Just look at the face: it's vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who's lost a bet.

Today I look like I've been struck by lightning.

And not in the fun, neon, going-to-a-Eurythmics-concert kind of a way. More like the looks-like-I-got-laid-by-a-lion-but-I-wasn't-even-THAT-lucky kind of a way. Circles under my eyes, hair contorted into a frizzy jumble of curly slash straight slash ponytail not to be tamed, and most likely the saddest blankest look on my face since I heard they took the Jelly Belly display out of the Ralph's by my house.

Basically I'm a mess.

After 10 glorious days in Italy, downing bottles of vino daily and eating my weight in bread, cheese and marinara, I'm back. Here. At work. In LA. And I've been sleep-working for the past three days, pretending there's not a gloss of I Don't Care mixed with I'd Rather Be Folding Laundry While Getting Vag Waxed glazed over my eyeballs.

Here's the thing I discovered during my traipses in the Vespa capital of the world*: The consequences of drinking and eating and walking too much, combined with the occasional one (or four) drunken stolen cigarettes? ZERO. It feels GREAT, why can't we do that EVERY day? I am convinced that these people have discovered the secret to a happy, stress-free life, and it should be incorporated into every culture the world over.

Let me give you an example. While cruising on a nite ferry for 12 hours, I somehow managed to eat a full gut-busting meal, drink a full 2 to 3 bottles of wine, smoke a full 2 to 3 cigarettes, and sleep a full 40 minutes. Next day? Felt GREAT. Better than usual, actually, and my Italian had improved.

I'd for reals do this.

But now, back at work, back on my healthy diet with splashes of exercise, all I am is English-speaking and TIRED. The kind of tired that makes me stutter and put my underwear on inside out. The kind that causes me to mumble incoherent musings under my breath and not realize I'm even speaking aloud. I'm the kind of tired that just caused my boss to ask me if I've been drinking, because I'm laying in my chair with my head back and jaw hanging open.

But even after woe-is-me-ing myself to death about how moving to Florence would be much better than sitting in LA at my crap job, I secretly missed this little place. Not so much the place, but the people it houses - my friends, my roommates, my family, and my snowboard and bike, but on a lesser level.

I love that this weekend I'm going to ride to the beach and get day-hammied with great friends, probably fall off said-bike and re-open my skinned knees, get hung-over while I slog through a fatty dinner, and start to drink again. How could I do that in Italy, without my favorite people by my side? I COULD do it, but it certainly wouldn't be the same. Mostly because I'd have a dirty Italian trying to jump my bones while I was passed out, and that's just not ideal.

So lightning may have struck, and I may be closer to eating shit on my keyboard than eating pasta in a piazza, but all in all I'm fine with the outcome.

At least we have Jelly Bellies here.

That's a mosaic. Of Ronald Regan. Made of Jelly Bellies. And I wanna eat it.

*I also discovered there are in fact a LOT of Italians there, and my ability to blend in as the 'little dark one' on the trip allowed me to escape the grasp of most of them.