What Is Written

I was at home in Johnson City this past weekend, reading the paper, drinking coffee, eating fresh-cut strawberries on a lazy Sunday morning, knowing why I once was in such a hurry to leave home but, all the same, wondering how feasible it would be to quit my job and come back as a permanent fixture in my parents’ house. I’d be a good maid/dogsitter if need be, I think. I wouldn’t even mind being interviewed for one of those articles titled something like, “Dealing with the Un-empty Nest” or, more to the point, “When You Can’t Get Them to Leave”.

Back to the paper. Got to the Insight section, read an editorial by my parents’ new neighbor, Rep. David Davis of Tennessee’s one & only 1^st district (I discovered I really enjoy the fact that, if I really wanted to, I could walk 2 doors down, knock on Mr. Davis’s door, and ask, very deliberately, “So… which House do you like better: this one … or … that one??”), saw that he voted against the congressional pay increase, and was about to turn the page when I glimpsed the bolded words, “What Is Written”.

What followed were 3 bullet points:

1. Jesus can save you from sin
2. Jesus can save you from death
3. Jesus can give you life

At the end was some tagline along the lines of (no pun int.), “Don’t you want to welcome Jesus in so you can enjoy his gift of life?” Again, with my total lack of a photographic memory combined with enough dignity left to not take camera phone pictures of things I have a vague notion of wanting to write about later, that is totally paraphrased, and I’m sure What Was Written was more like, “Jesus loves you; you love Him; we’re a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won’t you say you love Him too?”

Back to the “What Is Written”. Because it wasn’t so much the bullet points or tagline that caught me off guard; it was more the lead that I thought to be awfully beguiling. So … you’re saying that, because it’s written down, it’s truth? Because it’s written, it’s more likely to be valid? Or because it was written some time shy of 2,000 years ago, it bears more weight than contemporary writings? Or because it’s consistently a bestseller and has been published in 80 gazillion different languages, versions, countries, and colors – is that what proves it’s true?

If so, then I’d better watch what I write. If I copy/paste my last drunk ramble onto enough people’s social networking pages and blog comments (in varying fonts), in another 2000 years, people are going to think my dad is God and that He makes you strong through margaritas. And the numbers 7, 1, & 2 will be v. profound, but only if the 7 comes first. And “I like typing” will be everybody’s favorite – verse Laura 7:21. Nice ring to it, I do proclaim.

i swear to god my dad makes the strongest margaritas. i swear to god i'm about to pass out. and it's...... its only 712 721 pm. holylord. why did i come down here.. oh to get cd. oh there it is! i like typing.

the age of innocence

you know what really sucks about getting older? is that slowly -- slowly to the point that, at first, you're not conscious of it (this is my job - to make you conscious of it) -- you stop being able to say, "gee, when i grow up, i'm going to be _____."

blank could be (could have been?): a rocket scientist. famous. a ROCKSTAR. better. an astronaut. Rich. tiger woods. tiger woods' caddy.

but alas, eventually, we'll be there - grown up, i guess. And we'll look to the left of us and the right of us and forward for a second, and finally behind. And we'll wonder when we got so tall.. when the future stopped seeming so endless. and all of us wizened and murmuring to ourselves, "well, then. that was interesting."

well, maybe not. we could get hit by a bus first. one really big bus.

ace

i had something terrible happen last friday (sarcastically terrible; no worries), which i wanted to recount, but right now am surrounded by digital HOTness. mark philippoussis?? wills and harry?! NBC, I forgive you for the terrible overall concept of ‘Age of Love’ and also for telling the 20-somethings to hula hoop in their sports bras and 4” heels. and then also for casting 20-somethings who would compliantly hula hoop in their sports bras and 4” heels on national television. Stop trying to appease the male viewers. The only men who are watching the same shit we are are the ones who are being forced to do so by their wives/girlfriends and who fall into the 1-television-per-household demographic.

NBC, I even forgive you for the deceitful editing and the crappy cuts to commercials. (who still messes that up?) Why – 1) because my infatuation with boy tennis players makes me smile like a school girl with a crush every time you (sloppily) cut to Mark’s pretty Greek face, and 2) because of Wills and Harry in HD. They are a tribute to Princess Di’s (god rest her soul) overarching beauty, considering that the other half of their DNA came from someone who reminds me of a political-cartoon-sketched W crossed with Mr. Rogers (god rest his soul). Also a tribute to her overall goodness, in all seriousness.

So, I will even forgive you for ‘Deal or No Deal’ (that wholly brainless, talentless, lacking of any substance, only evoking the same thought in Americans cross-country: ‘I really want to watch this because I have to see WHAT is in briefcase #5 my GOD what if it is the million! but maybe she should just take the deal good lord that girl’s bulimia problem make her fake tits look HUGE and red would be a superb color for a traveling choir of playmates OH it’s the million haa sucks for her I would’ve guessed so much smarter.’) if you make a new episode of Age of Love and put Novak Djokovic on there (if you look him up, just remember that tennis has this fantastic way of making everyone look like mentally disabled amoebas in action shots) and cast me. I’ll let the 20-year-old help me with my backhand slice, and I’ll do his taxes. BAM, I’m impressive.

in an uptown world

goals since moving uptown:

- procure futon so do not have laborious duty of blowing up air mattress while intoxicated

- strive to convince all friends to also move Uptown, so as eventually to form the Yuppie College-Has-beens Campus. YCHBC.

- try not to look so much like a yuppie when walking past brothers sipping on paper-bagged alcohol

- actually make it to the polls to show undying support of no new property taxes (vote for sales tax! residents shouldn’t be penalized!! and the light rail is NOT a waste! it’s cool, if nothing else.)

- find as many ways possible to get to Alive After 5 without walking past the transportation center (DEATH trap)

- lobby for an Uptown Cook Out (at least a Wendy’s? with frosty’s??)

- overcome fear of hand seats at Bfast club. some call it irrational. I call it innate.

24

well, I have commenced my mid-20s with my first official black out. crazy, I know, that I have been gone so many times before, but that I have never really blacked out till last night. Sure, I have forgotten pieces of prior nights, but this is the first time that I have absolutely no memory of a block of my life during waking hours. it is a little scary. actually, a lot scary since apparently Black Out Laura does stuff that even Drunk Laura wouldn’t do. (obviously I can’t get my act together enough to have better prefixes for myself. look at Barbie: Malibu Barbie, Hollywood Bound Barbie, Red Hot Reviews Barbie, the Ingenue Barbie... I, on the other hand, have to give myself prefixes for my varying levels of drunkenness. I’ve come so far. really. i’m even still comparing myself to Barbie. christ, when does it end?)

things I do remember:
- grilling out twice in one day. so clutch.
- making mojitos for the first time. ashley, they were awesome, even if only in theory. and stephanie, thanks for bringing over emergency sugar even though we ended up using Splenda.
- the list that was taped to my back and contributed to my blacking out, as the thought of having to pull chest hairs off the hairiest man in the bar made me drink much faster pre-bar.
- jesse throwing kristen’s miller lite out of my window. jesse, we retrieved it this morning and plan to give it back to you for your birthday. you’re welcome.
- being really excited about seeing Tanya drive by while we were walking uptown and then at B&B! SO happy you came, diva!
- requesting MMBop when I first got to the bar

things I don’t remember:
- anything after that. at all.
- doing the other 2 (out of 10, I know, I suck) items on my list? and the one that wasn’t but that I received a Sharpied checkmark on my hand for?
- brad peeing out my window. so inexcusable. I have 2 bathrooms now!
- dancing? I don’t remember dancing. I can only imagine how awesome I was at it, then.
- who I saw
- what I said to people I don’t remember seeing
- when I left
- how many shots I took (vague recollection of a number somewhere around: a LOT)
- what I drank in general
- did I ever have to pee while I was there? I am a little perplexed by that, as I can’t see how I would’ve done so without falling over.
I woke up this morning (barely – 11:45) with everything I had on last night still on, except my shoes, my shorts, and the necklace I somehow broke. oh, and the list that I, at some point, ripped off.

But thanks to everyone who helped me celebrate it (including cruise, pf changs, drinks on thursday, & lunch on friday) and helped me get to black out stage. I’m almost positive that I had a ton of fun, and I’m always amazed at how good my friends are at making my birthdays fantastic(ly blurred). also for christening my new place with its first “small gathering”. special thanks to k-diz for knowing when to take me home to avoid me being that girl and for holding me up on the walk home. and thanks to those who sent birthday wishes. wish you all could’ve been here!

I also apologize to anyone who I saw last night … in general. For whatever I said or did, whatever I didn’t say or do, i offer my deepest blanket apology because I’m unsure of whom exactly this apology applies to.

And I guess I have to apologize to myself, after reading what I wrote 4 days ago:

I turn 24 in 3 days. crazy. I’m already used to the idea. is that strange? but I have. I’ve already convinced myself that the 23-year-old me was immature. 24-year-old me will be so much more mature, beautiful, loving, good. 23 is so young. 24 is a year of opportunity. I’ve spent the last 2 years giving myself away. now comes a year to take some of it back. god, I hope so.

ha! somehow I failed to see that 24 hours of being 24 doesn’t really make a difference. maybe i'll give myself 24 more years. god, that's weird. i can't even imagine how many more appearances Drunk Prefix Lauras will make in the next 24 years.

time out

you know what I just remembered? as savvy eighth graders, my friends and I used to set alarms on our Timex fabric-band watches (mine was army green) so that we would know exactly when it turned 12:34 (maybe for you it was 11:11?) … since, obviously, 34 minutes past noon was a magical time at which the numbers happened to align in such a way on our Timex fabric-band watches that they appeared consecutively, starting at 1 and ending at 4. It’s crazy, I know. Sometimes… just sometimes, though, I can happen to catch it like that even now.

I just don’t get how people find the courage to procreate these days, knowing how overwhelmingly idiotic we were in puberty. bone-chilling, really, the thought of a mini me roaming the halls of junior high wearing braces and Scruncis and Noxzema cream and a half-heart pendant that says, “ends forever” all at once. I’m gutless. Hats off to the midgets. you know, for reproducing even with the probability that their kids will be midgets too. Oh, not PC? sorry, I meant “little people”.

THE list.

so, the question is… how does one “keep track” of his or her list? yes, that list. I guess there are really only 2 options – do you write it down? or is it enough to keep a silent inventory in your head? I guess you could call upon a friend to help you remember, but I mean, who seriously wants to remember someone else’s list, let alone be required to do so? it’s either mentally or emotionally hard enough to remember our own. And I realize that the relevancy of this question will vary among people depending on things like the size of the list and the importance to the person of knowing the contents of the list (i.e., a tally will likely suit some people just fine).

but in search of an answer, I just wrote mine down, which I have never done until now. and I can already tell you 2 things that bother me. 1- I’m almost positive it’s out of order, and 2- one name on the list is, well…. more of a descriptive pronoun rather than a name, per se. So, considering that these 2 faux pas could have been avoided by maintaining this list with the same discipline that I keep my “books I’ve read” list, I’m initially inclined to advocate the write-it-down option.

however, as it stares me in the face, I’m not sure how I feel about it being written down, on record… possible of discovery. it would be my luck for: my mom to happen upon it one day (I have had similar such luck before); for her to ask me what it is; for me to respond with something completely ill-fitted (since the synapses in my brain seem to be suddenly attacked by Ritalin when faced with the command “think fast”) like, "oh, it’s a, um, list of boy names I really like"; for her to really really enjoy one of the names on the list; and for me, XX years later, to be reminded of premature ejaculation every time I call my son’s name.

I’d like to say that thinking about that possible scenario has made me erase my list, but I’m really just kind of looking at it like it's some little green alien with which i don’t know what to do. now that it’s here, should I keep it? if I keep it, where do I safeguard it? how do I feel about the contents of this list? i can't decide if it says a lot about me or nothing about me at all. one blog experiment later, I have no answers.

all I know is that I’m sneezing all over said list, and my eyes are so red that I look high. damn allergies. but it is otherwise delightful outside. gotta take the bad with the good, the good with the bad, the good in bed, the bad in bed.

NoSpace

does anyone else feel like much of life is spent driving up and down aisles of various parking lots, tetchily looking for a space, not being able to find one, and cursing, 'goddamnit, if only i were handicapped...'

?

Nosce te ipsum.

“know thyself” in Latin.

it’s pretty, isn’t it? the kind of phrase you’d like to caption yourself with, figuratively or, nowadays, literally.

it crossed my mind. a pretty phrase to attach to me. but I don’t. I can deny almost anything, but I can’t go so far as to deny that. for instance, when did I start saying fuck so much? I used to cringe at my dad's slip of the word, anger behind it, preventing a substitution stupidly euphemistic. now I hear it fall from own mouth, word vomit. a reflex, really, and I see it out on the ground and just have to let it lie there.

I think I do. sometimes. then I catch myself flattering when flattery is ingratiating and vacuous, laughing with my mouth when my eyes are not, agreeing with things I find wholly disagreeable, trying to meet expectations that someone I don’t know set out for me with grandiosity.

yeah, it’s pretty, but it isn’t it. it can’t be. i’m comfortable that I could go through my whole life and not know my/thyself. i change, equivocate. yeah, comfortable with that.

dos & don'ts

watching the grammy's has prompted me to post a short list, just in case anyone gets the urge to make my life complete.

boys i would do even if it meant giving up chocolate for life, devil buying soul, getting stuck doing Zumba class at the Y, etc. (i mean, it IS called a climax for a reason, right?):

• john legend
• andy roddick
• john krasinski
• wentworth miller
• ashton kutcher

and, for good measure, boys i would NOT do, despite their success, even if i got to buy the devil's soul (i wonder what that even means):

• john mayer
• snoop dogg
• quentin tarantino
• joakim noah
• nickelback (chad kroeger)

or, alternate way to make my life better - procure a nuclear reactor for me. Apparently that and some evil communist intent (ohhh, maybe that's what i could do w/the devil's soul) is all you need to get $300M around here.

because... i am.

is anyone else perplexed that:

• the freaking View is one of the most controversy-creating shows on television? a show where middle-aged women sit around a table, drink coffee, and yap at each other for an hour? no sex, no violence, no R-rated language… just menopause. I guess that’s all it takes.
• the democrats haven’t blamed cold weather on the republicans yet? hello, global freezing? a new movie deal for Howard Dean… An Even Less Convenient Truth? I would’ve thought the crazies would’ve been all over that.
• anyone still replies to “did you get your hair cut?” with “no… I got them ALL cut!!!!”? i mean, ok, I get it; the question is grammatically incorrect. But, for god’s sake, give me a break. it might’ve been 16% funny when you heard it the first time in 3^rd grade from your cheesy dad/grandpa/history teacher. But I am just completely perplexed as to why anyone would voluntarily use that response to any audience past the age of 8. maybe 7.

i like pink.

thank god for boys. sometimes I present myself as being somewhat boy-minded. I like football, I hate shopping (I like buying things, not shopping for them), I am a bad multi-tasker, and I am not overly talkative. However, I do like the color pink, I cannot consume 5 Big Macs in 1 sitting, I enjoy dressing up, I crave chocolate hourly, and, as demonstrated the past few days, I know very little about electronics.

so when my crappy tv broke, I was aided by several notable boys:

1-5: I consulted my group of guy friends by asking the simple question, “what kind of tv should I buy?” Oops. What ensued was a beer-infused i-know-more-than-you-do quasi-argument. But I got good information out of it, such as the difference between plasma, LCD, and DLP (maybe not-so-technical, e.g., “plasmas get hot fast”, and when I asked what DLP was, they said something about mirrors, and I said, “ohhhh, the girl and the elephant thing; yes, I know that.”).

6-7: I also consulted another knowledgeable friend and my dad, who both provided invaluable information on comparing brands, types, the differences between 1080P and 720P, and what kind of hdmi and kjpdrxwwwX cables I needed, etc. (a little more technical, e.g., “I bought a Sharp and love it” and “Uncle Dave bought a Sharp and hated it”).

8-10: looked around at Best Buy and Circuit City, where several boys “helped”, i.e., confused me more when the Circuit City guy tried to convince me to get a DLP tv after I’d convinced myself I wanted the LCD at Best Buy.

11-12: Then was the actual buying, for which another one of my guy friends accompanied me. The hot 19-year-old UNCC student with Versace glasses at Best Buy (who did tell me that Sharps did, in fact, suck, but have improved to top notch quality) and my friend helped me decide which one to buy (in helping, my friend would let me decide and then tell me I was making the biggest mistake of my life; if I then changed my mind, I was informed that I was still making the biggest mistake of my life) and helped me get it from the store up 2 flights of stairs into my apartment.

Finally, I wake up this AM hungover as all hell but excited about watching my new TV, so I set it up AND… cable doesn’t work. figure, hm, should check DVD. oh yes, it works – through all of Wedding Crashers, it works so well. 3 hours later, I check cable again – no luck. sulkily call dad, as now I am getting antsy since playoffs start in an hour. Conversation is something like,

“OK, well what cord is going from the cable box to the tv?”
“a black one?”
“Laura. Seriously. what kind of cord?”
“Daaaaaaaaad I don’t knowwww, it’s black! it worked with the other tv!”

Eventually, we manage to communicate within the bounds of the cell phone-transmitted English language, and he becomes my miracle worker by guiding me through the menu to fix my TV. voila! transmission!!!!! into my home!! such beauty! anyone who does not know beauty does not know a fixed TV.

as such, am v. indebted to all of the above (it only took a dozen of you), esp. those who were not being paid hourly to help me. Gracias. I love my boys.

and … COLTS WON!

don't buy Philips TVs.

2 things i love:

1) exhibit A - the view from my couch
yes, i took a picture, so you can be as amused as i am. After only 3 days of extolling the wonderful, magical powers of DVR, my tv breaks. In Exhibit A you see the 110 lb. tv on the floor and the 2" tv from my bedroom in its stead. Last night, the DVR's bright red light showed that it was, in fact, recording American Idol, though I had no tv to WATCH IT ON (the 2" tv, surprisingly - since it was purchased circa 1942, has no digital outlety thingy). In conclusion, i am buying a flat screen (<40 lbs.) sometime soon (tomorrow) from a reputable brand (Sony).


2) exhibit B - Neutrogena Hand Cream
what i love about it: the only real selling point on the whole tube is Norway's flag with the words "NORWEGIAN FORMULA" written under it............... OH yes, how could we have forgotten?! the Norwegians are certified EXPERTS on hand cream. of course. Just like mathematics and France, Americans just do not get hand cream like those 'wegians.

conclusion foregone

so, i think hippies moved into my apartment building while i was gone. 2 hints:

1) a gaggle of them were playing hackeysack in the yard behind my building when i got back. and by lumping all hippies into hackeysackers, i mean only to assume that hippies don't mind stereotypes when they go out of their way to embody them.

2) there was something that looked like this:



















hanging from a tree in front of my building when i got back. yes, a rainbow fish windsock.....

hmmmmmm.


maybe i'm mistaken, and they've been there all along, but i'm a little miffed at how they afford living in my apartment complex. i thought hippies were all capitalism eschewing, undiscovered artists? of course, maybe the whole gaggle live in one apartment. but then, wouldn't i have smelled the pot by now? oops, stereotyping again.

tell me how this ends

I am such a stupid girl. I come back to my (dorm) room early from our little training "casino night" so I can pack it in early and get a good night's sleep, unlike last night. But instead of picking up my easy Bitter is the New Black book to read before bed, I decide to finish reading the Washington Post I bought on Sunday at Panera (bought for $1.50 , mind you, while wearing the same clothes & make-up from the night before. if churchgoers and teenagers who think it's cool to have Sunday lunch dates are going to gawk at me for blatantly having "shacker" written all over me, then I might as well confuse them and buy a newspaper. oh, the slut can read? how novel…). (for the confused, I'm outside of DC for training for the week and spent last weekend with a friend in Fairfax. and, Saturday night is a blur.)

Silly me. Of course I would come across an article about the "surge." Ah, the surge. How I am already sick of hearing about the gd SURGE, and George hasn't even made his speech about it yet.

Before the Bush-aphiles (are there any left? … er, right?) turn off on me, a warning: you can support George all you want, but this (this - encompassing his handling of the Middle East) is stupid, and there's nothing I can do for you when the world finds out that he's fed us a crock of shit once again. If you had a nickel for every time George said we were winning that war when we most certainly were not, then .. THEN I wouldn't fault you for supporting Bush because you'd have a shitload of money that the reds would help you keep. I mean, in May of '03, George even dressed up in his little flight suit outfit and proudly declared, Mission Accomplished. Good show, sport. maybe he'll do the opposite of Schwarzenegger (yes i had to look up how to spell that) and star in crappy movies after his political stint (come now, you know they were crappy).

This is the thing. Bush is probably about to declare his surge as the next move towards winning the war in Iraq, if winning is even possible anymore. But surge is a verb, an action. And action has gotten us nowhere but deeper in debt, more hated by insurgents, and 3,000 more Americans dead. Perspective - let's move away from comparing to Vietnam and compare to WWII and 9/11. For the U.S., the war in Iraq is already longer than WWII and more deadly than 9/11. Already.

We don't need another action. Remember "shock and awe"? Yeah, that was pretty awesome, wasn't it? Shock and awe - I will always remember picking up a newspaper in England and seeing the front-page picture of a huge cloud of smoke rising above a flame-red city; i remember going back to my flat and staring at the picture and crying. I didn't know why I cried back then, but I think I know now.

We need a strategy. Everything I've heard and read that has been said by the actual men in Iraq has been akin to saying, Yes, of course we have plenty of work to do here, but we don't really know what we'd do with more men, because we already don't really know what we're doing with what we have. What kind of strategy? Now that is beyond anything I might know about foreign policy, diplomacy, war, etc. I really don't know anything about that; it's not my job. But it's mine to be upset that America is making a fool of itself, tripping over its own feet.

And I think the part that pisses me off the most is that I'm sitting in bed writing this goshdarn rant because I can't even sleep without saying my piece of mind first.

This is not a Bush bash, a leftist tirade (pointless rhetoric - ok yes probably); it's me saying I see something wrong and thankfully have the right in this country to say so. In the words of Lt. Gen. Petraeus (Bush's choice to become the top U.S. military commander in Iraq), said in 2003 on the initial march to Baghdad,

"Tell me how this ends."

they were the best of times, the worst of times..

i feel like i should write something, it being the last day of 2006. but i really, as usual, don't have anything to say. i could do some bests and worsts or something... mkay..

best dressed:












worst dressed: WHAT'S YOUR POISON? on the pop up. really..? i bet he didn't even know his own answer to that question.










best signature move:










worst surprise: walking to cans and getting a paintball shot to the ass! hoodlum teen-f*ers!










longest fun days: tie between -
Oktoberfest



















and LSU game



















best wedding: incidents with stairwells, uncles, & voyeurism come to mind.. and it was still a flawless wedding.










worst travesty: getting cut in line at the state fair












best counteraction:
tap, tap.

best drive:












worst drive:
last of LSU game - LSU makes a 1st down on 4th & 7 to subsequently score in the end zone directly beneath me to win the game. vomit.

best compliment received:
hey. wow, you're, like, the prettiest chick i've seen in, like, a year.

worst pick up line:
so, what are you?

best worst beer pyramid:










worst once-done idea: tequila-filled water guns?










worst twice-done, shame-on-me idea: playing in cemeteries










best head gear - pink hoodie?













worst head gear - napkin? (but v.good bday)










and.. best dance pictures.. there are more, but this is a good sample:























































ha, it was a good year.. here's to another.

dialing for dollars

As the year winds down and the holiday season is upon us, I find the need to reflect upon something that has to do with neither… the drunk dial.

I mean, this is no small matter – even Wikipedia has an entry for it. go ahead, look it up. you know you want to.

the question lies with intention. It’s a full out epidemic – peaceful reveries everywhere are being interrupted at ungodly hours – but why? My friends and I have long debated whether a drunk dial from a boy means, (1) that the boy has no balls and can only get the balls to call you (his one true love, of course) when he’s drunk, or (2) that the boy’s balls are constantly tangoing with his dick, and the boy doesn’t really want to call you at all but for the fact that it can mean a direct connection with your vagina.

I’m inclined to think that, for the most part, the intention can be either of the two or some mix or neither. So it’s one of those ‘it depends’ answers, which is an all-around shitty answer anyway, because it’s not the kind of answer Americans like – hard and fast, yea or nay – but it’s the answer we always get… are we winning the war in Iraq? well, it depends (on the day, on whom you ask, on the time of day)… can I come over and make sweet, sweet love to you? well, it depends… wait, who is this again?

I’ve received many a good drunk dials, which reminds me of a rule that should be enacted – if you’re going to drunk dial someone, and they do not answer, for god’s sake leave a message. It makes for such good sat/sun morning entertainment. If you took the effort to dial while drunk, at least slur a few words into the phone, heck, tell me what your drunk dial’s intention is… or that you’re jacking off thinking about me (by the way, should that be taken as some sort of weird compliment or as just gross??) or something. Be a sport.

Drunk texts are also fun. One boy's drunk text even asked – is drunk texting as bad as drunk dialing? to which I think the answer is no… it’s worse. Dialing – the effort involves finding the contact and pressing the big green Send button. Texting – involves choosing Messages, finding the contact, typing what you want to say – some cleverly disguised variation of “I want to be on you” – making sure the phone is typing what you want to say (doubtful – “Dixies” comes out as fixidr on my phone… so if I’m ever at fixidr, you know where to find me), and finally pressing the big green Send button.

Much more effort for texts – much more intention, whether good or bad … I guess, well, it depends.

to be sure, I’ve definitely done my fair share of drunk dialing, and what was my intention? They’re many times to boys who don’t even live in Charlotte, so I really have no clue. maybe I just want some late night confirmation that someone out there wants to be on me. and no inhibitions get in my way of confirming my altogether goddess-like sex appeal.

then again maybe it’s just drunk dialing. Nothing more. Just another thing that happens when all good decision making gets washed away with ___. ah, is it cocktail hour yet? maybe I’ll call you later. I’ve been known to try to get my dog to sing to you when drunk at the homestead.

a fever you can't sweat out

So… I’m sick and “working from home” this morning, but with a high fever, it’s hard to get motivated/started. So my computer prompted me to download internet explorer 7 when I turned it on just now, and it was taking forever, so I was clicking on random things that didn’t involve the internet and got to a folder called “emails.” Well, looks like I was a lot better at archiving things back in college than I am now, because there were various documents: “Dad’s emails”, “personal emails”, etc. along with a few saved IM conversations (no making fun.. you know as well as I do that relationships have started, lived, and ended by those things. I wouldn’t be surprised if religions have been founded, wars been waged through THE instant messenger). Anyway, then there’s one titled “[insert ex’s name here]’s emails”. So I’m thinking, wow, I saved those? and open it up.

And… well, damn. All I can say is that I have no right to complain about any unfavorable treatment I get from guys nowadays. I had a guy who really cared about me, and, though it didn’t work out, I do know that all men are not, in fact, assholes. And while I know our going separate ways was for the best, I just regret that I may have hurt him, and, in mine and my ex’s case, I know I was the asshole, not him. I never cheated on him or even thought to do so, but in some way I think I cheated him out of something…. what? I really couldn’t express it in words, but something. And, the thing is, I might be getting cheated out of something now, too, but I deserve it, and he didn’t. I hope he knows that i did and still do care about him, that I’m sorry, and that he deserves better. he’s a good guy… a better person than I will ever be. no shit.

so, I have no right to complain and will not anymore. life’s been pretty good to me, and karma’s a bitch, yo.

ugh, i've been up for half an hour now and i think i need a nap. night night.

why i wish i had been born with a penis instead

‘tis the season to be jolly, right? right-i-o, then.

now, I may expose more about myself than I should, but I’m feeling really impelled to spread some holiday cheer, so I’m about to make you feel a lot better about your current situation, whatever it may be, and here’s warm wishes that it’s cheery and bright.

2 weekends ago, a guy who I thought was a halfway decent person (why am I such a stupid, stupid girl), turned out to be not, as my friend overheard him saying some not very nice things about me, all the while trying to get me to go home with him - after sending his girlfriend home crying. it made me feel like complete and utter shit. he also complained all night about how he’s too young, at 25, to be dating someone seriously. I hope he dies alone. no, no, not really. I do not wish that upon anyone. what I mean is…. I hope he marries a supermodel, who gains 167 lbs. after birthing their first child, who ends up being a gay version of ricky martin. yes. that will do.

This past Friday night, i cabbed it home by myself and got molested by my cab driver (not completely violated, but he reached around the seat the whole time and kept grabbing my hand and touching me and telling me how pretty he thought I was and asked me to get in the front seat and to lean forward so he could rub my back, and I am, thus, traumatized for life). Luckily he did bring me home (after asking for my phone #... NO, you CREEPY, OLD GROSS ogre gross), but I still felt sorry for myself, and fell asleep with my head underneath my Christmas tree (happy place).

Saturday I spent all night ignoring a guy who followed me up to my apartment on Halloween night (yes, a red sweatshirt & sweatpants & a blue pom-pom wig did constitute the majority of my costume) and fell asleep on top of me (also should mention that he was dressed as a vampire and therefore had FANGS); he called me 3 days later; I never called back; his friend informed him of how creepy his unrequited behavior was; I purposely avoided him all night Saturday, along with his hideous friends, one of whom we aptly nicknamed Jaws.

The kicker – tonight, the horrible fang boy called me asking me out on a date.

OH
MY
GOD.

I will never understand it. Dating does not go, 1) be completely ignored by girl, 2) ask girl out on date. Classic. my life. is. classic.

meanwhile, my phone remains void of normal boys’ numbers, the Colts lose, the Giants lose, florida wins, and I can’t get anything constructive done b/c i spend my small amount of free time writing about my misery to try to make myself feel better.

Merry Christmas and a Happy Hannukah/New Year/ Hope For Some Semblance of Validation for Living!

(also, thank god for my girls, who have been there to console me. I might be dead without you. seriously.)