This year has been a real challenge, a step forwards and one back in so many ways. A significant relationship ended and short term love became something I understood, could grab on to and remember later. I made decisions and I worked hard some days and was lazy others. I met people, friends who changed my life and became family. I listened to one song, fifty two times in a week. I moved in and out and dropped dishes on the floor.

I made peace with ends and beginnings and I fought silently so hard just to be okay. There were times I felt I could burst with happiness and others where I was not sure I would understand anything again. There were hospital beds, slept in more than one, two or three times but I was most at home in the house I grew up in and so I return, grateful and pleased.

I missed everyone and I wished you were here. Hundreds and hundreds of days and I wished you were here.

This year was something, something new; straddling youth and adulthood, whispering into the ear of both, I was bewildered. I felt changed and I consider it significant.

This year, more than any before, taught me that every month, minute and day means something. We are not here for long so let us remember this at least. Let us remember this, at least.


things i've said today due to hangover

1) i’m dying

2) i’m dead

3) i think i’m not alive

4) someone help me

5) someone shoot me

6) i hate christmas

7) this hangover is jesus’ fault

8) stop telling me to stop blaming jesus

9) kill me.

10) i’m gonna puke.


I'm a snob and now my whole family has written proof

Email I sent out this week to my parents, brother and sister:

hi family,

i’ve decided i’m only giving books for christmas this year. aside from that unreadable trash that is sarah palin’s memoir, is there anything you would like? (coughmomcough) actually, never mind, don’t tell me. i’m just going to buy you books that are awesome* and that you would like and should read.

dad, you said something about lewis and clarke?

also i’m not buying anyone anything that has dan brown or malcom gladwell as the author.

snobbily yours,

the first born.

*preapproved by kelly bergin, who holds a b.a. in english and a weekend subscription to the new york times (AS OF YESTERDAY!)


Another One Where I Get Stopped In The Street By My Neighbors

This morning, as I walked to the F...

Hip New Yorker: Excuse me
Me: (Takes off headphones that are blaring Joshua Radin, don't judge me) Yes?
Hip New Yorker: Do you know you have all this white powder on the back of your jeans?
Me: (Screwing my body around to see) Oh wow. No.
Hip New Yorker: And a Forever 21 tag sticking out.
Me: Oh.
Hip New Yorker: Yeah see?
Me: Oh! Haha, wow, so that's where my gram of coke went.
Hip New Yorker: (Silence)

I really need a full length mirror.


I walked into the church, noticing immediately the crowds, the dispersion, the families with the toddlers and their strollers. I want to be inconspicuous so I sit, inconspicuously, in the middle. In the middle I blend in and I don’t invite stares because my head is down, iPhone off, hands folded.

I remember how to do this because I’ve been here a thousand times before. The knee rest comes down and with it my joints hit the padding, not immune from the painful wood that lies beneath. I bow my head to say a prayer; I recite the ones I know, the morning prayers from Catholic school. The Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be.

The Mass begins and for me it is a time warp, a reversion to the child I Once Was. Reverent, wicked, funny. Sometimes we’d laugh in the pews, shoulders shaking in desperate silence. Everything was funnier when we were shushed, one finger to teacher’s lips.

The priest takes to the pulpit for the first reading and I take it in. The smell of incense, the families huddled together in silent prayer. The Bible passage that I can remember so clearly, the Septembers when the light would hit the stained glass in its morning gaze and I would close my eyes and listen. I watch the families now. They each pray separately and I hope that their wishes are one and the same; that their prayers are for each other.

As a child, I always believed. I believed that if I asked God to spare my family pain, he would. I believed that Santa Claus would bring me a bike and the Easter Bunny, the marshmallow eggs I ate with admirable ferocity. Mostly I prayed that God would make me good, show kindness to my family, keep his distance but show his love too. Occasionally I’d get sick enough to pray for myself, for a reprieve. I like to believe that I received it. That I was immediately relieved.

A miracle was created here, every Sunday. Every Sunday we were given something to believe in, cling to. And I don’t regret it for a second. It taught me to see outside of myself, to have faith in the things I could not see.

But things didn’t get easier, they only got harder and I floated more and more away from the child I once was, the cross I once wore.

I don’t need it. This is what I told everyone. It was easier not to believe than to believe because I am tough and that is the story I told. I don’t need religion, I said. To save me, cure me. To make this journey easier.

But I’ve found that for me, there is no absolutes and so there is part of me that wants to to go back, back to those musty pews and incense candles, to the thrill in the boom of the priest’s voice and the unique feel of holy water, caught on my cheek.

Back to when belief wasn’t a dirty word and our objections were met with answers that I could cling to.

Back to a time when I didn’t know I lived in a land of make-believe.


Fancy Feast

Last night, we went out to...

Er. Forget it.

I could tell the story.

Or I could sing the story.

I present to you my latest song, off my new album I've Lost My Goddamn Mind, "Fancy Feast".


How I Made A Good Impression In My New 'Hood

I recently moved to the East Village/ Lower East Side (my apartment is kind of on the border and some people say I live in the EV, others claim it's LES--all I know is that it's filled with good-looking hipsters and lots of bars for me to drown my sorrows in). It's a "cool" neighborhood, so naturally I barely fit in. Despite this, I'm really trying--I keep buying scarves and fake leather jackets and Chuck Palahniuk books and boots that only Uncle Jesse or Harley from Boy Meets World would wear. I love the neighborhood but my building isn't the nicest-- despite the fact that it has a "doorman" (who spends a lot of time yelling at soccer games and only occasionally mans the door), it also kind of feels like a college dorm, complete with weird murals on the walls and smells of Chinese food and vomit lingering in the halls.

There’s tons of young people living here so I had hopes that I would stumble upon a group of coffee and whiskey swilling , who would incorporate me into their group and call me Choebe (combo of Chandler and Phoebe). But it turns out most of my building's inhabitants are symptomatic (snobby and awesome) of the neighborhood, so unfortunately I haven’t found a hot new musician boyfriend yet, or made best friends with a former child actress, or befriended Natasha Lyonne (I saw her on my street and I think I can save her!!).

Anyway, onto my story...

After working late the night before, Wednesday morning started out like every other, beginning with an hour long fight with my snooze button and followed by another particularly brutal fight with myself over whether i needed to shower (a quick look in the mirror awarded TreSemme the win). After crying in the shower in anticipation for another day at the office, I emerged in a towel (both scarring my roommate and myself). Walking into my clothes, paper and book strewn room, I had to make my big decision of the day-- what I should wear to work. Little did I know that today's decision would provide to be one of my top ten embarrassing moments, a list that seems to grow with each passing moment of my sorry life.

I personally believe that the day's incident stems from my newfound refusal to wear pants. See, I hate wearing the devil's denim because every pair of my jeans are tight on me right now and it hurts to wear them, especially when I sit down or eat food. Plus when I take them off (the second I get home from work), there’s all these judgmental red marks on B.O.B. (belly over belt) that remind me I need to get back my ass back to the Chinatown Y. (For both the workout and the flirtation I’ve started with Li, a personal trainer who not only taught me what a flex band is but also showed me what love is.)

In my denial of my denim, I threw on the leggings that I got in the children’s section of Target. They are super cute with lace on the ends and they only cost $4. (They're a kids size 14-16 which prompted my mom--as she did my laundry-- to ask me if they were actually a women's size 14--thanks Mom, not there yet).

I also put on my favorite underwear, a lime green pair from Old Navy kids (Don’t judge. They are super cute and have a picture of a bird on the butt! Risque!). I then threw on a T-shirt that was apparently not long enough to cover my ass and walked out the door.

As I walked through the lobby, a scruffy and beautiful hipster I had stared at longingly before stopped me. Yes, I thought. He’s finally going to ask me out. Maybe we’ll even go to that secret bar with no name! “Excuse me. Do you live here?” “Yes,” I replied, attempting to bat my stubs of eyelashes. “Well, you might want to run back upstiars. Your tights are kind of see through”. I choked on my Activia drinkable yogurt (it tastes really good! Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite genius!) and said “Oh. Oh. Um. OH. okay. Thanks.” I ran back upstairs, changed, and spent the rest of the day with a red face.

And now every time I see Max (I don’t know his real name but he looks like his name is Max), I hide.

Because let's face it-- there’s really no recovering from that.


someone once told me i should write more serious shit on my blog so this is what happened this week, no jokes or nothin! DEAL, BITCHES.

My tooth hurts on Wednesday and by Thursday I am in agony

and by Friday I am in the dentist’s chair

and on Saturday I am swollen but fine

and I miss Halloween because I cannot

will not

drink for the fun and the costume.

And even though i think that this is my chance to shine

I’m tired and this year is not last and this is not fun and I do not

have the energy to create and drink and forget.

And Sunday I wake up and my face is a wreck

all shapes and circles

all the hard lines disappeared under this mask.

In the ER they call it edema

and because I am special and worthy,

and because once in Philadelphia

they called me the mystery child,

They Are Confused.

And because I am entitled and young and susceptible,

I get a bed in the wing for old people.

And because of my shitty luck, a scalpel meets my skin

and my gums bleed

and I kick the sheets

and I scream on the inside

and I am told how tough I am.

By Monday night I am released,

and Tuesday back at work.

I am tough


That is what they said.


I've been insanely busy with life, work, promotion, hospital, Yankees, beer...


I haven't gotten around to writing.

But I will, I swear.

Coming soon!

A) Kelly's diet tips
B) Kelly's tips for surviving the ER (scalpels not included)
C) Other stuff I'll think of before I hit publish post


D) Ha. Thought of one. Bearded men!

See ya soon, SUCKERS.


I'm Rabbit Sitting This Weekend


Make sure you pet Coolie on the head a lot. HARD! He likes it rough. And talk to him.

The most important thing: if people are over and hanging out for a while, you need to let him run around or he will be miserable. Bunnies are very social creatures and need to feel included so that they don’t become depressed. When you leave, you HAVE to catch him and put him back in his cage. He cannot be left unsupervised or he will eat lead paint and die. When he is out, be sure to keep the door open so he can get back into his cage if he wants to or needs his litter box.

When he is out of his cage: THE BATHROOM DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED AND THE KITCHEN GATE MUST BE PUT ACROSS THE GAP. He CANNOT go into the bathroom or kitchen because he will go into my closet and eat my dresses and/or go into the kitchen and eat the electric and/or gas cords and die/ possibly blow up the building. You should keep the bathroom door closed at all times and the gate up as well just so you don’t forget. This is VERY important.

Food: there is food in the plastic bin next to his cage. Just make sure there is always food in his dish.

Water: change his water as much as possible with cold water from the tap. When you arrive change his water, when you leave, change his water. He needs to drink a lot and likes clean water because he is a prissy bitch. If you show up after he has had a temper tantrum and he has thrown his toys in the water, take them out and give him fresh water. If he has put newspaper, food, poop, etc in his water dish b/c he is a brat, flush the stuff down the toilet and give him fresh water. He does need his water changed 1x/day minimum.

Litter box: once a day just throw a handful of clean shavings (in the plastic bin next to his cage) over the poopy ones. This way the apt won’t smell and neither will he.

Newspapers: if he pees or poops on his newspapers, just lay clean ones over the dirty ones (in the plastic bin next to his cage). This way the apt won’t smell and neither will he. Be sure not to cover his toys with the news papers when you do so.

Hay: if you feel so inclined, throw a little handful of clean hay (in the plastic bin next to his cage) into his litter box. He likes to eat it while he poops.

If you have ANY questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to call me at any time of the day or night (I will be awake and probably doing something ridiculous).

Feel free to eat, drink, smoke, etc anything you find in the apt and I will buy some beers for you tonight and leave them in the fridge. If you have a party, send me pics so I don’t feel left out.

Shanks and Alex, make sure Kelly doesn’t get too drunk and forget to take care of Coolie. If he dies, I will never let you forgive yourselves.

If I die in Vegas please make sure Coolie gets safely to my mother. Her name is Kathy and she may be reached at 555-555-5555 (EDITOR'S NOTE: I always wanted to do this to a real phone number like they do on TV or in The Babysitter's Club books.)

Thanks, Muffin! You are the best.



P.S. I’ve copied my brother and sister on this email as witnesses to your responsibilities.


Probably the funniest email I've ever received. Erica is my work BFF and if I kill the only child God/nature would ever give her, I'm going to:

A) Probably get fired
B) Have to put together a rabbit funeral
C) Be around when she cries, which is just awkward.

Wish me luck.



Editor's Note: You've seen my brain fueled by M&M's and Diet Coke, but have you ever seen my brain fueled by exercise? This, dear friends, is my brain on NATURAL endorphins.

6:30: I leave the office, a vicious war wagering in my brain. The bad side of my brain says: "Go home, little one. You've had a long* day and you only ate two slices of pizza for lunch. You don't need to work out." The good side of my brain says: "You are such a fatass. Think of all the ziti you ate last night! Not to mention the bagel, the bread and the brownies. AND YOU DRANK WHOLE MILK, YOU DISGUSTING SWINE."

7:00: After much deliberating, I reluctantly walk into my new gym, the Chinatown YMCA. The smell of gym mats and healthy people make me sick to my stomach, but I soldier on. I enter the locker room, only to be flashed by half a dozen Asian grandmothers. Looking good, ladies. Loo-ooking good.

7:10: I force myself into my too small Nike one piece bathing suit that I bought during my brief stint as YMCA coach during freshman year of college. I must have gotten taller, right? That's why this doesn't fit, RIGHT?

7:12: I fumble around the locker room, trying to find the showers. I walk in on a mother and a daughter who both yell at me and act like I'm a pedophile. GOD, I'M SUCH A ROOKIE.

7:14: I "shower". By shower, I mean I unsuccessfully attempt to put on hot water and screech as I get blasted by a stream of ice cold "peasant" water.

7:17: One last look in the locker room mirror confirms that I do in fact look like Michael Phelps with boobs and a gut...and less defined biceps.

7:18: I grab my hand towel and head to the pool, where I pull out half my hair in an attempt to get my bathing cap on. I then nearly break my brand new goggles and slip in the hallway connecting the locker room and pool.

7:20: I make it to the pool deck, where I see that a group of beautiful Australian swimmers are stretching before diving into the "fast lane". They call each other "mate" and ooze sex appeal. I pass them on the way to the loser lane, sucking in my stomach so hard that I hear my ribs crack. Self-loathing reaches an all time high.

7:22: I stick my feet into the slow lane, still out of breath from sucking (in my stomach. and at life). Three arthritic grandmothers are practicing their backstroke and judge me as I dive under the water and immediately get my few remaining strands of hair caught in the duct.

7:22:30: Screeching for the second of many times that evening, I pull my hair free. Most of my fellow swimmers are staring at me. Tears streaming down my face, I duck back under and focus on finding my inner Nemo.

7:23: I make it a few strokes before coming up for air. The AARP have swam past me, laughing at me as I choke on the chlorinated water.

7:33: After several*** vigorous laps, I look eagerly up at the clock, thinking that at least an hour has passed. Sadly, it has only been ten minutes.

7:45: I swim back and forth with the energy and stamina of my fellow lanies (I hope by making up nicknames, they will accept me as their own. I really want to learn bridge.)

7:50: Deciding that I've had enough of this exercise crap for one day, I emerge from the pool, hoisting myself up like a goddess. People stare as I exit the pool, obviously taking in my exquisite form and exceptional looks.

7:52: I enter the locker room and shriek at my reflection in the mirror. Apparently I was not wearing waterproof mascara and I resemble a drowned raccoon.

7:54: Defeated by my post-swim ugliness, I shower quickly, accidentally soaking my bag and jeans. Note to future self: the bench outside the shower is not protected from the stream.

8: I leave the gym, uglified but feeling oddly successful and pleased with myself.

8:20: I eat ziti and the icing from a stale black and white cookie. Gym again tomorrow, I swear.

*= Lie.
**= One


You know you're a mess when...

1) You confuse leggings for pants.

2) You wear last season's black boots and forget that they had holes in them. On the one day it rains in weeks.

3) You attempt to get up to go to the gym in the morning, but in a half stupor/sleep, you shut off the alarm and wake up at 8:47.

4) Your new coworker asks if you have cats. In complete seriousness.

5) You wear your new black leather jacket outside in the rain, without an umbrella, and ruin it.

6) You eat a mini 3 Muskeeteers bar for lunch and call it a diet.

7) Your paycheck fails to deposit itself and you overdraft because you spend 10 dollars on dinner.

8) Your immune system is so low that you get the flu shot and immediately get a version of the flu that you name Flu Jr.



My First Night With My Breathalyzer

Recently I overpaid in the good name of charity for my very own breathalyzer.

I've been wanting one of these for quite some time.

I always say "Wow, I got so drunk last night!" but I'd actually like to document how drunk I really was. Because let's face it, I overexaggerate.

So the other day my new baby breathalyzer arrived in the mail. I had it delivered to work because I was homeless when I bought it (but now I have a sweet apartment I can't afford!).

I then had the brilliant idea that I would use said breathalyzer to document how drunk I get and maybe even make a chart to show the rise and fall of my BAL (and dignity). The chart idea quickly went out the window due to laziness, but I digress.

So last night I decided to christen my baby breathalyzer at a douchebar (douchebar = a phrase I coined that means a bar in which douchey people play beer pong and quote Anchorman) in my new neighborhood with Declan and Meghan. I ripped the molded plastic open and much to my surprise, the damn thing needed batteries! I thought it just ran on the stanky breath of alcoholics and celebrities.

"Blurgh!", I exclaimed, to the chagrin of Meghan, who vehemently opposes my use of Tina Fey's catchphrase. I guess she doesn't know that my plan is to keep saying it until I run into Tina on the street and she overhears me and makes me assistant writer on 30 Rock. IT COULD HAPPEN.

Dead breathalyzer aside, I decided to just get really drunk and guess my BAL decimal. Just like math class!

So here we go:

.00: I arrive at the bar and chat pleasantly with my friends. I do not overuse the word Blurgh and I do not spill my drinks on anyone. I do, however, complain about being hungry at least four times.

.03: We left aforementioned douchebar and walk outside, only to run into Ross, who was on his way to meet me. I was unaware he was coming, due to a communication misfire, which made me realize that I was at .03.

.05: We decide to go to another, less douchey bar, to drink pitchers of beer. I order my favorite food in the world, chicken fingers with buffalo sauce and blue cheese.

.07: My food comes and I complain bitterly that the chicken is NOT fried! WTF?!

.08: Ross says "Wow, I think you're drunk. Your words are slurred." I respond: "Whart are you teaklkidndgsad about?

.10: That bastard Declan decides to buy us a round of tequila shots. I grapple with the decision of whether I should drink mine or not. Better judgment prevails.

.11: The gang raises their shots in celebration of the Yankee win (I think? I'm the only Yankee fan). I have a fit of genius and decide to fake drinking it but really, I dump the tequila on the floor.

.11 continued: Ross says "I think Kelly dumped her shot on the floor!" I lie, frantically, pretending he's a stupid hipster with great hair and a lying mouth.

.12: Meghan looks at me in disgust and then notices that I accidentally poured the tequila shot into her open bag. Screeching and smacking follow.

.13: I attempt to apologize but am laughing too hard. Instead I chug beer in an attempt to prove that I'm not a wussy.

.14: After realizing that I have work tomorrow, I lie and say that I have to leave because I have an early morning interview. This is laughable because a. I would never leave my job to interview elsewhere because I hate cover letters and sometimes my company gives us free booze and b. I don't have the authority to interview anyone! I barely have the authority to do expense reports!

.15: I stumble into my new apartment and find Jack, my amiable new roommate, attempting to configure our new wireless router. Memories are fuzzy but I'm pretty sure I'm going to be homeless again. In my drunken stupor, I remember that I need to breathalyze myself. I steal the batteries from the remote and blow a .15. After harassing Jack for a few more minutes, I stumble into bed and pass out.

.09: I wake again at 2 am and blow again. Still not okay to drive.



Melodramatic Things I Write On The Train

There is no end to this, no end in sight. And so I will keep running around, living, looking at apartments and drinking and laughing and at some point, a point that has yet to be ingrained in my mind, I will accept It. That this is what happened to me. This is my story. And I'll finally be free, able to look people in the eye when they say oh you'll feel better soon, one day, this will all be behind you-- I will be able to look at them and say, no. I won't. And that's okay.

Because I'm still here.


What Living At Home Is Like /OMG GET ME A NEW APARTMENT!*

Just kidding, Mom.

Here, dear friends, are the pros/cons of living at home.


1) I never have to do my own laundry! Every morning I wake up, surrounded by clean shirts, socks and pants. Everything smells delicious and brand new, like a newborn babe. When I was living in squalor in Brooklyn, my clothes always smelled like Febreze because for me, Febreze equaled Tide detergent. I've come to learn that they are not, in fact, the same. Yay Mom!

2) Sometimes, when my dad drives me to the train station, he says "Do you have any cash?" and even if I do, (rare) I say "no" and then sometimes, SOMETIMES, he gives me a twenty! For no reason! I think maybe he thinks I have to buy my ticket onboard SO NO ONE TELL HIM. Oh crap.

3) My mom cooks me dinner and even if I don't eat it, it's better than my old meals of Ramen noodles and vodka.

4) I'm saving money living at home. And by saving I mean having extra cash to spend on frivolous items like a mini Razor scooter and Miami and Seattle. WOO!

5) My brother Greg's secret candy stash. Now that he has left for college it's ALL MINE!!! HELLO, CAVITIES! Welcome to my mouth!


While living at home definitely has its "perks", there are some days that make me yearn for my own place.

1) See the following conversation, which occurred when my mom decided to learn about this newfangled device called a hair straightener! Oh Golly!

Mother: Is it...on?
Me: Yes.
Me: Yes Mom...much like a real iron...it is hot.
Mother: Oh wow, look at my hair!

2) Also, this conversation:

Me: I'm not staying home for dinner.
Mother: Why? I"m making rice!
Me: Yeah...so I'm not staying home for dinner.
Mother: Why not?
Mother: Oh yeah. God, stop playing the cancer card!

3) And this one, too.

Me: Good morning.
Me: (wails) YES! (runs upstairs to change)

4) Oh, and this one too.

Father: Are you going to be around tonight?
Me: YES, GOD, I live at home now!!
Father: Can't you...sleep at Meghan's?
Me: NO!
Father: But it's Friday night..
Me: So?
Father: So it's date night... and your mother looks damn sexy with that new straight hair...
Me: (emits blood curdling scream) I hate empty nesters!

5) And finally, this one:

Father: So Patty Ann (my mother), should we tell her?
Me: (Frantically scanning my brain to what this could be. Is my mom too old to have a baby? What's menopause???) What?????
Father: Well...
Mother: See..
Father: Since your brother went to college...
Mother: We've been spending a lot of time together...
Me: (gagging) Yes...
Father: Well, we really like being empty nesters.
Mother: So, please.
Father: Find a new apartment soon.
Me: How rude!


Unfortunately for them, I kind of like living at home. I'm a nomad for most of the week, so coming home to my warm bed, with my cable TV and my laptop, with the Reese's peanut butter cups and my cute dog, is kind of nice. Plus hanging with my parents is surprisingly fun. So nice and fun, in fact, that I may even stay for awhile.

Sorry, Mom and Dad!

*= Some details have been changed to protect the innocent and exaggerated to bring the funny.



Warning: I curse and I LIKE IT, so deal. Sorry Grandma.


Here we go.

THURSDAY MORNING, all excited, fists pumping, airport ride, OP my driver, Gen's dad-- dang he's hot, get to the airport, Meghan's already yelled at me twice, morning time and she ain't so nice, not my fault that I'm high on that coffee bean, no tea leaf. We fly out, baller style, New York to LA, that's how I play. Arrival gate, Shanni pulling up in Pearl, oh what my favorite car, my favorite girl, 2Pac pumping, backseat jumping, WEST COAST, I break from Biggie love and show 2Pac some respect, bout to make a career out of my ability to freestyle, screaming the words like i'm an insolent child...

THURSDAY DAY, we roll up to Santa Monica, switching to songs with harmonica, it's chill, it's hot, it's warm, there's men and they are fiiiine, we are laughing in the sand, ocean splashing, waves crashing.

THURSDAY NIGHT, oh it's on, first night in LA, Shanni's got to show us a good time, text the promoters, find the show, oh wait, HANSON IS IN TOWN, whaddya know. I love Hanson, we all know that, i'm like oh it is FATE, secret show in LA the one day I'm in the county? Decide to go, and leave Meghan, Gen, CJ and Ray behind. But it's all good, I see the show, I get the pictures, I jam out, I cry a little bit, not a big deal, only made my life, you go through all the pain and strife. Leave the cafe, find myself a cab, New York-style, hands in the air, TAXIIIIIII, get in, go to meet the loco ladies, we roll to Coco DeVille, it's awkward in there, but vodka, tonic, whatever I'm ON IT, we chug, we drink, we dance, we laugh.

FRIDAY, hangover like you know I do, Zuma Beach, Malibu. towels on the sand, faces on our hands, we laugh and swim and remember our friends, write poems, write raps, performance space, all that crap.

FRIDAY NIGHT, feeling tired, don't wanna get fired, chill in ray's apt, true blood, what's good, rest up easy, tomorrow's gonna be breezy.

SATURDAY, a big day, i felt it, Hermosa beach, love it, beers, burgers and broads, we meet James and his soccer moves, buys us our food, nothing tastes better than cheddar without the dough, seriously best burgers though, so here we go, Saturday night, party at Matt's, looked like a fool but knew i was cool, they're going to the club and i gotta meet them at ray's pad. pass out in the cab and wake up to the driver saying 'hey miss-- are you a drunken rider?' pay the bill, enter the space, shower, straighten, easy as cake. i had a feeling this night would be huge, go to empire, male models, gen's a baller, i meet an uglier man, but at least he's taller (this time). we run around like crazy kids, drinking the fizz, not paying for drinks, i can't think, we're heading to mclovin's, we shout in the car, pull up Mclovin's crib, oh shit you know this will be big. too much of a crazy night to detail here, i got the pictures though so you KNOW IT'S REAL.

SUNDAY FUNDAY, the hangover lives on, Venice beach though--you know we gotta go. we see the muscles, the tees, ladies please, that man is mine, you know he's fine. We drinkin, we hanging, we friends, we bangin, all the sudden hangover hits, oh no, Ray's got the shits! Bathroom break, whole world shakes, but we rollin, the clock is tolling, faces burning and we know we're done. Starting to get sad because it's our last night, so we promise that we gotta do it right...

SUNDAY NIGHT, almost was a big fat failure, we made it out though, drinkin like a sailor, no fleet week for us, but the drinks were free, head banging, dirt nastyyyy, beardo on the stage with Gen's old 'do, meghan dancing, colleen prancing, rachel and the baldie swapping spit, New York ain't got shit on Party Hardy LA....

MONDAY, beach time, our last go around, hit the town, see the friends, see the boys, we're laughing, we're nostalgic, it's time to go. one last sunburn, one last drink, one last taste, pacific ocean, we loved this place.

So that's all there is
about our trip to LA
it was so fucking awesome
but now we pay
Credit card bills like you won't believe
sore throat, red face, gotta take some Aleve.
So peace out Cali,
you did us well.
See you soon, motherfucker,
if we're not in Hell.

(This post inspired by Malibu's Most Wanted. I actually had his voice in my head as I scribbled this down, son.)


What Might Happen While We're In LA

On Thursday, Gen, Meghan and myself head out to the great state of California to visit Rachel in her (new) natural habitat.

In preparation for yet another grand event, I have compiled the following list of probable occurrences.

1) Gen abuses the liquor cart on the plane and gets lost in transit. We find her coming through baggage claim six hours later, passed out inside her suitcase.

2) I realize my dream and make out with Frankie Muniz.

3) I accidentally on purpose make out with an underage Disney star (or two).

4) Meghan wears a slutty dress and gets mistaken for a hooker. She meets Eddie Murphy in all of the confusion and they marry in a lavish Vegas ceremony.

5) I get mistaken for a hooker and amidst no confusion but lots of alcohol, marry Verne Troyer.

6) Rachel flips out because our clothes are more Williamsburg than LA.

7) I stalk Kathy Griffin in a misguided attempt to make her love me and get arrested for trespassing.

8) I force everyone to go on a Celebrity Homes tour and weep when I see Merv Griffin's house (the man created Jeopardy!, people. He is/was a god.)

9) I give out my entire supply of business cards and get no emails/calls about my brilliant blog.

10) After a night of heavy drinking and "sexy" dancing, I go to Roscoe's to get chicken and waffles. Egged on by my dear friends, I dance suggestively on the table. Suge Knight is there and sees the brilliance that is my dancing and invites me to star in his next protege's music video. Fame and slutty outfits and yells of "I knew my love of fried chicken would pay off!" ensue.

L.A., here we come!


I'm Thankful For...

1) Meghan. Because she would literally kill someone for me. She even said it. (Just kidding, possible detective from the future!)

2) My parents for the U-Haul they are bringing to me on Friday. And, you know. For the cash and like love and stuff? And also for the blue eyes. Because, damn do these irises sparkle!


4) Gen. Because she apartment hunts for me and spends money that I don't have. (Seriously, Gen. I can't live there.) And for Erin, for saying no for me when I need to say no, and for LFarm for listening, always, and making fun of me, too. And for Rachel, for coming home.

5) For Kristie and our best summer together, yet.

6) You, who read this, and encourage me, and help me on my way.

It's time I started saying thanks.

So. Thanks.


Why Apartment Hunting Sucks

oh hey, everyone. it's been awhile.

mentioned, briefly, in the last post that my roommate skipped town.


so now here i am, smack dab, SMACK DIBBITY DAB, in the middle of apartment hunting.

i've been telling everyone that i know about my poor, unfortunate plight, because i love talking about myself and complaining is so awesome. and also, i'm fascinating. didn't you know?

but really, really i just want someone to say: "hey! you need an apartment! have mine. it's 900 bucks and has a rooftop pool and a doorman and a kitchen made out of CHOCOLATE!"

so far, this hasn't happened.

but the following things have:

1) on day two of the search, a pigeon shit on my face/dress. i ran into city market to cleanse myself, was mocked by others, and continued on to lunch. later that day i went to look at another place in murray hill (yuck. i know. but girlfriend is desperate.) and on my way there, i stepped in dog shit. and i had to run into a pizza place for napkins to wipe the dog shit off of my foot and it was filled with hot guys, no seriously, hot guys, and one was like "oh that's good luck!". well buddy, no it was not, because the next apartment that i saw was so god damn awful that i almost flung myself out the window.

2) day three of the apartment hunt was muggy, hot and digusting, and i went to a sixth floor walk up and was so out of breath and smelly and sweaty that when i sat on this perfectly nice and normal girl's couch, i left a knee sweat stain. knee sweat. not pleasant.

3) also on day three? i went to see a place in chelsea and i thought "ooh yay, nice chelsea, galleries, pretty" but it was really something like the flower district? except i didn't see any flowers, it was just what the cab driver told me (it was hot and sweaty and i didn't want to walk, i didn't wanna) and then i got to the apartment on 28th and i swear to god, it was like the murder house, i heard death metal playing, and there was a man wearing a chain link fence around his neck and it was black, everything was black and grey and metal everywhere and i said "oh hey, no thanks" and then ran out. it was pretty embarrassing, i mean he judged me, i judged him, it was not a good situation.


i saw some places yesterday and they were so wonderful and dreamlike and what do you know, they were in brooklyn, where i think i belong. so we'll see if i get them, because it's kind of like going for a job interview, and let's face it, i ramble and sweat and my handshake is insignificant and clammy. but i tried my hardest, very hardest, to impress upon these people that i'm not a mess!

what a lie.

wish me luck.


Since My Brenna Left Me

My roommate has gone and left me.

Yes, it's true. She's gone, baby, gone.

I didn't even get a "bye, bye, bye".

She claims she's coming back. But that was weeks ago.

She stole my heart and my True Blood Season 1 DVDs.

Oh, the pain.

Since she's been gone (note: this post will be littered with pop song references. I listen to Z100 sometimes, SO SUE ME!), things have fallen apart.

I have decided to write her an open letter (like Candy Spelling!) to guarantee her return.

Dear Brenna,

Please come back. Things aren't good around here without you. I know our fish died, and I know it was my fault because I made fun of him, but that doesn't mean that we should split up. I need you back. I need you back.

In a plea for your return, I have documented a very real and very sad scene that occurred last week after work.

The following is a scene from last week.


KELLY (to herself)
OMG, It's so hot in here. I wish Brenna were here so I could ask her how to put on her A/C.
I wish she answered text messages or calls.


KELLY (to herself, always to herself)
Man, I wish Brenna were here to fill up the Brita.


AAAH! Bugs! I hate bugs!!


AAAH! I need Brenna! I need Brenna! Why are their fruit flies everywhere? I don’t eat FRUIT! Can they come from Gushers??? Ah!!


I guess I should make dinner since Brenna’s not here to make me fun Arthur shapes Mac and Cheese. Ooh, I think I have Easy Mac!


If Brenna were here, she could reach this for me!


Ugh, this Mac and Cheese better be good.




Nooo!! There’s no more left!



Don't make me send Bill Clinton up to Boston to retrieve you like he did with those two Asian chicks.

Come back.




how yoga is kind of making me want to kill myself

This, dear friends, is my yoga teacher. She's oh, a professional model who doesn't drink and likely eats lettuce for dessert. She's also extremely nice and caring, and her perfect night probably doesn't involve a couple Blue Moons and mozzarella sticks. She also probably didn't wake up last Sunday and yell at her parents for not getting bagels and then, in a huff of frustration, decide to make a bag of popcorn and eat it for breakfast instead.

I've never actually met her. See, back in May, I was offered a free yoga fellowship by Yoga Bear, an organization that gives free yoga classes to former cancer patients.

Since May, I've spent about 15 days in the hospital, and then contracted MRSA and had a tooth removed and oh, kicked a glass door, and oh yeah, nearly broke my foot when I was drunk. It's been an eventful few months, health-wise. Add to this my extreme laziness and you get the sad truth that although I could be going to yoga every night for free, I have yet to attend one class.

I know. It's bad. And now, every week, I get an email that asks how I'm feeling and when I think I can come in.

The guilt is getting to me. Especially after I read what she wrote here. Kind of like reading my life story.

But you know what? I'm going to make a change! I'm starting with the woman in the mirror and I'm asking her to change her ways! MJ and Tara have inspired me and I swear it, right here! In print! Next week or the week after that or in a few months, I am going to walk into that yoga class and the new Kelly will begin.

As long as I can have the occasional chicken finger.


What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Saga Continues

I'm back with more advice, people!

I know you've missed it. You've probably made so many bad decisions and been like "this is totally because Kelly hasn't posted one of her famous advice columns lately".

Well, I'm back.

Here goes another round of What Not To Do!

1) Do NOT kick a glass door to get someone's attention during a fight. Massive blood loss and tears will follow. You will then develop an oozing wound that will attract the attention of all who look at your foot, causing many of them to turn away in disgust and one unfortunate subway rider to gag.

2) Do NOT tell coworkers that you hurt aforementioned foot in a "surfing accident". People at the office will begin to ask about your great surfing skills and ask your advice about the sport. Note to all: responding "Well I kind of suck and just stand there" is NOT proper surfing advice.

3) Do NOT walk outside in your boxers and ripped tank top and flag down the Mr. Softee truck. The Mr. Softee truck is not a cab and cannot be treated as one. Onlookers will gawk at you and you will feel ashamed as you devour your ice cream.

4) Do NOT walk into a room of full of law students and mutter (too loudly) that "it looks like the UN up in hizz-ere". You will be taken the wrong way and your "I was drunk and trying to be irreverent and hilarious to gain attention to make people love me!" excuse will not fly.

5) Do NOT give your number to the bouncer at the R Bar on Bowery. His name is Clifford Napoleon and he will call and stalk you until you have to text him that he has the wrong number and "the shorty with blonde hair" is no longer interested.

6) Do NOT Twitter while drunk. Drunk Twitter-ing is a dangerous and lethal sport that can lead to loss of friendship and dignity. Avoid it at all costs, dear friends. At all costs.

7) Do NOT let it spill that you may find Jon Gosselin somewhat attractive, despite his double pierced ears, Bluetooth clip and Ed Hardy shirts (he was cute in high school!). Blank stares and gasps of disbelief will follow and you will return to your computer, embarrassed as you click through a gallery of Jon's pictures from high school (TMZ.com, for all you interested parties).

8) Do NOT attempt to cover up the infection on your face by wearing sunglasses indoors, as your coworker will call you out on your decidedly odd behavior and then everyone will notice Little Mount Versuvius on your face. Your boss will then ask if you got hit in the face or hurt in another surfing accident. And you will turn bright red and stammer and wish you were dead.

My life is a farce.


The Waiting Room (Excerpt)

The things they wore, they faces they carried: these things varied greatly by experience and injury. Sara Fernandez wore her Hannah Montana shirt and blue denim shorts. Her face was tear-stained as she held her clearly broken arm against Miley Cyrus’ face, the fabric wet and crumpled.

Bob was in his work clothes; construction pants from Carhart were ripped to reveal the huge gaping hole in his leg, steadily pouring red. A TV blared but he did not look up. His name was called first, rushed into the ER as his skin paled and his balance wobbled.

Annie knew where she was going (17th floor, general medicine), so she had the necessities. Her big bag, complete with computer and cell phone charger and change of underwear. Books, DVDS, insulin packs. A notebook detailed her latest symptoms; she hadn’t eaten since Tuesday and she could hardly speak. Her words on the page spoke for her, though she knew they’d ask again and again. Her palms were engraved with nail marks; she had screamed silently for days.

Cameron sat at the edge of the waiting room; there was nothing to notice but the look on his face. His eyes squinted together and he was literally doubled over; all you could see was his face and his knees, becoming one.. There was a magazine he did not read. All he really had, all you really need to know was the rupturing appendix and the way his mix of his tears and spit synchronized their descent to the hard linoleum floor.

A shirt soaked with vomit, that’s what Jamie wore. Too many times he had said yes, yes, I’ll have another and now his BAL flew off the charts. Annie and Bob and Cameron and Sara stared, slack-jawed, wide-eyed. Right before he was thrown into triage, he left a reminder of his youth on the floor.

But Brian James, with his haggard clothing and weary face, knew what he was carrying. There was no pain to distract him.  He looked around the ER and memorized the faces. He wrote them down in a reporter’s notebook; long forgotten for another job, another place. He gripped his hand, checked for his shirt pocket for cigarettes and walked outside.


to luke, my nephew (fiction)

To Luke, My Nephew

At five, you said to me,
Holding up a hand to show
That finally! Finally you
Were at an age that took up an entire hand.
And today, you take up two.

Ten years old!
Ten years ago,
I sat in a college bar, my shirt stained with
Wing sauce and whiskey,
And took a call from your mother,
She told me that you had just arrived.
You weighed ten pounds, like the sack of potatoes
That we’d buy and peel and put on the grill—
All those summer nights you visited me,
Nights like the Sunday in June you were born.
You had black hair and blue eyes, right from the start;
I looked at the pictures she emailed, all the way from Brooklyn to San Francisco,
And I gasped,
As the connection dialed up and your face finally came into view:
“What a prince we have! “

Ten years, Luke and what of it?
Ten years and three broken bones
No small feat, considering we watched you like a hawk
Watched you tumble off the steps,
Watched you fall hard in your basketball game
That skinny wrist of yours snapped so easily!
And your foot: that I remember well.
Four years old and you picked up my paper weight globe-
I gave it to you later as a gift-
Dropped it right on your foot.
Boy, the shriek that hatched in your throat!
I heard the scream and came running,
lifted you up,
To the ER—I said, and we pretended we were on an adventure,
Two pirates on a ship to the hospital.
Your eyes, shiny with tears crinkled with a smile
When I looked at you in the rearview mirror and
Said “Arrrr matey, arrrrr you ready for adventure?”

Luke, I hope you know
You are my favorite boy,
My king of Kings County
My clutzy little man,
Growing out of trousers and swim trunks and
Passing me in height,
Shoe size,
Your hands, sudenly bigger than mine.

I love you ,
So please-
Indulge your favorite aunt,
And stay small,
Just another year more.


The Fallout

Oh, Bonnaroo.

I love you, but you're letting me down.

I thought we had something good going. I fed you with my money and spirit; I danced in your muddy streets. All I asked in return was some good music, expensive beer, and some damn good fried food.

And you provided, oh so willingly. You gave me Bruce Springsteen and Bon Iver and the best curly cheese fries I ever had.

But now, eight days after my return, I have a bone to pick with 'roo.

You and your delicious microbrews and your loud campers and your late night shows have landed me in the hospital! I look back at pictures of my adventure and want to scream at my former, healthy self. "Sleep another hour! Put down the acid and crack! (kidding!) Step away from the Natty Light!"

But perhaps I shouldn't really blame Bonnaroo for my current situation. I mean, everyone else is healthy.

I could blame this disease. Or maybe the other.

Whatever the cause may be, I'm stuck here for at least another night. I've been here since Thursday after my throat started to feel like I was getting strangled by Benjamin Linus. I put off coming in because strangulation? No big deal. But when I lost the ability to speak, I knew it was an emergent situation indeed.

My two days of kicking it like Keller were the worst days of my life. You might as well have taken away my ability to breathe! I saw so many opportunities for my wit to be vocalized, but they just drifted away, like bubbles on the verge of bursting. I even heard my coworkers discussing the latest celebrity news. They had so many important details wrong (Brangelina's children's names! Whether TomKat was married!) and it was painful to hear them, unable to jump in and contribute about Sarah Jessica Parker's surrogate twins or John Travolta's hidden homosexuality.

Celebrity gossip aside, it was also quite difficult to do actual work at the office. When coworkers addressed me, I grunted and would try to speak, but usually ended up spitting on myself and mumbling. I sounded like the Sloth from Goonies.

I knew that I looked like a freak but I insisted on hiding my illness. I had just returned from vacation and oh yeah, had recently missed a bunch of days for my fallen appendix. I didn't think it would look good that I was sick again.

Eventually I couldn't take my own silence anymore, so I popped into the ER, hoping for a quick tune up. That was five days ago and evidently, I'm still here. It's gotten past toleration at this point. This is mostly due to my roommate, who makes very questionable noises. All. Night. Long. She kind of sounds like Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally". I think you all know what scene I'm talking about.


Fortunately my unlimited supply of morphine puts me to sleep so I can tune her out. I don't want to sound like a junkie but that drug = happiness.

And since I've been locked up in The Hospital That Is Not Bellevue, I've had a fair amount of visitors come to help lessen the pain. Meghan came tonight bearing some great gifts--ginger ale, powdered donuts, Chace Crawford. Sure, he was on the cover of People, but pictures of Chace are probably more interesting than the actual Chace. Derek brought me the same magazine, which I find reassuring for two reasons: 1--that he knows me so well and 2--that he supports my love of Gossip Girl. His sister also dropped by with OK! magazine. I guess my love of celebrity gossip really is known by everyone. (If only I was known for my love of James Joyce).

My family has also been here multiple times, giving me an excuse to unleash the crankiness that I typically hide from nurses, doctors and friends. They're family, so they can't really get mad when I scream at them to buy me a very specific brand of popcorn and then get angry when they take an hour to find it.

Genevieve also stopped by to fill my "weird gift" quotient. This time around, she brought me a stuffed flower that said "It's a boy!" and these really weird glasses that can be used as a straw.

Anyway, I'm hoping to be sprung tomorrow. I'm getting so bored and delusional that I actually emailed my boss for work to do from my bed. I was also so anxious for activity that I bit the cultural bullet that is Stephenie Meyer and rented Twilight. (Advice to you all: do not mention to me that you like the movie Twilight. I will fearlessly mock you until you are a shell of the person you once were.)

So if you have anything for me to do/look at/ read, send it my way.

Until then, I'll be here.

Lovingly yours,

Kelly 'The Fungus Is Among Us' Bergin

Good times

Lately, my health has been like the New York Mets: beat.

It's been so up and down the past two or three months that friends, coworkers and family are constantly asking me the same question: How are you feeling?

I can't really say that I know how to answer. Though I've been fielding this question for over 23 years (DRAMATIC!), the answer has always eluded me.

"Fine, thanks" is the usual reply.

Of course, this is usually a lie. But I don't want to bum people out. I mean, what's the alternative?

"Well, actually, I'm bleeding out my ears. My toenails have turned green and I'm emitting a stank worthy of Fresh Kills. I've lost my eyesight and can't read Braille because my fingers are teeny-tiny! But my attitude's great!"

Usually, I give a succinct answer. But sometimes, sometimes--I over share. In a big way.
I've talked about this here. And since this little episode, I've tried to stop. But sometimes I open my mouth and cannot shut it. (Okay, fine, I can never actually shut my mouth.)

This is mostly because the question makes me uncomfortable. I'm not sure how much people want to know when they ask "How are you feeling?". Do they want a simple, quick response so that they can feel like they were polite without having to be grossed out? (Believe me, when I tell you how I have a pus coming out of my face like lava out of volcano, people DO get grossed out.) Or do they genuinely want to know the gritty details, the flesh and bones of the situation, the "real" answer?

I don't think I'll ever be able to tell.

And it's just another frustrating part of this life.


The Adventures and Misadventures of One Trip to Bonnaroo: Not Censored At All. I swear.

Here's a story.

About four city girls who got in a truck and headed down to Manchester, TN.

Four girls with no knowledge of the open road and no knowledge of mechanics. Four girls used to the luxury of showers and clean water. Four girls vastly unprepared for the dirt and hard work that lay ahead.

These four girls, though excited for the journey ahead, felt unsettled for a life without crowded city streets, hair straighteners, and, most importantly, delivery.com. (Where would one of the nameless girls get her pad thai from in Tennessee?!?)

But--it was a journey! A quest to visit the great untamed South and immerse themselves in the musical stylings of their favorite bands.

It was all about the music.

These girls faced criticism for their decision to partake upon this sure to be arduous venture, but they persisted. Even when the Most Beautiful One's appendix ruptured, they carried on. "Not to be defeated by an organ that weighs less than an ounce!" was their battle cry. So they soldiered on, dear readers, they soldiered on.

They left the great state of New Jersey on Wednesday night, bleary-eyed but excited. During the long 16 hour drive, three of the girls nearly formulated a plot to assassinate the Most Beautiful One for a host of reasons, but mostly for her insistence on singing "I Drove All Night To Get To 'Roo". Conflicts resolved, they crossed into Central Time and into Manchester County.

Upon their arrival to Bonnaroo's magnificent (re: wasteland) grounds, the girls hopped out of the car, excited and somewhat high off of the Red Bull and Six Hour Energy drinks that they had consumed to drive through the night.

But it wasn't before long that tragedy struck in the form of a tent too complicated to be assembled. One of the girls (we shall call her Friz. Please see the picture.) struck herself in the head with one of the poles.

The girls had only been there for five minutes, and one was already in tears!

But the girls persevered and relied on what they knew would help them in this situation: flirting and cold beer. So the girls moseyed on up to the boys next door from Texas and before you knew it- Poof! a tent was made.

They quickly made friends with these adorable men from Austin and soon enough, they were having a grand old time. Friz stopped crying about the bugs, Nervous Nance stopped worrying about the truck, Burned Out B just continued on being calm, and the Most Beautiful One...well, she just focused on having a good time.

Over the course of the next four days, the girls would face a litany of disasters. The mud pile that almost drowned them all; the rain that made their hair frizzy; the maze of tents that inevitably had all of them lost at one point (except for dear, logical Nance). The girls faced each of these problems with a smile and a wink (or a drink), always knowing that they could rely on each other to fix it.

And these girls, these city slickers, they triumphed! They even experienced all that Bonnaroo had to offer.

The Most Beautiful One took a percussion class and then showed off her newest talents to any bum with a drum. (Look out for her soon to be released compact disc entitled "Sounds I can make by drumming on my desk at work".)

They enjoyed the music to the fullest extent and even got used to the stench that permeated the grounds (a mix of B.O., poop, and hippie). They held each other up when they could no longer walk (very large grounds), tucked each other in when one had passed out (from all that time in the sun!), and even welcomed each others new "friends" to the tent! The pact that these girls had formed was awe-inspiring. When one girl (who shall remain nameless) fell into a Port-A-Potty, the other girl with her didn't even try to snap an embarrassing photo!

When the four days were up, the girls reluctantly began the trek north, where they realized that they had quickly assimilated into Southern culture--they were now huge fans of Sonic, Wal- Mart and hanging with barefoot babies at the gas station (just like Britney, y'all!).

These four girls had a splendid time and would do it again in a heartbeat--although next time, it may be in a hotel room.

Until then, we shall bid adieu to Bonnaroo!

But first, please allow this list to summarize some of the lessons that one or all of the girls learned while on their grand adventure:

1) Talking about Harry Potter and LOST while drinking is a swell time but not necessarily attractive to the girls' male counterparts. Quizzing each other on Ron Weasley's favorite Quidditch teams did not go unnoticed by the neighbors, who mocked them endlessly for their poor and juvenile taste.
2) One girl can attest to the fact that Port-A-Potties are very slippery! She would like to give the following advice: if you do happen to fall in one, don't hold on to the toilet bowl for leverage! Especially after it's been four days in the hot Tennessee sun, used by thousands of asses around the farm. She regrets this poor decision the most.
3) Southerners do not appreciate you imitating their accents. One of our enterprising girls may have learned this the hard way. This girl would also like to add that it's not advisable to brag about winning the Civil War to someone who has a Confederate flag sticker on their car.

See you next year, Tennessee!



we are back.

we are alive.

i am quite sick. i am starting to realize that hey, maybe i can't go to the country and not sleep and run around and have a great time like normal people. i can't live like that without paying a huge price. the price being my ability to swallow or maintain normal body temperature.

the other three are presumably fine--tired, sunburnt and cranky--but fine.

unfortunately our fish (phish) has died as a result of leaving him without food for four days.

it was a sad welcoming party, watching old Langhorn flail around and attempt to eat. he suffered through the night and we prayed, prayed for his quick recovery.

but today, when we came home from work, we saw him. belly up and floating. d-e-a-d.

more on our adventures soon (when i get some pictures) but i will say this:

amazing. hot. sweaty. dirty. stinky. awesome. bruce springsteen is way hot for sixty. and joy.

and don't ever--ever--fall in a port-a-potty.

update--while writing this, i heard a flush. i called out "brenna?" in my sick voice (my sick voice is known for being very whiny, raspy and annoying). she then informed me rather nastily that she just gave "our" (re: hers) fish a burial at sea. rip langhorn (or whatever his name was). rip.


bonnaroo, here we come.

Originally uploaded by Kelly Bergin

in preparation for this grand event, i have prepared a list of likely scenarios.

1) i get really drunk and end up on stage with ani difranco. i steal the mike and sing "i believe the children are my future." bruce springsteen hears my angelic voice, scouts me out and makes me his new backup singer. (later, patti.)

2) i lose a finger trying to hammer in our tent.

3) gen gets lost and ends up in graceland.

4) in a crowd of thousands, i somehow find the long lost twin i didn't know existed. after pitching our story to industry types, we move to california to star in a white girl version of sister, sister.

5) i meet my soulmate, but then sober up and realize he is ugly.

6) i meet elvis costello and force him to father twins with me.

7) jimmy fallon discovers me, realizes he sucks, and picks me to be his replacement. his few fans weep.

8) we never make it to tennessee.

9) we make it to virginia and decide hey, that's good enough.

10) i drown in a mud pile due to my being shorter than the ditch in which the mud has accumulated.

if i don't make it back, i love you all very, very much. please transfer my debt to kristie.




What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Story


1) Tell everyone (including coworkers) that an appendectomy is the best surgery ever because "you get to drink two days post-op but can't exercise for six weeks!". People will finally see you for what you are. Which is not good.

2) Give invitations to do shots with people you haven't seen in years. This is not the way to celebrate your reunion. It just reminds them WHY they haven't hung out with you in years.

3) Hop in a stranger's car because he offers you a ride home. Only do this if said stranger offers you candy or alcohol.

4) Ignore your cable bill so that you can buy an expensive camera. Your internet and cable will be rudely and abruptly shut off, leading to devastation and tears.

5) Wear a low cut dress and then hang out with a toddler. Your lady parts may become exposed when lifting squirming child.

6) Automatically click on every Twitter follower you acquire. This is how you end up looking at Twitter porn at work.

7) Pick up your hair straightener when it falls in the toilet. It will still be 360 degrees and you will burn your hand badly, leading to a chorus of expletives and tears. You will then have to attempt to type a blog entry with your misshapen claw of a hand, all the while cursing your stupidity and the hangover that caused such a lack in judgment.

8) Assume that you can shop and buy expensive things because your landlord forgot to take out your rent money. He will eventually remember and you will be left with 800 dollars to pay this month's rent, food, bills and gas for your upcoming trip to Tennessee. Prostitution, here I come.


Should I pitch my idea of "What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Story" to TLC?

I think I could impart some serious knowledge.



I'm BA-ACK!!

You may/may not have heard that my appendix decided to commit suicide and rupture in my precious body.It all started last Monday. I was here at my office on West 22nd st when I started to feel...a bit off. My mind flashed to the day before, which was Mother's Day. "Hmm, what did I eat...what did Kelly eat yesterday?" Many, many things came to mind as I had decided that Mother's Day was my last full day of eating before my crash diet began on Monday. Cold cuts, Peppermint Patties, tuna, Sour Patch kids, old Passover candy I forgot I had bought...the list was long. I tried to stick it out at work for as long as possible, but when I started vomiting in the company restroom, I resigned myself to using a precious sick day. I headed outside where I promptly hailed a cab, hurled in a cab, and was questioned about the possibility of my having swine flu from the driver.

On Tuesday the decision was made to go to the ER. Mother came up to "Spanish Harlem" (or what she calls my Brooklyn enclave. Clearly not Harlem.) and took me to the ER. I had spoken with my doc from NYU. She advised me to head quickly to their famed emergency room. I googled "NYU ER", wrote down the first address that I saw and hightailed it to the east side of Manhattan, clutching a tupperware for puke the whole way.

We pulled up to Bellevue-NYU Hospital. In my drug-addled, dehydrated, hallucinating state, I didn't connect the name Bellevue to the notorious hospital that it was. Big mistake. Once there, I was directed to the pediatrics ER, even as I argued that I was an adult. ("I'm a grown up! A real girl!") But apparently the peds ER is also for "young adults" up to the age of 25. And thank God for that! The scary "adult" ER held all sorts of committed Bellevue prisoners, who were defecating on themselves and slurring at me. After a few hours, I went for a CAT scan down the hall and couldn't help but notice the scan room was right next to the New York City Department of Corrections. They brought a prisoner out and I got so excited. Just like on Law and Order! The prisoner even yelled at me and said "you'll be seeing me on the fucking news tonight." I made a mental note to tune in. He also kept checking out my mom, which made me jealous because I am insane.

To my great dismay, I wasn't able to tune in as it was decided that I indeed had appendicitis. And I spent the next four hours waiting to be taken to surgery. (Apparently gunshots and life-crushing tumors are more important than my suicidal organ.) Right after surgery, I woke up to an extremely high fever and alarms going off. My appendix had actually ruptured and I was in really sick. All I could think was "don't die: you get so many presents in the hospital." This is what I hold on for, people.

After they popped old appy out, I spent the next 6 days in the hospital. I ate Jell-O, accumulated numerous brusies from repeated injections, and learned Bengali from my neighbor (apparently screaming AH-EYYYY! means Get me out of here, I'm dying).

One morning I woke up and a woman in a Saree was staring over my body, attempting to extricate my Blackberry from my cold, dead hands. Now, I didn't really have a TV (It was from circa 1973, and I believe it was the first TV ever created. It also barely worked and you had to pay $5 a day to use it. I love Bellevue.) and my Blackberry was my lifeline. This woman, who I presume was the daughter of my Bangladesh bunkmate, mumbled in incoherently that her phone was broken and she thought she could just "take" mine. Now I'm sorry. But it was the only way I could check Twitter and reasure my tens of followers I was alive. I told her to take a hike and ask the nurse. I would have felt bad, but her mother was a real faker. Crying that much over kidney stones? I've had them. I've seen worse. Grow a pair, Bangla!

Fortunately she was dismissed from the hospital on Saturday, and I was finally allowed to leave on Sunday morning after a week of fevers and way gross stomach stuff. My dad claims that I hallucinated this in my fog of Morphine (I. love. drugs.) but I swear one asked me for a cigarette to sell. I know how things work in prison! I've read the memoirs!

All in all, staying in the hospital pretty much blows. I don't know where I got the romantic idea in my head that it'd be "fun" to stay in the hospital for a few days. It's no Club Med. Sure, I got to miss work. But they woke me up at 6 am anyway to poke at my belly. They also served really questionable food. Their "gourmet" dinner was fake eggplant parm, half cooked noodles, and some green substance that my mother called spinach. I'd have sooner ate one of Bangla's beads (which looked like they were made of pasta. Or her kidney stones.). 

But I had tons of nice visitors who appropriately enough brought gifts. Gen brought a balloon that said "Get Well Grandpa". This entertained her for her visit. And Brenna brought the best gift of all: laughter. When she came in and nearly fainted/threw up at the sight of my needles, I laughed so hard I almost busted my stitches.

As most things are, my hospital stay was a learning experience for me. Here are some things I learned from this latest go around:

1) Do not invite prisoners into your bed, even if they look like a young Montel Williams.
2) Don't mix NyQuil and ExLax.
3) Hospital gowns really do open at the back. Wear your best underwear at all times.
4) Always shower before going to the ER. It may be your last shower for awhile. (My parents can attest to the scent.)
5) Get a Twitter account and make sure everyone knows you're on your deathbed. You will receive a copious amount of gifts.

Thanks to everyone who called/ sent stuff (I especially enjoyed the Pookie books my aunt and uncle sent. Apparently Pookie is a pig, to which I can only say: fitting.)

Till the next time...