You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'alcoholism: I has it.' category.
As I was listening to Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes earlier today, I got to thinking about how I’d like for that song to be played at my funeral.
Well, I guess I wouldn’t like it that much. I mean, I’d be dead. And everything.
Then that got me thinking about funerals.
You know how people always say, “When I die, I don’t want anyone to be sad. I don’t want a funeral, I just want everyone to have a freakin’ PARTY!”
Well, you know what?
When I die?
I WANT PEOPLE TO BE SAD, DAMN IT.
I want my friends and family to bawl their freaking eyes out. You know, the ugly cry. Punctuated with howls and snot bubbles. I’m talking totally devastated, can’t-live-their-lives-any-longer-without-the-sheer-awesomeness-that-was-LRC, suicidal states of mind.
Well, maybe not suicidal.
But would a little moderate to severe depression be too much to ask?
I didn’t think so.
When I die?
YOU BETTER NOT THROW ANY FUCKING PARTIES.
I MEAN IT.
YOU BETTER CRY, GOD DAMN YOU.
MOURN THIS GREAT LOSS, MOTHERFUCKER. SHOW SOME RESPECT FOR THE DEAD AND PUT DOWN THAT MILLER LITE.
Unless you’re drinking your sorrows away.*
Then that’s okay.
Does this make me a bad person?
Obviously not, because there’s gonna be a lot of sad, crying faces at my funeral.
And you don’t cry for someone who’s a bad person.
You just don’t.
*which is what I do every weekend
So, you want to hear about my date?
Fine.
If you must.
It wasn’t a terrible date. It wasn’t even a bad date. It was . . . unimpressive.
He was the same height as me. I was wearing 4″ heels, but still. I knew this going into the date, but actually being eyeball to eyeball with a guy was a little weird for me. I prefer to look up at my guy and be able to tell if he needs to trim his nose hairs.
The sushi was good. Conversation was good. After getting past the whole “what do you do for a living / where are you from / what’s your favorite color” bullshit, we started just talking like normal people. He was really impressed with me and how I was “different” from how he’d originally perceived me to be. I thought I was enjoying the conversation greatly until I realized why I was enjoying the conversation.
Because he was kissing my ass.
I haven’t been the recipient of a good ass-kissing in a while, and it felt good. I’m accustomed to my friends being used to the extreme dryness and unapologetic “ME-ness” of yours truly, so while on the date with Smartass Engineer I was just being my (un)normal self. Instead of my quips being met with silence, indifference, or disgust, as they usually are with those who know me, instead I was hearing scores of laughter and praise.
Basically, he was more into me than I was into him.
Once we were properly sushi-ed, we got in his car and decided to go to a bar for a drink.
He put in a burned CD.
And Nickelback permeated the speakers.
You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, I thought.
Then, he asked the dreaded question.
“So, do you like Nickelback?”
Blink.
Blink.
“To be completely honest with you, no. I do not.”
I figured “Actually, I would rather eat Rosie O’Donnell’s toe jam while being photographed in a nylon, camelt0e-highlighting pantsuit and being run over repeatedly by a half-ton pickup truck, all the while watching baby bunny rabbits get curb stomped by Ann Coulter than ever hear another Nickelback song again” was a little harsh for the first 90 minutes of a date.
NICKELBACK.
Let me repeat that.
NICKELBACK.
His. Favorite. Band. Is. Nickelback.
Normally, music taste does not fall into the category of Things That Matter Greatly to Me in another human being. But when your favorite band is NICKELBACK?
I have to question your intelligence.
Nee, your sanity.
I think irony is fucking with me because THE DAY BEFORE THE DATE, I tweeted this.
If I had to describe my personal hell, it would involve Nickelback, inaccessibility to alcohol, and ironing.
So there you go. This band belongs in my personal hell, and my potential suitor is on Ticketmaster buying presale tickets for the concert.
Also, I had to iron my shirt for the date. So we’re batting .667 for LRC’s Personal Hell components.
(Of course alcohol was involved. His favorite band is Nickelback. How else was I supposed to enjoy myself after that?)
Don’t worry, it gets worse.
After the Nickelback fiasco, AS IF THAT WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH, the worst song ever recorded ever in the history of mankind, ever, came through the speakers. And SaE then told me a lovely anecdote about how his neighbors used to complain to him because he listened to this particular “song” on repeat.
Hold me.
I had driven a whole hour to get to this particular date, so I tried not to let his horrible, atrocious, unforgivable taste in music ruin it. We had a few drinks at a cheesily-named bar, and at nearly 1am it was time for me to go home. He was nice enough to drive me around until we found a place that was open and served coffee since I had to drive another hour home and I was getting sleepy, but by the time we got back to his house (where I’d left my car) I found myself reciting the chant “pleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissme” over and over in my head.
When I got out of the car, I tried to maneuver my body in such a way that I could slip around and get into the driver’s side of my car unscathed and dry-lipped.
No such luck.
He appeared seemingly out of nowhere with his arm hooked around my waist and a grip that said he wasn’t letting go. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, where I let them rest for about .00000000042 seconds before I pulled away, thanked him for dinner and drinks, got in my car, and dipped the fuck out.
He left me a message yesterday about how he wanted a second date and this time he would come to my neck of the woods. I just frowned. He was very nice. Very funny. But I’m just not that into him. And he has vomit-inducing taste in music.
And I didn’t like his shoes.
I’ve put my profile on the dating website on private for the time being. I’m starting to get over New York and I’m realizing that I can be comfortable being alone again. I don’t always have to be surrounded by people or get approval from guys to be happy. It always seems that they come along when you’re not looking, anyway.
And whenever I start to miss NY?
I just think about how I used to cringe when he would bend over and have Plumber’s Crack, and he has an extremely hairy ass.
That makes me feel a little better.
So, I received a negative comment on my last post, and I’m going to try not to go into a long rant about it, but I felt I should address what was said.
I’ve only read the comment once, and I read it hastily because my friends were on the way over to my house, so I don’t remember what all exactly was said in the comment. I know the words “slutty” and “immature” were used, and I am neither of those things. Yes, I have issues. I have problems I need to work on. I’m human for fuck’s sake. I can be a red hot mess sometimes. I acknowledge this.
Something I have a problem with is that I think too much. If I didn’t analyze, re-analyze, and over-analyze every situation, I probably wouldn’t have a blog. And if I did, it would probably read something like this: “I went to work today! I have a cat! I like Diet Coke! I am having a good hair day! Taco!”
And no one wants to read that.
I don’t want to write that, either.
So I’m going through a rough patch right now, and I’ve had a few weak moments. BEE. EFF. DEE.
That’s all I’m going to say about that. Moving right along . . .
I previously mentioned that I joined a dating site. I realize that I’m moving too quickly back into dangerous territory. But there’s a reason I’ve taken this step.
My mother.
Now, don’t go hating on my mom because of what I’m about to write. My mom is, in my mind, the greatest person to walk the planet and as far as I’m concerned she could have three heads and fart out her eyeballs and I’d still think she was the best thing ever.
But my mom? Has baby fever.
Bad.
I’ve dubbed it Sperm Watch ‘09.
I suppose it all started a few weeks ago when I told her I went to a psychic and was told I would have two children—both girls.
(Also filed under Topics I Am Not Discussing: The validity of psychics and tarot card readings)
My mother is the youngest of nine. She is the only one of her siblings who is not already a grandmother (a couple of them are GREAT grandmothers—holy shit!!!!). Granted, she is the youngest, and she only had one child (that’s me!), so of course her chances of being a grandmother by now are slimmer than those of her older sisters and brother. But that still doesn’t stop her from trying to get me a husband RIGHT THIS SECOND so I can start becoming a baby factory and squeeze out some little tax deductions already.
Now, I’m not giving her false hopes. I told her when I DO get married and have kids, she’s not getting any more than two grandchildren. She wants three, but tough shit.
I also told her I was apprehensive about getting into a serious relationship. But I do want it to look like I’m trying so she’ll get off my back about it a little bit.
It’s really bad. Andy thought I was exaggerating until he saw my mom’s neurosis in action.
I shit you not. I was out at a restaurant with my parents this weekend, and when I came back from the bathroom my mom asked me, “Did you meet anyone on the way to the bathroom?”
“Yes, mother. I’m engaged.”
WTF?
As far as the dating site goes, I’ve met three guys. The first one to contact me who seemed decent enough is a guy who is 6′5″ and a little on the larger side. He’s nice, but I’m just feeling sort of meh about the whole thing. He doesn’t excite me. I haven’t e-mailed him back in a few days.
The second guy is an Athletic Trainer and he is HOT. He’s new to the area and wants to meet people. He’s supposed to be getting in touch with me about doing something this week, but I haven’t heard from him yet. Whatevs.
The third guy is Asian, and is also really cute. I think he and I have the most in common, but he lives the farthest away. We exchanged numbers and mentioned going to a sushi restaurant, but again, whatevs. I just wanna have fun.
And to end this post I am pleased to report that I am cutting back on the booze and cigarettes. I’m trying to concentrate on my health and happiness, and hopefully after that everything will fall into place as it should.
I’m going to attempt a lighthearted approach at this post, because 1) it’s FRIDAY! and 2) mi vida es muy loca lately and I need to start turning the negatives into positives. Or something.
Or, after speaking all that Spanish, maybe I just need a margarita.
Whatevs.
So, I effed up. But this time, I don’t think it was so detrimental that I don’t want to show my face in public ever again. I didn’t call my boss drunk or anything. I just gave in to a moment of weakness.
I mentioned that New York wanted to be friends, right? Well, what I did not mention was the manner in which this information was revealed to me.
In response to that well-thought-out, heartfelt, compassionate letter, I received a three-sentence text message.
“I got your letter. Twas very nice. Thanksfriend.”
Huh.
While all the friends I’ve told this to think this is an outrage because, honestly, is that the response I got? After writing perhaps one of the most perfect letters of all time? It’s been hard for me to feel anything but numbness and/or complete depression about it. I haven’t been able to feel anger toward him yet because I’m still so enamored with the kid. I can’t just turn my feelings off like a light switch. It doesn’t work that way. I need time to get over him, and I haven’t allowed myself that time yet.
So we tried the friend thing for about a week. He texted me to make sure my animals were inside when there was a tornado warning. I texted him telling him we should have a moustache growing contest (idea totally stolen from My Boys) with the loser earning a free milkshake and the winner getting a creepy moustache. Insert miscellaneous friend chatter here.
But last night? I got drunk.
Like, Let’s Make Bad Decisions drunk.
So I called NY. And much to my surprise? He answered!
And he was happy to hear from me!
And he wanted me to come over!
Like right now!
EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!, right?
No.
NOT “EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”.
Bad LRC.
So I went over there, and he eagerly greeted me at the door. We hugged big time because we hadn’t seen each other in about a month. Then we went and plopped down on the couch with his arm around me and my head nuzzled against his neck, like old times.
We started talking for a few minutes. Mostly small talk and chit chat. Catching up and whatnot.
And then we started making out. Big time.
Clothes started coming off.
When things started to progress toward The Sexy Time, I could feel him pulling back. So I asked him a question I had always been too afraid to ask him, for whatever reason.
“Don’t you want to have sex?”
(Note [possibly TMI]: I have already given him a BJ at this point, which was met with great approval.)
“No. [insert random excuse here].”
Pause.
Blink.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like to have sex unless I’m in an intense relationship. With the possibility of my leaving and everything . . .”
And then I just stared at him for a few seconds.
“You’re telling me this . . . after we’ve . . . already had sex?”
(This is about the extent of my ability to take up for myself when I’m drunk. At least, with a guy I’m head over heels for. If I didn’t give a shit about him, I would have let him have it.)
So I just gave up on the conversation at that point. I don’t remember what his response was (I’m HAMMERED, remember?). I just fell back into his arms and he held me close. I cried silently, but I don’t think he noticed.
And then I realized, you know what? I don’t need this shit. I’m just letting him treat me however the fuck he wants. He’s handing out misery, and I’m the first in line.
I wordlessly got up, put my sweatshirt back on, picked up my purse, and walked toward the door. He came after me, but I just kept going. Walked out the door, got in my car, and left.
And cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.
And then. AND THEN? I sent him a drunk text. “I wish I wouldn’t have taken so long to ask you that.”
(Please ignore the bad grammar. Remember, I’m wasted. And yes, I should not have driven. I know this. Save the preachin’ for your Sunday School class.)
I don’t know what I thought that drunk text would solve. Hell, that’s the point of a drunk text. Saying things you probably shouldn’t have but seem like a GREAT idea at the time.
Then I realized, you know what? There I go placing all the blame on myself again. He should have been honest with me from the get-go. If he never saw this going anywhere, he never should have invited me to that James Bond movie. And, at the very least, he never should have made out with me afterward.
So I texted him again.
UGH.
“Then again i dont think it is my fault”
FUHHHHHHHHHH I wish there was a CTRL+Z for text messages. But you know what? He needs to realize what he did was wrong. He led me on, and wasn’t honest with me from the start. And I got all bajiggity about him because he rocks my world. And then he curb stomped my heart.
So yeah.
I guess that settles that. I can’t be makin’ out with boys who are just gonna inevitably hurt me over and over again.
It sucks. But I’ll move on.
Speaking of moving on, I mentioned joining an online dating site in my last post. I was very reluctant at first, but my mom, seeing my unhappy state, basically forced me into it. I think it’s a bit too soon to start dating because I’m still batshit insane enamored with NY even though it’s never going to happen. But I don’t think it will hurt to make some new friends and have a boy take me out on an actual DATE. One in which we go to a restaurant that’s not Quizno’s and doesn’t end with Jager Bomb shots and a massive sense of regret the next morning.
I’ve been in contact with two guys, one of which seems really fun and has a lot in common with me, but, to be brutally honest, he’s not someone I see myself being attracted to. He seems more like the big brother type. He’s not model hot like NY, BE, and Adam (but then again, “model hot” never seemed to work in my favor). However, he has a lot of friends and has a lot of fun things going on in his life, and that could be the breath of fresh air I need. I will probably have to explain to him that if we do date, things have to go reeeeeally slowly. I’m damaged goods here, and I don’t want to play any games.
There’s also another guy I’ve been talking to less frequently, but holy hell is he hot. And he’s an athletic trainer. HOT. BODY. Hold me. I didn’t think he was that into me at first, but after the second time we “talked” (we used the lame IM thing on the dating site), he asked if I wanted to do something next week. I said yes, but I think we’re definitely going to keep it casual. He’s new to the area and is looking for new friends. At the very least, maybe I’ll have a new hang out buddy.
I’ll keep you all posted for sure. I’ve got my sights set on dinner, drinks, and tomfoolery with the girls tonight, and from now on when I’m faced with a tough decision, I’m going to ask myself, “Is this necessary for my happiness?” and if it is, I’ll do it. And if it’s not, vice versa.
Happy weekend, lovelies.
Last Friday night found me with an invitation to dinner from NY and and invitation to a party from my engaged friend, Lori.
Dinner with NY was enjoyable, filled with our usual outbursts of inappropriately loud laughter and discussions of a flyer I designed for his band (which he loved, by the way. I had been worried for nothing). During our dinner, I started getting texts from my drunk cousins (who NY knows from high school—they are the ones I was with the night I drunkenly gave him my phone number) asking me questions to the nature of, “Have you licked his balls yet?”
Maturity. They has it.
I couldn’t hold back my reaction of pure amused horror (Is that possible? To be amused and horrified at the same time? Apparently it is.) from NY, so he asked what was up, and I explained that my wasted cousins were harassing me with sexual text messages. He then requested the phone number of one of them (because neither of them would recognize his number) and texted her, “Ball parade. Your chin.”
Needless to say, this became a fun game for the rest of the night, even after NY and I parted ways after dinner, with her trying to guess who he was, and him coming up with funny stuff to reply with, using me as an accomplice via text message.
Anyhoodster, after dinner I drove to “the river” (what people around these parts call a nearby body of water that rednecks and rich folks alike call home) to meet my friend Lori at the aforementioned party.
Y’all. This was a Redneck River Party if I ever done seen one.
There was at least one Camaro in the yard.
Songs about riding dirt roads permeated the stereo speakers alongside gangsta rap and Linkin Park.
The keg was floated by 10pm.
Store-bought Jello shots were passed around.
Beer funneling ensued.
(Side note: Lori, what prompted you to funnel five beers? Are you 19? Is this spring break? Methinks not.)
It was quite the sight to behold.
At one point, I was approached by a guy whose name was, honest to God, Clem. I could NOT make this shit up if I tried. What made it even better? He asked me, “I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”
I think the laughter that followed was a bit excessive, but what can I say? It was funneh.
There was also another guy who would NOT leave me alone. Let’s call him, Eager Beaver. He was a bit pushy and I, in an attempt to be nice, just smiled and nodded, attempting to balance politeness and uninterestedness.
He wasn’t getting it.
As NY and I were texting back and forth, Eager Beaver (EB) commenced to repeatedly snap my phone shut.
Um. Dude. Not cool. And totally not your business.
I was highly annoyed.
At one point, EB asked me about my “fiance or husband,” and I told him I wasn’t married or engaged, but that I was dating someone. He chose to ignore that last part, because later on after I left, he asked Lori if I was dating someone and she told him, “yes.” He then said, “That’s not what she told me!”
Ugh.
Anyhoodster. So he asked Lori if I’d said anything about him to her. Lori said, “She said you got on her nerves.”
Lori. I heart you.
EB still Facebook friended me the next night, however. Maybe he’s a masochist?
Before I left the party, though? I got to experience a girl fight. It was awesome and terrible all at the same time. I was seated on the couch, which was positioned in the middle of the living room, and I was RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the crossfire. Thankfully, people were holding them back and it never came to blows over my fragile little body.
One of the girls’ boyfriends was crying. There was screaming. “Whore” and “bitch” were thrown about mercilessly.
And I dipped the fuck out of there.
I always flee when people fight. Even if they’re not, like, physically fighting. Because there’s always the possibility that it will come to blows. I guess fighting just makes me uncomfortable, and there’s always a possibility that the cops will come. I remember one time my (then) boyfriend had to chase me down the sidewalk because I saw a guy throw a punch at another guy and I just TOOK OFF down the road without saying anything to anyone.
You would think small towns would be boring, right?
You, my friend, would be wrong.
—–
On a side note, I want to say thank you to everyone who voted me for Best Relationships/Sex Blog for the 20 Something Bloggers Bootleg Awards. I am so humbled and grateful. All of the nominees deserve a shout out, so go check ‘em out. Lots of deserving bloggers on there. I wish everyone could win, but alas, that is not how “awards” work. Psh.
In all seriousness, though. Thanks a lot. I got the warm fuzzies. Heart.
I don’t get it, peeps.
(I have this awful habit of adopting a word or phrase and abusing it terribly for weeks, and in extreme cases, even months. I used to have the compulsion to say “FYI” all the time, and Murray hated it. Which makes me sorta love the fact that New York says it frequently. Apparently, “peeps” is my “new word.”)
Ahem.
As I was saying. I don’t get it, peeps.
I still haven’t closed the deal with New York. And it’s seriously starting to weigh on me. Not in the I NEED SEX LIKE RIGHT NOW, KTHX way that it was at first. Now it’s more of an OH MY GOD I CAN’T POSSIBLY BE SEXUALLY ATTRACTIVE AT ALL THAT IS THE ONLY EXPLANATION, PERIOD way.
NY invited me to dinner last night, and we had a fantastic time. We ordered various forms of red meat (a bloody sirloin for me and a hamburger steak for him) and we drank dark beer. Afterward, he said he had to go to the grocery store to grab some vanilla soy milk (is it strange that I find it adorable that he drinks vanilla soy milk?), but he would stop by my house later if that was okay.
Um, yeah. That is TOTALLY okay with me, I thought. Although my actual answer was more like, “Sure, that sounds good.”
So I went home. Made up my bed (WISHFUL THINKING). Took two shots of rum so I’d have the courage to jump on him later in the evening. My heart was about to beat out of my chest in anticipation (or, it could have been the rum). Once he got there, we sat on the couch, turned on some random movie, and after a few minutes, I finally made my move.
I leaned over and kissed him, gently but seductively. He allowed the kiss to continue for about, oh, five seconds.
Huh.
All right then. Fine.
So we went back to watching crappy TV. The minutes ticked by like hours.
Then, again, I leaned over and began working my magic.
Again, he let it last about five seconds before pulling away.
At this point, I was thoroughly confused.
Trying not to let on what I was doing, I went into the kitchen and took another sip of rum in an attempt to gain a bit more confidence, and also, a little out of frustration. I couldn’t make sense of the scenario, and it was irritating me.
I went back into the living room and sat down on the couch with him again. More minutes passed. Time was running out before he would inevitably retreat to his quarters across town. I had to try one more time.
So I kissed him.
And this time?
He didn’t even let me slip him the tongue.
Fucking. Shit.
What is wrong with me? In the words of Cher Horowitz, “Did I stumble into some bad lighting?” I don’t get it. He obviously is into me. I must not have frightened him too badly last night because I have gotten an e-mail and a text from him today. I hate to admit this, but after he left, I cried. My self-esteem was shot for the night.
My mood has improved vastly as the day has progressed, but this morning? You would have thought someone had just told me that caffeine was now illegal.
I am still quite mystified, though. I’m not the hottest chick on the planet, but damn it, I’m young and cute and I have a hot bod. Why would NY not want to bed me?
I don’t know what my next approach is going to be. I feel like I reached for the cookie jar and my wrist got slapped. And now I don’t even want to think about cookies anymore.
Normally, I am not a very shy person. But put me around a cute boy? And I am rendered incapacitated. I stumble over my words, I have a hard time with eye contact over an extended period of time, and I usually say something embarrassing. And you can forget about making the first move. I even have a hard time initiating a goodbye kiss.
Yeah, I know. For someone who loves sex as much as I do, that seems uncharacteristic, right?
New York? Seems to be the same way. I don’t know much about his dating past, but I get the feeling he hasn’t had many girlfriends. That’s just a hunch, but it could very well be true given his behavior.
On our first date when I was leaving his house, he leaned down to kiss me, and after a few seconds of tonsil hockey, he took my purse out of my hand and dropped it on the floor so that a makeout sesh could ensue. I liked that. I like when the guy takes charge. I’m one of those people who seems all reserved but . . . the whole time I’m thinking how badly I want you to throw me up against the wall and have your way with me.
I don’t know why he’s being so shy about it now. Nothing really has changed since that first night. I can tell I’m going to have to give him the go-ahead before he’ll try any hankey-pankey. He’s probably just being a gentleman and waiting for a sign. We women always THINK we’re giving out signals loud and clear, but men basically need you to write it down on posterboard with a chisel-cut Sharpie and parade around the living room with it, chanting your message in repetition.
So I’ve got to come up with a way to grow a pair and just jump his bones. Here are some thoughts.
- Send him a text that says “Let’s fuck.” Quick and dirty, with shock value. Guys, what can you really say to that except “YES YES YES!”?
- Buy a bottle of cheap rum. Take two shots of said cheap rum. No, three. OK, three and a half. NO MORE. Just enough for some liquid courage. Go to New York’s house. Walk inside. Don’t say a word. Grab him by that sexy HOH of his and commence mackage. That’s got “throw-me-up-against-the-wall” appeal.
- Make a date with him. Ask him to pick me up. Show up to the door half-dressed, as if I am “not quite done getting ready.” I’m thinking skivvies and pumps. HOTT.
- Or, you know. I could just TALK to him about it. Hmm . . .
Honesty seems like the best policy. Although, I do like the excuse for pounding shots of rum. What better reason than to facilitate a bump ‘n’ grind?
I love that word, facilitate.
I kid, though. This post is a joke. Mostly. About 74%. I realize that it’s just going to happen when it’s going to happen—when the time is right for both of us. I just hope that time is SOON SOON SOON.
Happy Friday, everyone!
God, is the weekend effing over already? UGH. I am trying to squeeze every last drop out of it that I possibly can. Family is nice, but 72 straight hours of it? Leads to the necessity of some serious ME TIME.
Sweatpants? Meet LRC’s fine-lookin’ ass.
Wednesday night I hung out with New York again, and we rounded yet another base in glorious fashion, but the third base coach is still steadily holding up his hand, telling us to be patient. I don’t want sex to wreck the good thing we’ve got going. Not that I think everything is going to come to a screeching halt or the love gods will curse me if we bump uglies, but when you’re with someone you like this much (and I’m hoping he is as into me as I am into him), you want to make sure the time is right and that you’re not just doing it because you’ve had one too many Rum and Diets.
So Thanksgiving was spent at my aunt’s house, and I had not even been there an hour before the fire department showed up.
It’s not Thanksgiving until the fire department comes!
My cousin had removed the turkey from the oven and some of the juices had fallen into the bottom of it. The juices started smoking and the smoke alarm went off, triggering a signal to the fire station. They came and everyone got a good laugh out of it. I took pictures, obvs.
Then later, my other cousin, who just got back from Iraq and has to go back in about a week (FROWN), attempted to set up the fire pit in the back yard, and grabbed a bunch of old wood that was COVERED with roaches. I expressed my disgust for the vile six-legged creatures, so he reacted to my disdain by THROWING ONE IN MY HAIR.
HE THREW. A COCKROACH. AT MY HEAD.
I thought he was joking at first, that he didn’t really throw it, but when I felt those little legs crawling on the back of my neck, I screamed like a little girl and shook it out with great fervor.
It’s not Thanksgiving until someone throws a roach in your hair!
The next two days were spent with my other side of the family. On Friday, immediately after we ate, my aunt went to lie on the couch, where she stayed for several hours. My mom mentioned that she had been having this thing called a “cluster headache” (we kept calling it a clusterfuck—I assured my mom it wasn’t dirty and she finally warmed up to the term), and when it didn’t go away, they took her to the emergency room and she got a shot that eventually made her feel much better.
It’s not Thanksgiving until someone has to take a trip to the emergency room!
While they were gone (my aunt, my mom, and my other aunt all went), I was left to hang out with my cousin and her triplets (all 3 boys. Yes, TRIPLET. BOYS. No, they did not use fertility drugs. This tendency of my family to have multiple births does not bode well for my future), and of course one of them fell and got a bloody nose.
It’s not Thanksgiving until some kid gets a bloody nose!
He’s OK. Just so ya know.
The next day (Saturday) I managed to get some Christmas shopping done. And lose my iPod. Awesome. Although I did score a vintage scarf from the 60’s that totally OWNS YOUR MOM.
So, Saturday night I FINALLY got to come home and I promptly went to the bar to meet my friends who were in town for the weekend (EXHAUSTED? ME? YES.) I ended up crashing New York’s card-playing festivities at his house around midnight (it was him and two other couples, it wasn’t a guy’s night or anything), and apparently I’d gotten a little more tipsy than I thought and ended up passing out on his couch. So no mackage. Frown. But we did wake up around 10, talk for a couple hours (seriously, when we talk the time just FLIES by. I could talk to him all day), and then grabbed lunch.
I am hopelessly in like with this kid. I get giddy just thinking about him. He is mother effing HILARIOUS. Today I had to tell him to “stop with the funny” so I could drive and not kill us both in the process because I was cracking up so badly. He makes me laugh that deep, throaty laugh that eventually turns into a cackle (I can become quite animated when amused). And I can use BIG WORDS around him. And fancy syntax. And his face doesn’t turn into a question mark like it did with other guys.
Maybe after we FINALLY DO IT, we can start having Naked Scrabble Night? Ooh, my nerdy, sex-obsessed self is liking that idea.
In other news, I jumped on the bandwagon and read Twilight. And I FREAKING LOVED IT. Rarely does a book cause me to gasp audibly, but this one? Yeah. In love. With a fictional character. Like everyone else, though, I do have a few gripes. Some of them have already been expressed on other blogs, but I am going to mention them too, because damn it, this is my blog and I can do what I want to and you can’t stop me, bwahahahaha.
First, what is so freaking appealing about Bella? I mean, I understand Edward’s reason, because she be smellin’ all good to him and shit, but the other guys? Seriously? Is small town life that dull that you have to latch on to every new possibility that comes to light? Although, if ditzy, stereotypical high school girls like Jessica were the only other option, I might be lusting after the first thing that moved as well.
Second, I am impatient, and A) I want Edward to just turn her into a freaking vampire already so they can be together forever and ever amen, or B) I WANT THEM TO FUCK LIKE RABBITS. But then there would be no buildup. No “fun.” Bah.
(I BET EDWARD HAS A BIG DICK.)
Yeah, I just said that.
So I was a huge dork today and I went and saw the movie. By myself. And not only did I see it by myself, I got upset when the colors on the screen were wrong (purple and green, anyone?) and went to complain to an employee because DAMN IT I WILL JUST NOT BE SATISFIED IF I CAN’T SEE EDWARD’S CARAMEL EYES IN TRUE FORM. Then when I came back inside the theater I held my hands up as if to say LOOK PEOPLE I HAVE GOT THIS UNDER CONTROL and said, “THEY’RE WORKING ON IT!”
The audience let out a sigh of relief. I felt like a hero.
Just kidding. But I did feel kinda brave for being the only one to address the masses, as several other people had already complained and not said anything.
The movie itself? Enh. Cheesy. If you haven’t read the book, then you’re probably going to wonder “why are these two kids so in love with one another? They’ve barely spoken and now they’re all YOU ARE MY LIFE RIGHT NOW BLAH BLAH BLAH.” Although, it kept me entertained. And Edward was way hot.
I think the reason Edward is so appealing to so many women is because we love it when guys treat us like shit. Also, when they say one thing and do another. Seriously. It’s like this:
Edward: GO AWAY. DIE. We can’t be friends.
Bella: YOU ARE SO FREAKING HOT.
Edward: I know.
Bella: Ugh you are so FRUSTRATING.
Edward: I love you.
Bella: WHAT?
Edward: I love you.
Bella: OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU TOO. I AM SO PREPARED TO DIE FOR YOU RIGHT NOW IT IS NOT EVEN FUNNY.
Disclaimer. Guys. Please don’t treat us like shit. Even though we FREAKING LOVE IT.
While watching election coverage on MSNBC, I got bored (oh, the ADD) and began perusing the internet. When I saw Mim online, I gchatted her to tell her how much I loved her recent vlog.
We got to talking about miscellaneous things. BE. The election. Movies that make us cry, etc.
(For the record, the movie that makes me SOB audibly—so much so that I usually have to towel off afterward—and usually causes me to end up sleeping like a baby that night after all that melodramatic catharsis, is Charlotte’s Web.)
Mim suggested I watch What Dreams May Come, as it is one of those types of movies.
(Just READING the description of that movie made me want to cry. Damn this IUD and these unexpected hormones.)
So I added it to my Netflix queue and went on my merry way.
Or, so I tried.
This thing Netflix does when you add a movie to your queue, which is incredibly useful and convenient, is that it suggests other movies SIMILAR TO the movie you just selected.
One of those movies it selected for me after I added What Dreams May Come was The Science of Sleep.
I have never seen this movie. I do not know, nor do I care to know, anything about it.
Then where are you going with this pointless rant, LRC?
Well, I’ll tell you.
A few months ago, a friend of mine had a going away party because he was to be moving away to California for God knows how long. During the party, he had everyone draw numbers. He then threw every DVD in his collection on the living room floor. Whoever had their number drawn, got to pick a DVD. The process repeated until every DVD was gone.
Adam picked The Science of Sleep.
AH. NOW it gets interesting.
Remember Adam? The younger guy who absolutely stole my heart (and my sense of reality) for a few weeks and then discarded it like it was the watered down remains of a skinny iced vanilla latte?
Yeah, that one.
So eventually the DVD ended up getting left at my house. We were going to watch it, but, uh, OTHER THINGS prevailed.
(Sex.)
So when things started going sour with us and Adam basically curb-stomped what was left of my self-respect after the breakup with Murray, I pulled that DVD out from my TV stand.
And commenced to smash it into tiny pieces.
There was screaming. There was crying. There was melodrama.
(And an ensuing hangover the next day.)
The point of my post is this. All that pain. All that confusion. All that ANGER I felt that night?
Is gone.
And has been for months.
At that moment, I felt as if I were this pathetic, insignificant little flea who could NOT see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
I felt used. I felt unloved. I felt . . . empty.
And now?
. . . Adam who?
Things like this serve as a reminder to me. Remember that phrase, This too shall pass? It may sound cliché, but damn it. It’s clichéd for a reason.
IT’S TRUE.
That thing that may be absolutely ass raping your emotions? That thing that may cause you not to want to get out of bed in the morning?
In a month . . . hell, in a week, maybe even by TOMORROW . . . that thing will be SO INSIGNIFICANT to you.
And you’ll move on.
And you’ll be able to enjoy that skinny iced vanilla latte with a ginormous grin on your face because DAMN IT, YOU ARE GOING TO BE OK.
GOOD, even.
Remember that.
In an effort to amuse Andy, because I was bored (and he won’t admit it, but he was, too), I videotaped myself “dancing” (AKA MAKING A FOOL OF MYSELF—FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY) and then dubbed a random song over it. Keep in mind, I was dancing to NO MUSIC, so it isn’t that I have a lack of rhythm. No, no. It is that I have a lack of SANITY and SELF-RESPECT.
(Also, add a mixture of White Merlot and Coors Light. Mix well.)
(Be glad that I care about your entertainment. And also, I know everyone is keyed up about the election. JUST LIGHTEN THE EFF UP ALREADY.)
You’re welcome. And now I have to go cry in a corner now, because I have completely humiliated myself for all eternity.
