Dirty Secret #47: Hello Kitty

I heart pop punk.

Yes, it's true. I admit it.

Lagwagon, Eve 6, Good Charlotte, Blink 182, Bodyjar, and now Fall Out Boy: this is good music to me.

Okay, you can stop laughing now.

I love the upbeat tempo, I love the harmonies, I love how tracks about how crap the world is sound exactly the same as the tracks about how you're going to conquer the world.

Unfortunately, I'm not 14 years old and I don't look like this:


Ergo, it's a dirty secret.

I acquired the new Fall Out Boy album last weekend and I absolutely love it. However, I had to get it over the Internet.

Walking into a Best Buy store to buy the album is the equivalent of going to Barnes and Noble to buy porn--it's there, and you walk by slowly while eying it in your peripheral vision, but you would never ever dare buy it. That's what porn stores are for.

That's what the Internet is for: to buy all the things you wouldn't dare get in person.

"From Under the Cork Tree" arrived in a discreet brown box marked only with "Amazon." And now I can sing "A loaded God complex/ cock it and pull it" on my way home from work.

With the windows closed of course.

And on the 8th day God said, "Let it be summer."

freak.

I spent 2 1/2 hours at the dentist this morning. Because of lapses in insurance from my mother's plan to finally acquiring my own, I haven't been to the dentist in 2 1/2 years.

I've never been afraid of the dentist, but going after such a lapse had me worried. I didn't want to sit in the chair and have the lady tsk at me and tell me that my teeth are rotting out of my head, or worse, I would need a root canal.

Of course my fears are unfounded seeing as how I'm having neither tooth pain nor sensitivity issues.

I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes. I think it's weird to stare at the dental hygienist while she's staring in your mouth with pointy objects. The idea of it makes me uncomfortable--it seems rude or improper behavior. By then I was obsessing with not looking at her which made me, of course, look up at her.

She had blue eyes that were concentrating on God-knows-what in my mouth. She looked young. She mentioned just moving out of her mother's house and I wondered exactly how old she was. I'm guessing 20, but she could be no older than 22.

She squints and I see her forehead crease. Uh oh. What is she doing? Why am I letting someone younger than me put sharp objects near my gums!?

Then I think of the whole dentistry profession and what a crock it is. These hygienists do all the work and then the elusive dentist comes in for 30 seconds and stabs at each tooth with something. If it hurts or sticks, he'll keep poking it until tears form in the corner of your eyes while he gets a hard-on for making you hurt. Then he mumbles about how you need to floss at least every other day and leaves.

The hygienists do all the work. I thought back to watching daytime TV and even worse, daytime TV commercials. Don't the same tech schools that offer you high school diplomas, bookkeeping, and private investigator also offer dental assistant? I think they do. They don't go to real schools. My lady may have gotten a 2 for 1 with the trade school: high school diploma and dental assistant. Or worse, gunsmithing and dental assistant.

My ability to psych myself out has only increased with age.

My mind begins to panic. She has something sharp and whirring at such a high pitch my ears hurt. The kind of people that go to trade schools are the kind of people that put cigarettes out on their arms in high school. I try and check her wrists, but the gloves go over her sleeves.

By this time my mind induces my ever-increasing gag reflex.

She draws back, "Did it hurt?"

"No, I just felt like I was drowning there for a sec."

We eye each other and I know we're thinking the exact same thing about the other:

freak.

I am currently experiencing the longest 45 minutes of my life.

I've made it 30 minutes so far, 15 until I can go home for the long weekend.

One can only check her e-mail so many times in hopes of anything to distract her.

I'll welcome some spam at this point.

Anyone know a funny joke?

14 more minutes to go.

Crap.

Who's Your Daddy?

Apparently mine is Greg Louganis.

Blatantly stealing from Will, I went here to see what celebrity I look like.

This is the photo I used:

Here are my results:

Rachel Bilson

Yeah, I'm not having Tom Cruise's "baby"

Nor will I ever "date" him

Kristen Kreuk

I'm completely pleased with the results, but I didn't get the one celebrity everyone says I look like:

Dirty Secret #36

While watching the finale last night of American Idol (which I thoroughly loved despite newspaper reviews), I had this thought when Clay appeared behind his homoerotic look-alike: "Wow, Clay's hair needs to be just an inch shorter, but he has really nice eyes."

Shenanigans!

Since Toucher left, I've been listening to 99X less and less. My CD collection from 1995 has replaced the morning show and I'm no longer in the car long enough to listen to the other programs.

But on Saturday I became bored with Better Than Ezra and I flipped on the radio. An announcement came on that they would be providing a free lunch on Tuesday at Tin Lizzy's, my favorite taco place located a block from where I work. I couldn't believe that they were having a radio function that I could actually attend. I called my friends who lit up at the idea of free lunch at Tin Lizzy's.

Our table received a lot of attention from the radio crew since we were one of the few actually in their target demographic (apparently a lot of Freeloaders are old. Very old.) Well, we also made sure we looked our best because we have a collective crush on the manager of the restaurant who is easily the best looking man in the food service industry. We were in a lot of photos taken by the radio crew.

My friend won movie passes for her upcoming birthday. I came in second for the "largest self-promoter." I had 13 business cards on me; I was beat out by an unemployed pianist who had 20. I was given a second shot to win something when Leslie asked for the first person to show a personal text message. I handed Leslie my phone and she read it aloud as I looked sheepish:

"Yes."

That was my personal test message.

But Axel chimed in with, "What you don't know is that she sent a message that said, 'Hey how about a nooner after I get done with lunch with 99X?' Everybody laughed and I just waved. Axel then handed me a T-shirt to compensate for making a joke at my expense.

Compromise

I'll make another barstool out of this.

Behold, my barstool

"Your apartment looks sad."

Christopher and I were sitting on my couch eating cake.

"Don't say that, I love my apartment."

"No, you have a really nice apartment. It's just..." He gets up and walks to my kitchen and picks up my barstool, "you only have seating for one." He leans over the counter and picks up my placemat, "You only have a placemat for one." He returns to the couch and shakes the TV tray we were sharing because I only have one, "You're only living for one."

"So what, you live by yourself!"

"Yes, but at least I have 2 barstools! Having one is sad!"

"97% of the time I'm in this apartment, I am by myself. Why should I spend money on things I'm not going to use?"

"You have to be open to the possibilities of more than one person," he says.

"My apartment isn't big enough for 2 people to cohabitate."

Christopher gives me a look; he hates it when I don't use "everyday" language. He says it's pretentious.

"Well your lifestyle says you aren't open for that possibility."

I wish I could say that having this conversation made me call up my father to get me a duplicate barstool, but it didn't. If anything, it made me proud that I only have one barstool and one place setting. I'm not living under the presumption that there will be someone else. It's just me and I'm more than fine with that.

My cynicism has reached new levels this year, levels that scare the hell out of me at times. Sometimes I'll hear what's coming out of my mouth and I'll think 'Who is this person? And what the hell happened to her that makes her think this way?'

There are downsides for the life I've chosen: I hate having to drag my barstool around my apartment so I can reach things on the top shelf and I can't buy things that I can't carry by myself. I bought a new TV stand, a nice one from IKEA. My father was with me to help me drag the box inside my apartment, but after I put it together, it sat in the middle of my living room for a week because I couldn't move it or my TV. I finally made some phone calls to get someone to come over and help me with it and I had to deal with, "What, you don't have anyone that can move it for you?"

I hate that.

Not to mention I would like it moved six inches to the left, but there's no way in hell that's ever happening because I'm not making those phone calls again.

But those are not good enough reasons for me to want more. I don't want to compromise on what to eat for dinner. I don't want to share my bed. My life is full enough as it is that I don't need some man to tell me I'm beautiful to make my it fuller.

Every once and awhile I wish I was wrong: I wish there is someone out there that could change my mind. Christopher would prove not to be that man. He would disappear before the following month without so much as an explanation and my life would continue very much the same.

But I only wish to be wrong every once and awhile. Like when I'm teetering on top of my barstool trying to put my pasta pot back on the top shelf.

Like the one where the man has all the books, but his glasses break redux

I got another one yesterday after I posted:


If improper grammar were a crime, you would definitely do time.

Like the one where the man has all the books, but his glasses break

You know those movies where the world changes, but the person doesn't? (ie any Twilight Zone episode or "Big" or "Freaky Friday")

I think I'm in the midst of that.

Or someone got a whole bunch of people to play a prank on me. From multiple fronts.

I open my e-mail this morning and find this:


Hey stranger.

The only place where my e-mail and my picture is located in the same place is on my blog. But every person who e-mailed me from my blog has always announced they came from here.

BTW, I HATE people who don't take the time to spell out the words. I'm not 14 and trying to be cool. I have a degree in the very language you are defacing. How dare you.

This alone is not a big deal.

But during lunch I check my MySpace. Will and I have been placing bets all morning on "The O Cizzle" season finale. I say Sandy's going to have a heart attack and his outcome will be uncertain, but invariably he'll get better first episode of next season. Will says Marissa will die, Seth's arrest will keep him from going East and Summer will stay with him. We'll see, Will, we'll see.

Anyways, my inbox was filled with presumed spam. I open messages from 2 different boys:


Uh, hello guy-whose-profile-picture-is-a-SWIMMING-POOL.


Wow, really? That must have been some test!

Once again, not that abnormal by itself, but coupled with my hotmail e-mail and I'm beginning to wonder.

Then I open this one:


I checked her out; this isn't spam. I'm sorry, but did I just wake up in a world where I'm gorgeous? Cute? Yes, I truly believe I'm a good looking girl. Model worthy? Um, no.

Should I go buy a lottery ticket on the way home? Today just seems to be my day.

Pantsless Wednesdays

Yes folks, it's Wednesday, which means... well, I'm currently wearing pants. I find it's much easier to stay employed when you wear pants. But as soon as I get home, and the dog gets her walk, the pants are coming off.

It's Pantsless Wednesday!

Pantsless Wednesday is an old college tradition that I still honor. For my circle of friends, Tuesday night was the big night downtown. We had it timed out perfectly. At 8:00 PM, we'd show up at Molly O'Shea's for Ladies Night. Any well drink we wanted, served in a pink Dixie cup for a quarter. We'd save our change all week and go crazy at Molly O'Shea's. All of a sudden, we were generous friends buying rounds of drinks. At 10 PM, we'd get off the barstool and make our way toward Wild Wings. By the time we made it there, the drunkenness took full effect, but that didn't stop us from imbibing 22 oz bottles of Miller High Life for $2.50. We'd have 3 or 4 of those while we took turns singing karaoke. I think I once had a six-week streak where I'd spill my beer every week. By 12:30 to 1 AM, the karaoke died out, but we were too drunk and having too much fun. So we'd go to On The Rocks where ladies get free champagne (a true Athens drinker had her week planned out where she never had to pay much for drinks) We'd stay at On The Rocks and drink free champagne and eat their cherries until the bar closed at 2:30 AM.

And we'd wake up Wednesday afternoon with the worst hangover known to man. The amalgamation of well vodka, bourbon, rum, Miller High Life, and cheap champagne would keep us locked in our bathrooms through most of Wednesday. We were smart enough to not schedule any morning classes, and those of us that did failed them for not attending. No manner of drinking I have done since those Tuesdays have ever given me the same degree of hangover.

We were troopers, although some were more so than others. I was one of the founders of our Tuesday night tradition and I held on for 3 years. The best memories of my life.

The point is every Wednesday night we'd be tired and hungover. The girls of the group would all meet up at Bonnie's apartment where we would wear nothing but T-shirts and watch crap TV together: the worst shows, like DateLine whodunits. We would also go around and tell what we remembered from the night before to piece together what actually transpired. We dubbed the evening "Pantsless Wednesdays."

And although I'm no longer hungover on Wednesdays, I still honor the day by not wearing any pants and watching crap TV. On the schedule for tonight: American Idol.

Is it in poor taste that I find this hysterical?

For the record, I don't care much for Mexican food.

And secondly, burritos aren't exactly a mystery to make. That's why when you order fajitas, they just put all the ingredients down in front of you and you put it together yourself.

But I do appreciate the fact this young lad thinks he can ultimatum himself into the country with his excellent burrito wrapping skills. Someone get this man a green card and a job!

The Case of the Favorite Child

My mother opens up her cards. I look over her shoulder to read my brother's card. On the bottom of the $4 Hallmark card, he wrote, "Thanks for being the best mom."

I bust out laughing, unable to contain myself.

"'Thanks for being the best mom?' What a suck up!"

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Who writes that!?"

"I do."

"Yeah you and 4-year-olds! You're a grown man! A grown married man!'Thanks for being the best mom!'" and I continually laugh.

It should be mentioned that no one else in the room is laughing with me.

"Are you saying that Mom isn't the best mom?"

Dammit. I left myself open for this. The fact that he also said this with a straight face makes me laugh harder.

"It's just, 'Thanks for being the best mom?' The language is so elementary!"

My step-father picks up the phone, presumably to call his own mother. I try to rope him into this, because he usually gets into trouble with me. I turn to him, "Hey Paul, are you calling your mom to tell her that she's the bestest?"

He smiles and says nothing. Everyone can hear the busy signal.

"Looks like your sister beat you to it. She's on the phone right now telling your mom that she's the best first."

I really don't know when to quit.

The mystery of why my brother is the favorite child is now solved.

But, seriously, who says that?

I took some really terrible photos

Because I knew you wouldn't believe me.


This is a picture of the dashboard of my truck, and apparently some valet ticket I have yet to remove from it. But keep looking. See that license plate? What does it say? Does it? Does that read "POODOC?" Yes, yes it does. Judging from the BMW, I'm willing to bet the owner is an actual Poo Doc. But would you really want that on the ass of your car? If you specialize in asses, you do!

Not quite AK47LVR, my all time fave, but close.



Looks normal, right? No. Think dirtier. Think like the editors of Maxim; think like me. There it is! What you are not seeing is that the flaccid penis is actually what is left of a hand pointing to the sign. Only the wrist and a knuckle are missing. You can see a slight stain on the brick where they used to be. What my phone did not pick up is the detail. Under the index finger dangles 2 remaining knuckles, which makes it perfect actually.

What? I do not have too much time on my commute home from work!

Say what?

I finally broke down and had my blog made into a word cloud:



Pretty perfect, don't you think?

My luck is NEVER this good

I just want you to know I was driving to work this morning and when I looked up at the intersection, the light turned from yellow to red. If I slammed on my breaks, I probably would have skidded right through the intersection anyways, not to mention my gas mileage I would have lost. So I drove through.

On the other side of the intersection was a police cruiser. I swore and watched my rearview mirror for him to swing around and get me. To my amazement, he didn't. That's 2 days in a row.

Maybe they do have better things to do. Like solve murders.

A post about me

After standing next to some very smelly people, I finally had my package. I looked at it and said to myself "How exciting! Something from Bermuda!" I flipped the package over. On the back me wrote "How exciting! A package from Bermuda! Yay sunshine!" and everything felt eerie for a moment.

I looked up at the darkening sky, searched the skyline for the Bank of America building and promptly found it. I'm lucky I live behind the tallest building in Atlanta; I can always find my way home.

At home I finally found a use for my Ikea knife set. I grabbed the unused blade and sliced open the package. Inside were these:

A beautiful post card of paradise where the most newsworthy thing that happens is a guy falling down and cracking his head open on the street.

A calendar with more lovely pictures for me to hate me all the days in the year for living some place so cool.

And a rum cake to ease my suffering for hating her.

And I automatically knew where they were going to go: in my cubicle! (Well, except for the rum cake, which goes in my belly) So now I have 3 things hanging in my cubicle. I promptly told my coworkers that my friend in Bermuda sent me decorations and now they're all jealous. Thanks me!

Bermuda stamps, woot!

Miss Daisy's Driving

I opened my mailbox and pulled out a "Sorry we missed you!" slip from the post office. My first package from a blogger arrived. I flipped the card over and looked at the post office address and promptly swore. The package was not waiting at the post office across the street from me; it was waiting at the main office downtown.

Okay, so Downtown is only a few miles from me, about a five minute drive, but I hate going there. I am comfortable with Buckhead, Virginia Highland, and Midtown, but not Downtown. Downtown is very poor, filled mainly with homeless people and crack addicts and I don't go that way unless I have to. But I had a really bad day and wanted something to smile about, I wanted my package.

I looked outside: it was dusk. I hate downtown when it's daylight, the fact it's cloudy and only getting darker made me uneasy. I went to my apartment, leashed up my dog and took her with me. She's my security blanket. I figure most of the people roaming the streets downtown did not see "Snow Dogs," so they don't know my wolf-like dog is actually not wolf-like at all.

It's hard to get lost in Atlanta. I just pick a skyscraper that's near where I'm going and drive towards it. For the post office, I drive towards the Capitol Building, which is impossible to miss because its dome is encrusted in gold. With this system, I rarely pay attention to street names and signage; I'm mainly looking up to see if I'm heading towards my skyscraper. For this reason, I've had many follies: I've driven through red lights, cut people off; basically I turn into the worse driver ever.

I find the Capitol, I find my street, and I eventually find the post office. The only people out obviously have nowhere to go. Some simply dance on the street corners. I look in the backseat to see if Nikita is looking ferocious. She has her head out the window, smelling.

The post office's gates are closed. I pick up the card and check it again; it's supposed to be open until 8:30pm. I drive up to the next gate-- closed. Before I know it, I've passed the post office and am working my way by the next government building. Frustrated, I speed up to the corner and make a left. Something about that intersection didn't seem right to me, but I didn't care, I just wanted to get my package and go home.

It didn't hit me until I made it to the next light: I was driving the wrong way day a one way road. I knew this because there was no turning lane for me and the light was above my head, facing the opposite direction. I swear yet again and stop, trying to figure out what I can do. And that was the exact moment I saw it, the police cruiser. Behind the wheel is a short black woman who can barely see over the steering wheel.

I know she's going to pull me over and I wonder if she'll buy my lame excuse that I was discombobulated. To hell with it, I thought and made an illegal left turn to get back on the right street. That's 3 tickets: one for going the wrong way, one for the left turn, and one for the seatbelt I wasn't wearing. Looking into the rear-view mirror, I see the cop was going to turn, but decided not to at the last minute. I swear, again, and double check that I have all my paperwork.

I find the open post office gate and pull inside, all the while checking my rear-view to see if the cop is going to follow me. She didn't. I didn't even see the cop car. So I have to give her credit because she clearly contradicted my post last week. Then again, she may not have seen me over the steering wheel.

I'm not obsessed, I swear

Fun for today.

















I cannot listen to it without expelling bodily fluid from laughing so hard when I hear the Louis Armstrong impersonator sing, "Baby, I'm not that innocent." Hear it for yourself. Right click to download.

I always knew it would end this way...

Jamie Highway Paintown 6 Fame City 15 Lake Love 66 Dumpsville 150 Loony-Bin Lane 479 Please Drive Carefully

Username:

Where are you on the highway of life?

From Go-Quiz.com

Not for the faint of heart

Wikipedia, it's nice I can come to you with all my sexual questions.

And now for our fact of the day, courtesy the "Felching" entry in Wikipedia:

I did not know this.

Dear Athens,

Your streets may be empty now with everyone currently scrubbing the crib sheet off his day-old stamped hand, but tonight I will grace you with my presence and conquer you in all your nudity, debauchery, and drinkery. Yes, it is "Cinco de Drinko" and I am out to add another tequila story to my blog.

Shots will be poured. Boxers will tighten. The gods will laugh.

Sincerely,

James

The Pokey and the Amazon

It was a Saturday afternoon my senior year of college. My then-boyfriend had "the guys" over and they were doing manly things like drinking Coors Light, dipping, and openly farting while watching some sports game on TV. Ryan had permitted me to stay and hang out with the boys; I didn't mind as long as free beer was involved.

I was waiting for a phone call from my friend Sandy, who was serving her 24 hours in jail for her recent DUI. I was supposed to pick her up afterwards. Upon hearing this, each boy goes around the room and reminisces about his time in the pokey. There were 8 of us in the room, and we each had a story. 8 college seniors/ graduates. 8 otherwise law-abiding citizens with jobs and pay taxes. The people in this room are not bad people; I am not a bad person.

This was the moment where my general distrust for the police took full effect. Previously, I had always feared them: the one that sexually harassed me when I was 16, the ones that gave me a hard time late at night on Highway 316, and the one that body slammed a woman picking her 78-year-old mother at the airport. I wasn't there, but I saw the video on the news and it was pretty terrifying. In my experience, it was the scary kids in high school who would show you their illegal butterfly knife collections that grew up to become police officers, the ones the government would hand weapons to.

Since this moment, I have treated every police officer how they deserve: the nice, helpful ones get my respect and the jerks with the illegal butterfly knife collection and power trips get my disdain.

I was having a hell of a time parallel parking. I was downtown and needed to register my truck since I moved. A safari-clad police officer approached me, dressed all in khaki with one of those gay hats with the string that goes under your chin.

"I hope you're not parking there."

"Why not?"

"Do you see that sign?"

"What sign?"

He points to a sign a block away. I could barely see it.

"It's too far away, I can't see it."

"Well it's there."

"Can you read it to me?"

This really pissed him off. Even he had to walk up a few steps to read it.

"It says 'No parking. Police and Court Lawyer parking only.'"

I looked along the side of the street. I saw one police car parked there. The rest were civilian cars.

"So all these cars are..."

"Lady, I don't NOT have time for this!" Safari Police Man reaches in his pocket and pulls out the pad he writes tickets with.

"Hey! I am not doing anything illegal! I am not parked in this space, the car is running and is in reverse. All I did was ask a question. You didn't even let me finish it. I could have been saying, "So all these cars are lawyers'?" but you were so quick to judge!"

What was he going to give me a ticket for, attitude? I totally meant it the way he took it, but he could never prove it. He doesn't have time to write parking tickets for everyone parked along the street, but he has time to harass me. In either case, I left before he could say anything else. Safari Police Man returned to the corner of the street and resumed scratching his ass.

Tequila Mockingbird

Geoff reached into his wallet and handed me a five dollar bill. "This is for gas money and to thank you for agreeing to pick me up when my shift is over at 2 am," he explained. I took the bill, folded it half, and stuck it in the cup holder in my truck. I've never been one to turn down gas money.

"Thanks."

"So what are you going to do tonight while I'm at work?"

"I don't know yet, I'll find something."

Geoff unbuckled the seat belt and got out of my truck. "Thanks again," he said. "And don't forget, I get done at 2." He slammed the truck door shut and walked into the telemarketing building where we both worked part time.

I knew exactly what I was going to do; I just didn't want to tell Geoff. And now I had five dollars to do it with. I drove back to Geoff's house, parked my truck, and walked directly to Compadre's. Compadre's was an overpriced Tex-Mex restaurant in an old department store downtown. I liked going there at night because their bar was open and they had free pool for anyone with an open bar tab. I had been going there a lot recently with different friends and I knew the bartender well enough that I could sit and talk to her.

That night was a special night at Compadre's. Melissa, my bartender friend, told me to make sure I come by that night. I walked through the restaurant into the back where the bar is tucked away. The normally empty place was full. I grabbed the last remaining barstool and sat down. The guy sitting next to me had his head on the bar, on the verge of passing out.

Melissa came over and placed a napkin down in front of me. "What's up?" I asked.

She reached under the bar and lifted up a gallon-sized plastic bottle and swished it around. "Quarter tequila night!"

"What? Are you serious?"

"Yup."

I examined the plastic bottle. "What kind of tequila is that?"

She turned the label around and read, "Captain America."

I have never heard of Captain America tequila before, but I was all for quarter tequila night. I took Geoff's five dollar bill and put it on the bar. Melissa smiled, "Keep it open?"

"You know it."

The guy next to me, with his own five dollar tab, lifted his head off the bar and shook it in an effort to regain consciousness. Melissa poured 4 shots of the clear liquid and left one in front of the boys on either side of me and one for herself. "Cheers!" She said.

The boys began the ritual of the salt and lime while I just took the shot straight. I put my glass down upside down and looked around the bar: it was all boys, punctuated by a handful of girls.

I never made it through my five dollars; I never expected to. I don't even know how far I made it, but the guy next to me had his head back down on the bar, fully passed out. Melissa kept watch of the time for me. "It's 1:45," she said. "You better go get your friend."

I got off my barstool for the first time since I sat down almost three and a half hours ago. I didn't think I was that drunk, but by the time I made it to the front door, the world was spinning. There was no way I was going to be able to pick up Geoff.

It's 2:05 AM and I ring the after hours bell at work. Geoff met me at the door.

"Shh, I'm drunk," I whispered.

"I can smell the booze on you."

We walked outside. Geoff stops and looks around.

"Where's your truck?"

"It's at your house."

"But you were supposed to pick me up!"

"I'm here!"

"Well, how did you get here?"

"I hitchhiked."

Geoff puts his head in his hands and groans.

It's a manageable walk to Geoff's house from work, but it's a pain. It's basically 2 miles uphill. I headed in direction of the road and Geoff headed in the direction of the school.

"School's faster than the road," he protested.

"I don't walk through North Campus at night."

"Why?"

"Because my freshman year a homeless man came out of a bush and started hassling us for money while we were trying to get back to our dorms. He scared us. That's where the homeless sleep at night and I don't want to go through there."

"Don't be a baby."

And so we walked through school. As we approached North Campus I became more and more apprehensive. I clung to Geoff, partly out of fear and partly because I continued to feel the effects of my quarter tequila night worsen with each step.

The bars had emptied out by this time and we groups of people were walking through North Campus. The globe lights lit the area, but I was still scared. I was so drunk from Captain America tequila that I felt delirious. I saw a group of guys approaching. I envisioned them harassing me and I lost it:

"I'm not giving you my money! Stay away from me and tell your friends!" I shouted. "Go back to your trees and bushes!"

"Jamie. Shut. Up." Geoff hissed and I broke out into uncontrollable giggles.

I open my eyes. It's pitch black. I can't see a thing, but I know these walls aren't my walls. "Huh? What happened?" I started to freak out. "WHERE AM I?"

"Shh. You're in my bed," Geoff mumbled.

"What happened?"

"You went to quarter tequila night and sang the theme song to Captain America the whole walk home."

"Oh."

"You only knew the tune, so you made the words up."

Parts of the night hit me. I sat up in bed. "Wait! The homeless men!"

"Yeah, those people weren't homeless. They were frat guys. You were screaming at people in North Face jackets."

I can't draw a pig for shit

but at least I have a bitchin' sex life!

Your turn

A Tequila Story

Chuckieeverdapper's blog is a rich mix of honesty and vulgarity that either leaves me horrified or in a fit in my cubicle for trying to cover up my laughs that usually ends with a much messier result. In some posts, both occur. He brings out my inner sicko and has inspired me to share some of my not-so-flattering drinking stories.

In high school I was never noticed by the boys, but then again I never put out. These were the days where I still cared about things like pleasing my parents. As soon as I stepped onto my college campus, however, something changed. From orientation to graduation, there was always a boy. My longest dry spell was 3 weeks without a date.

The third guy I dated in college was Gary. He was extremely tall and rocked the skater alternative look. I still have a picture of him dancing at a rave with his wallet chain dangling out of his pocket. That feels like a decade ago, before people started dying on e. I met him through a mutual friend at a party my freshman year and I couldn't believe it when he professed that he had such a crush on me.

When he invited me to drive over to his college for the weekend, I was so excited. As soon as I arrived, he grabbed me by the hand and we walked a few blocks away to a Mexican restaurant and split pitcher after pitcher of margaritas. This was the beginning of my first attempt at drinking. I'd eventually quit until 2 1/2 years later when I met an Irish guy named Drew, and I'm pretty sure everyone knows the story from there.

From the restaurant margaritas we moved back to his place and continued the tequila consumption to the point where I'm not going to be able to give you any more details of the night. I think I spilled the bottle of tequila. I remember making out with him in his cheap bed furnished by the apartment complex. I remember him reaching under the bed and grabbing a condom out of a plastic container, only to put it away again when I told him I was still a virgin.

I woke up still drunk the next morning. Gary slept while I went into his bathroom and decided to shower. I put the shampoo in my hands and ran it through my hair, but something was wrong. My hair was not as long as it was the night before. I looked at the drain. My mother always told me that my hair would fall out if I dyed it.

The screaming woke Gary up. Frantic, blood curdling screams. He got up and ran to the bathroom and tried the door, but it was locked. He called in, but received no response, just screaming.

Gary had to break his bathroom door down. He ran in and yanked back the shower curtain. He found me crouched on the floor of the shower, clawing at the drain. "My hair! My hair!" I sobbed. Gary turned off the water and grabbed a towel, wrapped me in it, and carried me out of the shower.

He sat me down on the bath mat and rocked me, "Shh, shh." My sobs turned into whimpers. "Tell me what happened."

I told him about the shampoo and how my hair should have touched my shoulders, but didn't, and how I was trying to get my hair out of the drain. He laughed. "It's not funny!" I said and I cried all over again.

Gary said he had something to show me. We got up off the bathroom floor and he walked me over to the mirror and made a fist and wiped the fog away. He showed me my reflection. My hair had not fallen out, it was just really tangled from whatever happened the night before.

And this is reason number 1 why I have no business drinking tequila.

************

I was partying in Savannah a couple of years ago for St Patrick's Day. It was 4 in the afternoon and I just realized I could no longer see straight. Someone called my name, I turned around and stared at the culprit without recognition.

"Jamie, it's Gary!"

He was bald now, and I only recognized him by his height. He's the only guy I know who's 6'7."

"Gary!" I slurred and I ran across the street and jumped up and wrapped my legs around his hips and hugged him. And by jumped up, I probably mean climbed up: he's just that tall.

He laughed and set me down. Behind him a girl was standing, glaring at me. "Jamie, I want you to meet my fiance." Oh. Shit.

"Hello, I've heard so much about you!" I lied and smiled big so maybe she'd believe me. Then I made up an excuse and started running down River Street, mortified.

Gary has every reason to believe that I'm completely psychotic, and I wouldn't blame him if he did. He invited me to his wife's graduation party recently and I refused to go because I don't think I could ever face either of them again.

Raise the roof because it's all on fire

(JAMIE and company are at a street festival. They are standing and watching perhaps the most disorganized parade ever. Random people dressed in whatever their grandmothers left them in their attics holding trumpets and occasionally blowing a note. JAMIE didn't really want to see the parade, but she had already gotten honked at by the police for not getting out of the way, so she made her way to the curb and watched for a few minutes. All of a sudden, she sees a black man in derby roller skates skate down the street. He managed to be dressed both in drag and as a bumble bee at the same time. JAMIE wondered how he was able to accomplish being a "queen bee" as it was later described to her. As he got closer, JAMIE inhaled sharply, swore, and covered her eyes with her hand. The black Queen Bee in derby roller skates was wearing a very tiny yellow tutu... and nothing else. Thin black briefs stretched over his "cash and prizes" and hung below the 2" yellow tulle. Behind him, a John Deere tractor pulls a trailer full of girl scouts. A mother was walking with the trailer, directing the girls to "raise the roof" with their hands.)

JAMIE: (smacks gum and leans toward friend) When was the last time you saw someone raise the roof?
FRIEND: I don't know.
JAMIE: It's been years, right? Like how many? 5? (Pauses) Do people still raise the roof?
FRIEND: The Girl Scouts do!
JAMIE: Yes they do... one glass ceiling at a time.