This Weeks's Moby Blog Award

You're a hot young thang with a brother whose career is taking off. Your parents are famous and you have a hit attention grabbing single. Your new record is coming out soon. But do you really have to prove that the flacks don't write your PR?

The alcohol-induced haze I often find myself in has a strange way of comforting. It is a familiar space where I let my guard down, throw off the shackles of my press-face facade, and can accept an offer to smile without hesitation. Getting there is half the fun, with the edges of my sleeve wet from condensation slowly ruining a wooden table and perfectly round, tiny circles of darker fabric on my lap where the head of my beer has been carelessly dripped onto my clothes without my notice. The familiar mating dance of seducing a drink and subsequent refills thereof from a jaded waitress has become something I could do in my sleep (which comes in handy when these typical waking activities inhabit my dreams). These excursions have become mileposts, acting as refreshing intermissions in between the times when I am living my life. It's when I begin thinking of my existence this way that the world flips, yin becomes yang, right becomes wrong, and the oceans and the sky trade places. Then I blink the fog from my eyes and realize that intermission has become the main act, and I'm suddenly living like I haven't before.