be true that days, weeks, or months that start in chaos often end in chaos. I’m tired of experiencing this repeatedly, yet can’t help but assume these experiences are what keep us sharp, alive and pushing forward. Because if we trap ourselves between four walls in a vain effort of protection, ultimately the only person who is at a loss is ourselves, right?

Let’s talk about my week.

Monday was like the calm before the storm. Unseasonably warm NY weather led me to attempt to grill chicken and peppers in my backyard. For fear of burning down my apartment and consequently the rest of Astoria, I called my father dozens of times to confirm I lit and managed the grill correctly. However, ill-prepared Anastasia decided to spark the grill at 7 and ultimately ended up grilling by flashlight once the sun went down.  Lesson one: beware that it takes a grill roughly forty minutes to heat up enough to cook (or burn, in my case) your food; plan accordingly.

I think the night would have been fine had some of my friends stepped up to the plate. But unbreakable plans resulted in their absence from my grilling, with the exception, obviously, of one crucial player: my ex-girlfriend.

Lesson two: don’t invite your ex lover, significant other, fuck buddy, et cetera to come over and grill unsupervised. What will ensue is easier to predict than a Nicolas Sparks novel: you’ll drink a lot, drinking will lead to talking about sex or , sex will lead to either practicing the act, or, in my case, your ex asking you ridiculous questions that ultimately are none of her business. Cue weirdness and general un-comfort all around.

I was excited for my regular Tuesday night dodge ball game until I realized ex-lady friend and I had, at some point, agreed to stop talking. By this, I mean she decided to stop talking to me, not inform me she would not attend the game (despite promises to come) and mention needing space to a mutual friend. Shocked isn’t quite the best word to describe my sentiment when I realized we were “fighting” but confused sums it up fairly well. When had this happened? Was it a result of our awkward conversation that was unfair on her part to bring up? Was I not allowed to hang out with her roommates (who I had befriended before we started sleeping together) as a result?

Well, fuck answering these questions. I did what I do best: got drunk that night and fired off ridiculously stupid and blatantly passive aggressive texts. I thought throwing balls at people’s faces would cure my blues, but ended up heightening my imaginary testosterone and heightened up my animosity even more.

Lesson three: avoid drunk texts. Seriously.

Wednesday was not too bad, with the exception of ex-lady and I getting into a semi-heated fight via gchat while she was at work. I hit the city for drinks and made a tentative date to reconnect with her later that night. I knew I didn’t want to have a drunken conversation, but fuck if I give up drinking for anyone. I got back to Astoria around 10:30 and met her on her stoop for a chit chat.

It was, hands down, the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with an ex. First, I threw almost all of my cards on the table. They say honesty is the best policy and in this case I decided to practice what my mother frequently preached to me. It’s difficult for me to be vulnerable in front of people I’m sleeping with. I don’t like putting myself out on the edge without knowing there is absolutely no way I will plummet to the bottom. But this time, I walked right up to the edge, stepped over and landed on both my feet with a Shawn Johnson dismount. As a result, we probably had one of the best and most constructive conversations in the year that I’ve known her.

If you’re wondering why I’m being vague about what happened and what we discussed, it’s because we paused the conversation for now. Now is the time for processing and digestion. We’ll finish the conversation at some point, and when I know where we’re going, I’ll split that can open so fast with all the gruesome details my alcohol-swelling mind can remember.

Thursday started to simmer down, I met Carol Burnett, smoked too many cigarettes, and wrapped up grad school applications. But by Friday, I was so emotionally drained and exhausted, I needed to let fucking loose. A few friends decided to head to Brooklyn for a potluck: boring. Ex-lady friend started working on a show that will, thankfully, keep us out of each other’s hair for a little bit. My friend and I were alone for the night and both itching to get cray-cray.

We decided to hit up a big old lesbian bar called the Cubby Hole in the village. Tentative, after a shot of tequila, a beer, half a gin and tonic and lots of convincing, I decided to give it a shot. What could it hurt? We got to the bar around eleven, and the place was crawling with lesbians and a line halfway down the block. We wait for no one, so we headed to an equally gay and fantastic bar down the street ironically located next to the bar Alexis and I had our first awkward date at.

Lesson four: wait for no one.

We walked down the street, passed the bar where Alexis and I had our first date, and hit up another gay bar bouncing techno beats and male strippers. It took me about two minutes for me to finish my potent Beefeater and tonic. The rest that ensued is practically a dream that I barely remember. I feel like I blinked, looked up and found various gay men assaulting my good-looking friend. I expected this, to some extent, but boys, please let me finish my second drink before I have to start imagining reasons why my friend is unable to dance with you.

Then a drag queen, whose name I wish I had caught, entered our lives. Immediately, my friend warned her of our inability to pay for a reading. She insisted, spewing off some line about Karma, and took our hands nonetheless. To be honest, I was too busy texting ex-girlfriend to pay attention to what she said to my friend. Once her hand grabbed mine for a reading, I was struck by two things: first, her breath smelled like fresh mint and heaven; second, I could not tip based on her assessment.

I mean, if you read my story about The Alchemist, it goes without saying that I have issues with god and or religion. I knew right off the bat that the shit she said to me came from the religious source of getting paid rather than spirituality, despite what she said. She told me to keep a journal, which I do. She asked if I see my ex frequently, which I do. So far, she’s said two things that are fairly common for most New Yorkers. Then she told me that my ex will come back into my life.

Well, I was surprised momentarily after having a conversation with her roommate in which he confirmed that she might, in fact, come back into my life in a romantic manner.

However, the drag queen’s fatal and tip-less mistake was assuming that my ex was a man.

“Make HIM buy you flowers,” she said, “Make HIM be nice to you”

Which would be all perfect advice if my ex had a penis, which, mind you, she does not.

After that, I flirted with a Hawaiian girl who was FAR above my league and introduced my friend to the English equivalent of George Clooney.

I mean, the whole night, I’m having an amazing time. I love spending time, drunk or otherwise, one-on-one with friends. That’s when their true colors shine and you are able to fully understand where they come from and how they feel. That alone made the night worth reliving as much as possible. But I couldn’t get that idea that the conversation ex-lady friend and I had might possibly result in round two of our romantic relationship or sleeping together out of my mind. It haunted me like a Poe ghost. Because Maybe I’ll wait for her; maybe I’ll keep her up when she’s down; maybe I’ll flee like a child. Or maybe I’ll hide.

Maybes are funny because we can base our lives around them when we want to, but if you’re speaking maybes than you already know the answer. My answer is glooming in the near future.

-Anastasia Beam