Well, I officially hate my life. I've been hemming and hawing over it for a while, mulling around the notion that my existence isn't quite up to par... but now, I'm certain.
I've just spent the last 20 minutes, cleaning my bed. Sheets? Soaked. Pillows? Sopping. Mattress?... fuck, don't even get me started.
You're probably wondering if I wet the bed? I wish. I wish an inconsistent bladder was the worst of my issues.
No, I did not wet the bed. I haven't done that in at least two years. I, being the RIDICULOUSLY intelligent person that I am, spilled chocolate milk in my bed.
Yep. I set a glass down, on the mattress, and for some reason, it tipped over (shocking, right?). I could kick myself for not investing in one of those Tempur-Pedic numbers, you know, the ones where the girl is jumping up and down, and her glass of merlot doesn't-even-move!! ? Yeah, well, my 'merlot' moved all right. Moved all out of the cup. Moved all through my sheets. Moved, probably, I'm just guessing here..., all the way to the fucking box-spring.
If I could go back in time, I'd make sure to invest in a Tempur-Pedic. Oh, hell, if I went back in time, I wouldn't set down the fucking cup of chocolate milk on anything other than a sturdy, non-porous surface.
Well, actually, if I were to go back in time, I'd travel to my infancy, and somehow convince my parents to invest in several companies, like Starbucks, and Apple. Then, at least, I'd be a rich idiot- which is the best kind...
But, alas, I cannot go back in time. I'm stuck. I'm stuck as a completely worthless, milk-spilling asshole. Ughhhhhhh.
Before you go and think that I'm being too doom and gloom about my lackluster life, realize this:
This is not the first unfortunately stupid mistake I've made in the past month, let alone my entire awkward existence. To be honest, it's not even my first mishap with milk, or beds.
Last year, while standing in the kitchen, I glanced at my wrist to see what time it was. Looking back, I can count two problems with this: one, I had a mug of milk in my hand, and twisting to see the time caused me to dump the contents down my front. Two, I haven't worn a Goddamn watch since year 2000, ergo it was moot.
Last month, I had a bad dream and sprained my wrist whilst (or after?) falling out of my bed. Who does that? I told people I slipped on the ice. I did not. I, like 4 year olds all across the nation, rolled out of my bed, injuring myself in the process. Thank God it wasn't a bunk bed.
I'm just, unfortunate. That's the only word that fully encompasses my inadequacies and faults, all the while seeming a bit endearing (or pitiable, whatever).
There are innumerable occasions in which I was that girl. You know. That one, the weird one. The one you laugh at, because, if you cried for her, she'd probably feel a whole hell of a lot worse.
In the 6th grade, I was walking home with my friend J. I tripped, (probably over nothing) and then sat on the ground crying and carrying on like a crazy person for probably at least 8 minutes. Granted, I was like, 11, or something... but screaming out, "I HATE THESE SHOES!" (Doc Marten sandals, if you must know) repeatedly isn't justifiable.
It was also in 6th grade when I was walking into the DHMS girl's locker room, followed by a boy. "Boys aren't allowed in here," I said. She was not amused, to say the least.
In eighth grade, I was dragged to a Mormon mutual (probably by A Big Ash)... a Wednesday night gathering in which we probably made cookies or something down at the LDS chapel. We listened quietly as a boy recited a lovely poem, which he himself penned. I was very impressed by him, as I didn't have the guts to stand in front of hundreds and do anything, let alone speak. As he finished, I clapped. I think I may have even stood.
Mormons, evidently, do not clap for poems. They just stare blankly, like they did at me, until I sat my non-denominational ass back down. Silence. A Big Ash's family still tells the story.
In kindergarten, I was climbing in one of those spider web dome things, you know what I'm talking about? Anyway, I was hanging from the top, when I guess I figured, "What the hell!?", and let go. It did not feel good.
The second grade brought on greater responsibilities, and what I can only deduce as increased stupidity. As I recall, on this particular occasion, I was writing a report on the octopus. Being the savvy seven-year-old that I was, I was less than stellar at distinguishing similar words when accosted by them all at once... ie: when using a spell check.
So when I spell-checked my document, instead of sifting through the 8 very-similar examples, I just hit, 'Correct', over and over again.
Cut to my teacher, pulling me aside. Her name was Mrs. Oberding. Mrs. Oberding said to me, "Elizabeth, I think you made a mistake. You see, here, you put that an octopus has eight testicles."
She waited for my 'Oh, shit, my bad,' response... which never came. Not knowing what the hell she was talking about, I probably just blinked. She looked at me, probably with hidden amusement, and continued.
"Do you know what testicles are?" She asked.
"No," I said, having no reason to know such a thing, as I did not have testicles of my own...
"They're little boys' balls!" She said. I remember her laughing, and so I laughed too. Why would an octopus have balls?! They didn't play sports!! How silly.
She saw my mom a few years ago, more than a decade after the incident. Upon recognizing each other, Mrs. Oberding, laughing again, said, "Octopus balls!!" My legend, it seems, will never fade.
Ughhhh. While I've come to terms with most of my painfully awkward tendencies, this milk thing really pisses me off. Why? Why did I set it on my bed? Why did I even have a glass of chocolate milk? What am I, 8?
And, how does one go about cleaning that properly?
It's times like these in which I am immensely grateful that I have no children, or dependents, or... fish. Or anything that I could accidentally kill by being my careless, impaired-to-the-point-of-practical-retardation, self.
I trip, I fall, I say the wrong things. I slip in the doorway to Mike's, pop the lenses out of my aviators during my escape, and then wear the frames as I run home down B-street.
I'm that girl who gets dragged to the bar in SLIPPERS, because her friends are evil and told her that they were perfectly content with watching a movie that night, thereby tricking her into attendance.
I'm the girl, who with her brand new purse and wallet, and camera and iPhone and various other accouterments, buys a double vodka and soda. And when someone asks to see my new wallet, I'm not the type of girl to set her drink down, oh no. I'm the type of girl who bites the side of the cup, holding it with her clenched jaw, to better dig through her purse. And when they ask me where I got my wallet, I answer them. And drop the fucking drink INTO my purse, camera, phone, accouterments and all...
I'm that one who asks you how your grandma is, only to find out she died three weeks ago.
Oooooo, I hate myself.
No wonder I drink so much.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?
I got an email from Facebook tonight, saying that my friend S. Minnich, tagged me in a photo.
Oh, by the way. I have Facebook again. What can I say... I'm no quitter. But I digress.
So I got this email, saying that I was in a photo...
That's weird, I thought. I don't remember her taking a picture of me in recent times...? What could this picture be? Maybe it's old. Maybe it's from a high school album. Or, maybe it's something that reminded her of me, and she tagged me so that I'd look at it. As you can see, I was thinking tons of completely logical things.
Then I saw the photo in question. It was last week, at the bar. I'm jumping up in the background, acting a fool, grinning like the idiot I probably was at that (inebriated) juncture.
And I don't remember it at all.
This hasn't happened to me in a while, as I am now lame (as this blog has established time and time again), and no longer rely on the use of alcohol in order to be an agreeable, affable, amusing person. I now use it solely to drown myself into a slurred stupor, so that I can't fully recognize how boring my life has become. Just kidding... But seriously.
This got me thinking about the good ol' days, the days before we had jobs, the days when all we did was drink, and then go to class hoping the gin wasn't seeping through our pores, (Scott). So for my friends benefit, and because I haven't done anything to warrant a blog entry in recent times, I'm going to relive some of our best (albeit worst) nights.
Enjoy at your own peril.
"Oh no, not the senis again!" - Visiting Brother Bear's at Gonzaga was always an interesting experience. From my first visit freshman year, in which we were detained by the police, one member of our party giving him his library card, then debit card in lieu of an underage ID... to the last visit senior year... when we were forced to play an evil game called Web (it'll getcha).
But this story, stems from a certain finding in their attic. Or somewhere, I don't recall it exactly. For some reason, that is still unbeknownst to me, we found, and threatened each other, with a plastic penis. It was quite small, and I don't remember whether or not it had a battery compartment, but still. You didn't want to be slapped in the face with it.
After a rousing game of 'don't get touched with the penis', someone put the little bundle of fun away, much to everyone's disappointment, I'm sure. But, just as they always do, the penis popped up again, and I was heard saying, "Oh, no! Not the penis again?!?"
My ex-roommate, Kevy, always with a keen ear for funny Facebook album titles, texted me my exclamation, to better remember it, of course. On the ride home the next day, while going through my inbox, I looked at her, confused.
"Why did you text me, oh no not the senis again?"
"What?"
"This, you texted me, 'oh no not the senis again.'" I repeated. "What is a senis?"
Evidently drunks aren't the best typists. Which segways nicely into this...
"Progress report." Oh, boy.
On the lovely Red's 22nd birthday, naturally we had a nice, quiet little gathering, and then took a refreshing walk. To the bars.
And then, we lost Red. When her boyfriend (now fiance) texted me, asking me where she was, I replied, "Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?"
Uh, okay.
I still don't know what it means. But, I think I must have been either in, or outside, or thinking about... Pita Pit. Speaking of the Pit...
"We need some cheese!" - Pita Pit, the kitchen of debauchery, sees a lot of really ridiculous happenings. Like the time in which a certain friend of mine ventured out of his comfort zone and ordered the special. When he bit into his "quesa-pita", he was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that he started yelling. Yelling so much in fact, that they called the police, and escorted him out. That's just what goes down when you're open until 3 am and situated next to the biggest bar on campus.
One time, on a Wednesday afternoon... oh, um, by the way, I wasn't drunk, at this time. I know, it shouldn't be on the list, then, but wait. Someone was most definitely drunk, ergo it totally counts.
So anyways, I'm standing there, with my roommates, waiting for our pitas, when in runs fratty frat boy and his super cool sister in tow... (please ignore the disdainful wording, I honestly have nothing against Greeks. Or Romans...)
They looked around frantically, before appealing to the cashier with a shriek. "We need some cheese!"
The cashier glared at them, unamused. He'd probably seen it all. But I'm betting he didn't see this coming...
Fratty Fred yelled about cheese again, and then, pulled a mouse out of his pocket. Seriously. He literally had a mouse in his pocket, a live one, and he pulled it out. He held it up, slurring in his letter-wearing euphoria, "We rescued him, from a snake's cage. WE NEED SOME CHEESE! I'll pay! I'll pay for it!"
I looked to my roommates, wondering aloud if mice even ate cheese before commenting on how totally against health codes the entire situation was.
"Dude," the cashier said, handing him a little styrofoam bowl of shredded cheese. "Just go. You can't have that thing in here. We're serving food."
Food, indeed. The best money could buy. Except, not everyone thinks that payment is necessary.
On another occasion, I remember standing outside Pita Pit, chatting with friends, probably trying to find lost ones, or something. The bars were closed, and we were making our way home, when from Pita Pit, out shuffles Kevy, her eyes angry and arms crossed.
Our conversation went a little something like this:
"They just kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We were talking about taking some cookies, and the guy was like, 'You need to leave.' And he made us get out."
"Taking cookies?"
"Yeah."
"As in stealing them?"
"Well, they're just sitting there."
"To entice people into purchasing..."
"Yeah."
"Did he maybe hear your plan to steal the cookies?"
"I don't know. He could have."
"You're too cool for me, Carl!"
For those of you who aren't familiar with the above mentioned quote, let me break it down for you.
On the 21st birthday of a boy we'll refer to as J, his friends threw him a (quite large) birthday party in Pullman. I was in attendance, as was just about anyone I've ever been good friends with. We laughed, and drank, and watched as J progressively got drunker than all of us. But it was his birthday! Obviously, he needed to be the most inebriated person in a 100 mile radius... And seeing as though most of us were underage, we said our farewells at 12, and made our way back to his apartment. At around 1:30, he came bursting in, tilting forward at a 45 degree angle as he stumbled down the hall.
He wanted a hot pocket. So we made him one. He lay on the couch, as we peppered him with questions about the bars and the drinks, but all he wanted was a hot pocket. More people drained in, and were excited to see that he was still awake, although he didn't seem very... coherent. But still, it was his birthday! Hoorah!!!
Cut to Carl, walking in, wanting to wish J a Happy Birthday. He said, "Happy Birthday, J! How about we take a shot?!"
It was then, that J started to cry. Between his sobs, he choked out, "You're too cool for me, Carl."
This was the first in a long line of instances in which blacked out J cried and made up crazy stories. Like the time we were walking home from Mike's, and he tried to convince everyone that I pushed him down. I did not. He then texted our friends, "Booze bit me, and I'm bleeding." Yeah, right. "She pinched me!!!" Again... total and complete blasphemy.
Or the time we were in Vegas, and he told everyone, "Nana slammed my arm in the door!"
I wish I would have.
"Stubby's... and Wiley's... and CAC love...
Wiley night. Ohhhhhh Wileys. It's still a wonder as to why they shut that place down... not. My heart goes out to all those who were too young to experience the greatness that was Pete's, and the shit show that was Wiley Night. Tuesdays will never be the same.
My first Wileys experience is, hazy, to say the least. I mostly remember waking up the next day with a trashcan under my covers, then later coming to find that my house key was bent in half. I still don't know how I made it through the front door. Shoddy craftsmanship, I suppose.
I believe that was also the night in which I had to close one eye, because if I had two open, I was "seeing too many things."... I may or may not have accidentally burst in the boys bathroom, as well.
Wiley night was consistently known for making asses out of relatively normal people. A certain roommate of mine, who shall remain nameless, was found sprawled on the ground outside of our apartment, laughing, as gaining entry was too difficult in her Wiley-ed state.
It was on a Wiley night in which my friend, fondly referred to as A Big Ash, brought home a bum. Not really a bum, more like a guy we used to all think was hot, but then turned granola-hippy chic. He invaded our apartment (A Big Ash didn't even live there, but invited back randos none-the-less), called us all 'beautiful people' at least 18 times, and then asked if we wanted to go 'dance barefoot in the rain'.
After a particularly great Poprocks Wiley (I never did venture outside the Flat on Your Wiley variety... a pity), my friend J was found Wednesday morning in G303, sprawled face up on the couch, with 905 blasting. On the kitchen floor was a jug of orange juice, an open gallon of milk, his socks, and a blackened pizza in the oven. Which had, evidently, been cooking all night.
And unfortunately, that wasn't the first time.
"Look what I did..."
Early our senior year, a select few of us woke up to the smell of burnt pizza. We didn't know where it was coming from, or why is smelled so strongly at 10 in the morning. We only wondered for a moment though, before O, aka "My Man", came ambling upstairs.
The night before, we'd returned home from the bars, and were watching a movie, or a show or staring numbly as the boys played Halo, and My Man had burst in the room.
"You guys want pizza? I'm making some pizza. You guys want? I'm making some... Stay awake for the pizza!"
Evidently, My Man should have heeded his own advice, as he did not stay awake for the pizza. He slept through the timer, the smoke and the stench.
It took weeks to air out the place.
"ROAAARRRRRRR!"
So, there's this guy I know. We'll call him "Chester the Molester", or, I guess, Chest for short. Anyways, this Chest, character, he's a bit younger than us. He didn't get to visit the bars until Halloween-time, senior year.
After a particularly great Saturday, I made my way to the PC, walked up to the third floor, and meandered out to the balcony, where Chest was yelling. He was yelling at passersby, and neighbors, probably telling them they were all 'mussies', and assuring them that the PC could out drink them, anywhere, anytime.
Then, he roared (literally), and ripped off his shirt. He threw it down to the grass below, probably yelled "Mussy!" and "Bitches!!!" a few more times, and then promptly passed out.
He's probably one of my favorite people, ever.
"Grr grr beats woof woof."
Oh, the west side. We only made a few treks, but they were all so interesting.
There was the singing of the WSU fight song whilst stomping down UW's greek row.
There was the frolicking in Earl's, where J found a 'straw' on the floor, that looked suspiciously similar to a joint... and then put it in his mouth.
There was Finn's. Where we sang karaoke. And by we, I mean J. And we heard crickets.
There was the time Maci stole a snowboard from a frat house, called the owner Tony Hawk, and then told him that "grr grr beats woof woof." Which, I think, means cougars beat huskies...
I miss those days. I regret to say that I couldn't think of a story involving several friends, including Peege. Well, except for the time he went around biting everyone... but that was 5-30-03, and therefore, ineligible as a college shenanigan.
But, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. And if you don't know any of these people... sorry. You're missing out. Also, reading this blog was probably a huge waste of time, as, generally, they're 'had-to-be-there' moments, a.k.a. not funny to anyone who didn't witness them first hand.
Liz, out.
Oh, by the way. I have Facebook again. What can I say... I'm no quitter. But I digress.
So I got this email, saying that I was in a photo...
That's weird, I thought. I don't remember her taking a picture of me in recent times...? What could this picture be? Maybe it's old. Maybe it's from a high school album. Or, maybe it's something that reminded her of me, and she tagged me so that I'd look at it. As you can see, I was thinking tons of completely logical things.
Then I saw the photo in question. It was last week, at the bar. I'm jumping up in the background, acting a fool, grinning like the idiot I probably was at that (inebriated) juncture.
And I don't remember it at all.
This hasn't happened to me in a while, as I am now lame (as this blog has established time and time again), and no longer rely on the use of alcohol in order to be an agreeable, affable, amusing person. I now use it solely to drown myself into a slurred stupor, so that I can't fully recognize how boring my life has become. Just kidding... But seriously.
This got me thinking about the good ol' days, the days before we had jobs, the days when all we did was drink, and then go to class hoping the gin wasn't seeping through our pores, (Scott). So for my friends benefit, and because I haven't done anything to warrant a blog entry in recent times, I'm going to relive some of our best (albeit worst) nights.
Enjoy at your own peril.
"Oh no, not the senis again!" - Visiting Brother Bear's at Gonzaga was always an interesting experience. From my first visit freshman year, in which we were detained by the police, one member of our party giving him his library card, then debit card in lieu of an underage ID... to the last visit senior year... when we were forced to play an evil game called Web (it'll getcha).
But this story, stems from a certain finding in their attic. Or somewhere, I don't recall it exactly. For some reason, that is still unbeknownst to me, we found, and threatened each other, with a plastic penis. It was quite small, and I don't remember whether or not it had a battery compartment, but still. You didn't want to be slapped in the face with it.
After a rousing game of 'don't get touched with the penis', someone put the little bundle of fun away, much to everyone's disappointment, I'm sure. But, just as they always do, the penis popped up again, and I was heard saying, "Oh, no! Not the penis again?!?"
My ex-roommate, Kevy, always with a keen ear for funny Facebook album titles, texted me my exclamation, to better remember it, of course. On the ride home the next day, while going through my inbox, I looked at her, confused.
"Why did you text me, oh no not the senis again?"
"What?"
"This, you texted me, 'oh no not the senis again.'" I repeated. "What is a senis?"
Evidently drunks aren't the best typists. Which segways nicely into this...
"Progress report." Oh, boy.
On the lovely Red's 22nd birthday, naturally we had a nice, quiet little gathering, and then took a refreshing walk. To the bars.
And then, we lost Red. When her boyfriend (now fiance) texted me, asking me where she was, I replied, "Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?"
Uh, okay.
I still don't know what it means. But, I think I must have been either in, or outside, or thinking about... Pita Pit. Speaking of the Pit...
"We need some cheese!" - Pita Pit, the kitchen of debauchery, sees a lot of really ridiculous happenings. Like the time in which a certain friend of mine ventured out of his comfort zone and ordered the special. When he bit into his "quesa-pita", he was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that he started yelling. Yelling so much in fact, that they called the police, and escorted him out. That's just what goes down when you're open until 3 am and situated next to the biggest bar on campus.
One time, on a Wednesday afternoon... oh, um, by the way, I wasn't drunk, at this time. I know, it shouldn't be on the list, then, but wait. Someone was most definitely drunk, ergo it totally counts.
So anyways, I'm standing there, with my roommates, waiting for our pitas, when in runs fratty frat boy and his super cool sister in tow... (please ignore the disdainful wording, I honestly have nothing against Greeks. Or Romans...)
They looked around frantically, before appealing to the cashier with a shriek. "We need some cheese!"
The cashier glared at them, unamused. He'd probably seen it all. But I'm betting he didn't see this coming...
Fratty Fred yelled about cheese again, and then, pulled a mouse out of his pocket. Seriously. He literally had a mouse in his pocket, a live one, and he pulled it out. He held it up, slurring in his letter-wearing euphoria, "We rescued him, from a snake's cage. WE NEED SOME CHEESE! I'll pay! I'll pay for it!"
I looked to my roommates, wondering aloud if mice even ate cheese before commenting on how totally against health codes the entire situation was.
"Dude," the cashier said, handing him a little styrofoam bowl of shredded cheese. "Just go. You can't have that thing in here. We're serving food."
Food, indeed. The best money could buy. Except, not everyone thinks that payment is necessary.
On another occasion, I remember standing outside Pita Pit, chatting with friends, probably trying to find lost ones, or something. The bars were closed, and we were making our way home, when from Pita Pit, out shuffles Kevy, her eyes angry and arms crossed.
Our conversation went a little something like this:
"They just kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We were talking about taking some cookies, and the guy was like, 'You need to leave.' And he made us get out."
"Taking cookies?"
"Yeah."
"As in stealing them?"
"Well, they're just sitting there."
"To entice people into purchasing..."
"Yeah."
"Did he maybe hear your plan to steal the cookies?"
"I don't know. He could have."
"You're too cool for me, Carl!"
For those of you who aren't familiar with the above mentioned quote, let me break it down for you.
On the 21st birthday of a boy we'll refer to as J, his friends threw him a (quite large) birthday party in Pullman. I was in attendance, as was just about anyone I've ever been good friends with. We laughed, and drank, and watched as J progressively got drunker than all of us. But it was his birthday! Obviously, he needed to be the most inebriated person in a 100 mile radius... And seeing as though most of us were underage, we said our farewells at 12, and made our way back to his apartment. At around 1:30, he came bursting in, tilting forward at a 45 degree angle as he stumbled down the hall.
He wanted a hot pocket. So we made him one. He lay on the couch, as we peppered him with questions about the bars and the drinks, but all he wanted was a hot pocket. More people drained in, and were excited to see that he was still awake, although he didn't seem very... coherent. But still, it was his birthday! Hoorah!!!
Cut to Carl, walking in, wanting to wish J a Happy Birthday. He said, "Happy Birthday, J! How about we take a shot?!"
It was then, that J started to cry. Between his sobs, he choked out, "You're too cool for me, Carl."
This was the first in a long line of instances in which blacked out J cried and made up crazy stories. Like the time we were walking home from Mike's, and he tried to convince everyone that I pushed him down. I did not. He then texted our friends, "Booze bit me, and I'm bleeding." Yeah, right. "She pinched me!!!" Again... total and complete blasphemy.
Or the time we were in Vegas, and he told everyone, "Nana slammed my arm in the door!"
I wish I would have.
"Stubby's... and Wiley's... and CAC love...
Wiley night. Ohhhhhh Wileys. It's still a wonder as to why they shut that place down... not. My heart goes out to all those who were too young to experience the greatness that was Pete's, and the shit show that was Wiley Night. Tuesdays will never be the same.
My first Wileys experience is, hazy, to say the least. I mostly remember waking up the next day with a trashcan under my covers, then later coming to find that my house key was bent in half. I still don't know how I made it through the front door. Shoddy craftsmanship, I suppose.
I believe that was also the night in which I had to close one eye, because if I had two open, I was "seeing too many things."... I may or may not have accidentally burst in the boys bathroom, as well.
Wiley night was consistently known for making asses out of relatively normal people. A certain roommate of mine, who shall remain nameless, was found sprawled on the ground outside of our apartment, laughing, as gaining entry was too difficult in her Wiley-ed state.
It was on a Wiley night in which my friend, fondly referred to as A Big Ash, brought home a bum. Not really a bum, more like a guy we used to all think was hot, but then turned granola-hippy chic. He invaded our apartment (A Big Ash didn't even live there, but invited back randos none-the-less), called us all 'beautiful people' at least 18 times, and then asked if we wanted to go 'dance barefoot in the rain'.
After a particularly great Poprocks Wiley (I never did venture outside the Flat on Your Wiley variety... a pity), my friend J was found Wednesday morning in G303, sprawled face up on the couch, with 905 blasting. On the kitchen floor was a jug of orange juice, an open gallon of milk, his socks, and a blackened pizza in the oven. Which had, evidently, been cooking all night.
And unfortunately, that wasn't the first time.
"Look what I did..."
Early our senior year, a select few of us woke up to the smell of burnt pizza. We didn't know where it was coming from, or why is smelled so strongly at 10 in the morning. We only wondered for a moment though, before O, aka "My Man", came ambling upstairs.
The night before, we'd returned home from the bars, and were watching a movie, or a show or staring numbly as the boys played Halo, and My Man had burst in the room.
"You guys want pizza? I'm making some pizza. You guys want? I'm making some... Stay awake for the pizza!"
Evidently, My Man should have heeded his own advice, as he did not stay awake for the pizza. He slept through the timer, the smoke and the stench.
It took weeks to air out the place.
"ROAAARRRRRRR!"
So, there's this guy I know. We'll call him "Chester the Molester", or, I guess, Chest for short. Anyways, this Chest, character, he's a bit younger than us. He didn't get to visit the bars until Halloween-time, senior year.
After a particularly great Saturday, I made my way to the PC, walked up to the third floor, and meandered out to the balcony, where Chest was yelling. He was yelling at passersby, and neighbors, probably telling them they were all 'mussies', and assuring them that the PC could out drink them, anywhere, anytime.
Then, he roared (literally), and ripped off his shirt. He threw it down to the grass below, probably yelled "Mussy!" and "Bitches!!!" a few more times, and then promptly passed out.
He's probably one of my favorite people, ever.
"Grr grr beats woof woof."
Oh, the west side. We only made a few treks, but they were all so interesting.
There was the singing of the WSU fight song whilst stomping down UW's greek row.
There was the frolicking in Earl's, where J found a 'straw' on the floor, that looked suspiciously similar to a joint... and then put it in his mouth.
There was Finn's. Where we sang karaoke. And by we, I mean J. And we heard crickets.
There was the time Maci stole a snowboard from a frat house, called the owner Tony Hawk, and then told him that "grr grr beats woof woof." Which, I think, means cougars beat huskies...
I miss those days. I regret to say that I couldn't think of a story involving several friends, including Peege. Well, except for the time he went around biting everyone... but that was 5-30-03, and therefore, ineligible as a college shenanigan.
But, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. And if you don't know any of these people... sorry. You're missing out. Also, reading this blog was probably a huge waste of time, as, generally, they're 'had-to-be-there' moments, a.k.a. not funny to anyone who didn't witness them first hand.
Liz, out.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
anything anonymous
Hi, my name is Liz, and I'm an addict.
A Facebook addict, that is. And a gossip site addict. And an addict to just about anything that's counterproductive to life... aka 98% of the world wide web's offerings. I'm addicted to the internet.
12 hours ago, (yes, I've calculated it down to the hour...) I deleted my Facebook account. I can almost hear the gasps, the oh-the-horror's, and the WHAT?'s emitting across the Columbia Basin.
And all I can say is, I know.
I'm shaking like a crack fiend. Facebook has been an integral part of my 'social networking' for years. Hell, without Facebook, I'd probably have zero real-life friends, as I am less than reliable when it comes to answering my phone/returning calls... Facebook is the only reason I have sporadic activities and rendezvous' penciled in on my calendar, without it I'm just some loser that doesn't know what the hell's going on... especially with things concerning my friends.
I think I first noticed that I had a problem when I began thinking in Facebook status form. "Elizabeth Moss is practically DYING without fb :("
One of the most amusing parts of this whole Facebook thing, is that I've convinced myself that any of you care. You know, about my status updates. Or the fact that I posted pictures. Or what my favorite movies are, or my religious/political affiliation. Who am I, the Queen? Who gives a shit what I'm doing. No one, that's who.
But Facebook allows me to be the self-important jackass that I'm generally only comfortable being in front of my close friends... and since they account for only 5% of my friend list.... that would mean there are a lot of acquaintances that probably groan with every update, "Ugh, God, not her again."
What did we do before the days of social networking sites? Did we actually call people to chat? Just the thought of it makes me cringe. How did we get invited to parties? Paper invitations? How 1999. And don't even get me started on dating... how did we know whether or not someone's courtship was legitimate before they vowed their 'In A Relationship With...' status via minifeed announcement? Random sightings at the mall? Palpable affection? Ridiculous.
And, most importantly, how did one stalk their crushes, rivals and/or drunken acquaintances? Tailing them? Peering through a set of binoculars into their living room windows? How barbaric... and mildly thrilling.
Until Facebook came along, what did we do with all the time that we waste, er, I mean spend, on the computer? Frolic in the outdoors with three dimensional people? What an amusing thought.
Now, I realize that most of you don't have the same vices as I. You don't find yourself mindlessly navigating to Facebook during all hours of the night. You don't find yourself halfway through that one guy who sat behind you in English 351's wall-to-wall with his long lost best friend from preschool before realizing, "Shit, I'm supposed to be at work..."
But I do. I have a problem. And that is why I deactivated.
And none of you are going to see this. Because I have no way to tell you about it.
Hmm.
Didn't think this through, did I?
Dumbass.
A Facebook addict, that is. And a gossip site addict. And an addict to just about anything that's counterproductive to life... aka 98% of the world wide web's offerings. I'm addicted to the internet.
12 hours ago, (yes, I've calculated it down to the hour...) I deleted my Facebook account. I can almost hear the gasps, the oh-the-horror's, and the WHAT?'s emitting across the Columbia Basin.
And all I can say is, I know.
I'm shaking like a crack fiend. Facebook has been an integral part of my 'social networking' for years. Hell, without Facebook, I'd probably have zero real-life friends, as I am less than reliable when it comes to answering my phone/returning calls... Facebook is the only reason I have sporadic activities and rendezvous' penciled in on my calendar, without it I'm just some loser that doesn't know what the hell's going on... especially with things concerning my friends.
I think I first noticed that I had a problem when I began thinking in Facebook status form. "Elizabeth Moss is practically DYING without fb :("
One of the most amusing parts of this whole Facebook thing, is that I've convinced myself that any of you care. You know, about my status updates. Or the fact that I posted pictures. Or what my favorite movies are, or my religious/political affiliation. Who am I, the Queen? Who gives a shit what I'm doing. No one, that's who.
But Facebook allows me to be the self-important jackass that I'm generally only comfortable being in front of my close friends... and since they account for only 5% of my friend list.... that would mean there are a lot of acquaintances that probably groan with every update, "Ugh, God, not her again."
What did we do before the days of social networking sites? Did we actually call people to chat? Just the thought of it makes me cringe. How did we get invited to parties? Paper invitations? How 1999. And don't even get me started on dating... how did we know whether or not someone's courtship was legitimate before they vowed their 'In A Relationship With...' status via minifeed announcement? Random sightings at the mall? Palpable affection? Ridiculous.
And, most importantly, how did one stalk their crushes, rivals and/or drunken acquaintances? Tailing them? Peering through a set of binoculars into their living room windows? How barbaric... and mildly thrilling.
Until Facebook came along, what did we do with all the time that we waste, er, I mean spend, on the computer? Frolic in the outdoors with three dimensional people? What an amusing thought.
Now, I realize that most of you don't have the same vices as I. You don't find yourself mindlessly navigating to Facebook during all hours of the night. You don't find yourself halfway through that one guy who sat behind you in English 351's wall-to-wall with his long lost best friend from preschool before realizing, "Shit, I'm supposed to be at work..."
But I do. I have a problem. And that is why I deactivated.
And none of you are going to see this. Because I have no way to tell you about it.
Hmm.
Didn't think this through, did I?
Dumbass.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
clowns, and chickens and ferris wheels, oh my!!
I seem to have procured a vast pool of knowledge that consists solely of random and useless information, like the fact that Humphrey Bogart was born on Christmas day in 1899 or that the ancient Chinese believe that people with three cowlicks are destined to have terrible lives and die early. Everything I know is entirely worthless, unless I'm in a trivia tournament or something... but, still. I didn't fall off the turnip truck when I was born yesterday. Momma didn't raise no dummy.
Now with that said... for a so called "no dummy", I carry with me the weight of several irrational fears. And by several I mean enough to ensure a psychiatrist many a $350 session. I'm surprised I make it out the front door on most days, as I am usually crippled by my (crazy, largely unfounded, and innumerable) concerns.
I should mention that in addition to my ridiculous worries, I'm also uneasy about a number of rational things, like if that one depressing as hell Sarah McLachlan song plays at my funeral, or that polar bears will go extinct before I have the chance to capture one and raise him as my own...
I shudder at the thought.
But, anyway, to heal myself from further intellectual damming, and to save my future shrink the trouble, I've decided to say these fears aloud, not only for your amusement, but for my own benefit, and try to determine their root. Maybe when I read them back to myself, I'll see them for how truly ridiculous they are?
Or, I'll have written record of their absolute dreadfulness.
Deep breath, here we go...
Escalators. I don't know what it is about them, but they scare the shit out of me. Yes, I know I won't get sucked into the mechanism at the end, and yes, I know that the steps won't suddenly collapse, sucking me, once again, into the 'mechanism'... But seriously. It totally could.
Cause: My parents. Damn them. Damn them for taking me to Columbia Center in my youth and forcing me upon the Bon Marche escalators, taunting me with, "make sure your laces are tied, don't wanna get them tangled in the top!" Why wouldn't I heed their warnings? They're my parents, and at the age of 7, I had yet to learn how to ignore their constant blithering.
Cotton sheets. Something about the fibrous weave really freaks me out. I can imagine being choked by the interlocking threads, the CSI coroner pulling a rogue string out of my throat, proclaiming that it was, in fact, death by bedding.
Cause: This one is trickier to pinpoint, but it could be because of that one time my mom tried to suffocate me with my cotton pillow. No, I'm just kidding. She never did that. Haha, it was more of a flannel fabric...
Seriously though, she'll probably be angry when/if she ever reads that...
Clowns. I'm hard-pressed to find this fear 'irrational', though people keep insisting that it is. They have obnoxiously bright, over-sized clothes and annoyingly large shoes, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. What about their identity masking make-up? Who are they trying to fool?! And their disgustingly blood red locks? Quelle horreur! Some people ask, "What's wrong with clowns?" while I ask, "What's RIGHT with clowns?" Nothing, I tell you! Nothing!
Cause: Well, it could be because of that one time my mom dropped a creepy clown figurine on my head while I was lying helplessly in my crib. That's right. I was a defenseless baby... or evidently by my mother's calculations, an indestructible bundle that needed to be squashed. Oh, also, it could be that one time she let me watch 'It', and if you know me at all, you'd know that I'm quite impressionable, so that was most definitely a mistake. I've got a wild imagination, and I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, if I could diagnose myself...
Or, or, it could be the fact that clowns are evil incarnate. And that my 'friends' like to dress up as them and chase me, and hide in my bed in order to further perpetuate my phobia.
Could be any one of those things.
The sound of mute. Now I know what you're thinking... the sound of mute? Yes. The sound of a television set on mute. It's a high pitched humming that I'm pretty sure I'll be unable to hear in a few years, but nevertheless. I can hear it now. And I'm certain in the notion that it's the work of some psychotic alien or really techy-kid trying to deafen me with its near-silent shriek.
Cause: Uh, probably that imagination, again. I should lay off the hallucinogens.
Ferris wheels. I'm not alone in this one. Who doesn't dread the day when you're sitting pretty atop the old wheel-o-fun, when it suddenly dislodges from its carny-kept cage, rolling over fellow carnival goers as you hang helplessly in the balance. It could happen. It probably has happened...
Cause: Well, what do you know, good ol' Mom's to blame for this one, again... There's a bit of a pattern emerging here, isn't there?
Yeah, she used to shove me onto the platform with my (totally willing, aka: delusional) cousin at the county fair, and then laugh at the pictures she took, all of which dynamically showcasing a look of sheer terror upon my face.
Also, I'm a bit weary of fair rides ever since the Benton Franklin Fair and Rodeo debacle of 2000, in which a ride broke while I was on it. I emerged unscathed, as it was not my particular 'wagon' that was damaged... but still, that had to leave an emotional scar, right? My friends got hurt, and I probably internalized their pain. I'm very empathetic, I swear.
Mind readers. Seriously? What if people really could read minds... what are you saying inside your head that you hope no one will ever hear? Exactly. Tons of things. Personally, I think millions of rude/insensitive/horrible/mildly amusing/strange/downright hilarious things that I purposefully hold back from the general public. It'd be like a modern day Pandora's box if my mind was let loose... Ugh.
Cause: Does this one need an explanation? If people could hear all the things that I'm thinking, I'd be totally fucked. I'm not the nicest of people- on the inside... which is ironic, because don't they say, "It's what's on the inside, that counts."? On most days, and in most situations, I'm projecting a much better person than I believe myself to be, just to fool the non-mind readers. Anyone with actual telepathic abilities could really throw me under the bus.
Birds. Some say majestic animals, I say scary-as-hell-beasts. From hummingbirds to eagles, they're all frightening to me. Turkeys, parrots, pets, birds of prey... All scary, all unnecessary in life. I clearly remember running (literally, running...) across Glenn-Terrell Mall from the 'Falcon Club', a group of swarthy ne'er-do-wells, strapped with leather gloves and a falcon on each arm, their razor sharp talons glistening. I didn't for a second trust the leashes the birds were tethered with, because... hello? They can fucking fly. Who's going to stop them?
Cause: I should mention that I was allowed to watch a little film by a certain Alfred Hitchcock at a young age, aptly title: 'Birds'. And what do you know? It was two hours about horrible, winged creatures.
Also, one time, a 'friend' (similar to the one who constantly dresses like a clown) locked me in a chicken coop for at least 25 seconds. They pecked, and pecked, and pecked at their food, and- it was terrifying. I don't think I'll ever be able to overcome the panic I felt in those harried moments before she opened that two foot tall gate and let me out.
And thank God she did, or else I'd probably be chicken food, if, in fact, chickens could evolve into carnivorous beings at the drop of a hat... And if I was chicken food, who'd be writing this? No one. And if you we're reading this blog entry, that was written by no one, or by my ghost perhaps... hmm...
Which brings me to my last irrational fear, GHOSTS.
Just kidding. I don't believe in ghosts. They're freaking ridiculously improbable.
What we should watch out for are those cotton clown clothes wearing, escalator riding, ferris wheel riding (they ride both, okay?), high-pitched mute sounding, telepathic chickens. They're everywhere.
Lurking on corners, in closets, under beds... in trunks.
Ugh. I'm creeping myself out, a bit.
Now with that said... for a so called "no dummy", I carry with me the weight of several irrational fears. And by several I mean enough to ensure a psychiatrist many a $350 session. I'm surprised I make it out the front door on most days, as I am usually crippled by my (crazy, largely unfounded, and innumerable) concerns.
I should mention that in addition to my ridiculous worries, I'm also uneasy about a number of rational things, like if that one depressing as hell Sarah McLachlan song plays at my funeral, or that polar bears will go extinct before I have the chance to capture one and raise him as my own...
I shudder at the thought.
But, anyway, to heal myself from further intellectual damming, and to save my future shrink the trouble, I've decided to say these fears aloud, not only for your amusement, but for my own benefit, and try to determine their root. Maybe when I read them back to myself, I'll see them for how truly ridiculous they are?
Or, I'll have written record of their absolute dreadfulness.
Deep breath, here we go...
Escalators. I don't know what it is about them, but they scare the shit out of me. Yes, I know I won't get sucked into the mechanism at the end, and yes, I know that the steps won't suddenly collapse, sucking me, once again, into the 'mechanism'... But seriously. It totally could.
Cause: My parents. Damn them. Damn them for taking me to Columbia Center in my youth and forcing me upon the Bon Marche escalators, taunting me with, "make sure your laces are tied, don't wanna get them tangled in the top!" Why wouldn't I heed their warnings? They're my parents, and at the age of 7, I had yet to learn how to ignore their constant blithering.
Cotton sheets. Something about the fibrous weave really freaks me out. I can imagine being choked by the interlocking threads, the CSI coroner pulling a rogue string out of my throat, proclaiming that it was, in fact, death by bedding.
Cause: This one is trickier to pinpoint, but it could be because of that one time my mom tried to suffocate me with my cotton pillow. No, I'm just kidding. She never did that. Haha, it was more of a flannel fabric...
Seriously though, she'll probably be angry when/if she ever reads that...
Clowns. I'm hard-pressed to find this fear 'irrational', though people keep insisting that it is. They have obnoxiously bright, over-sized clothes and annoyingly large shoes, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. What about their identity masking make-up? Who are they trying to fool?! And their disgustingly blood red locks? Quelle horreur! Some people ask, "What's wrong with clowns?" while I ask, "What's RIGHT with clowns?" Nothing, I tell you! Nothing!
Cause: Well, it could be because of that one time my mom dropped a creepy clown figurine on my head while I was lying helplessly in my crib. That's right. I was a defenseless baby... or evidently by my mother's calculations, an indestructible bundle that needed to be squashed. Oh, also, it could be that one time she let me watch 'It', and if you know me at all, you'd know that I'm quite impressionable, so that was most definitely a mistake. I've got a wild imagination, and I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, if I could diagnose myself...
Or, or, it could be the fact that clowns are evil incarnate. And that my 'friends' like to dress up as them and chase me, and hide in my bed in order to further perpetuate my phobia.
Could be any one of those things.
The sound of mute. Now I know what you're thinking... the sound of mute? Yes. The sound of a television set on mute. It's a high pitched humming that I'm pretty sure I'll be unable to hear in a few years, but nevertheless. I can hear it now. And I'm certain in the notion that it's the work of some psychotic alien or really techy-kid trying to deafen me with its near-silent shriek.
Cause: Uh, probably that imagination, again. I should lay off the hallucinogens.
Ferris wheels. I'm not alone in this one. Who doesn't dread the day when you're sitting pretty atop the old wheel-o-fun, when it suddenly dislodges from its carny-kept cage, rolling over fellow carnival goers as you hang helplessly in the balance. It could happen. It probably has happened...
Cause: Well, what do you know, good ol' Mom's to blame for this one, again... There's a bit of a pattern emerging here, isn't there?
Yeah, she used to shove me onto the platform with my (totally willing, aka: delusional) cousin at the county fair, and then laugh at the pictures she took, all of which dynamically showcasing a look of sheer terror upon my face.
Also, I'm a bit weary of fair rides ever since the Benton Franklin Fair and Rodeo debacle of 2000, in which a ride broke while I was on it. I emerged unscathed, as it was not my particular 'wagon' that was damaged... but still, that had to leave an emotional scar, right? My friends got hurt, and I probably internalized their pain. I'm very empathetic, I swear.
Mind readers. Seriously? What if people really could read minds... what are you saying inside your head that you hope no one will ever hear? Exactly. Tons of things. Personally, I think millions of rude/insensitive/horrible/mildly amusing/strange/downright hilarious things that I purposefully hold back from the general public. It'd be like a modern day Pandora's box if my mind was let loose... Ugh.
Cause: Does this one need an explanation? If people could hear all the things that I'm thinking, I'd be totally fucked. I'm not the nicest of people- on the inside... which is ironic, because don't they say, "It's what's on the inside, that counts."? On most days, and in most situations, I'm projecting a much better person than I believe myself to be, just to fool the non-mind readers. Anyone with actual telepathic abilities could really throw me under the bus.
Birds. Some say majestic animals, I say scary-as-hell-beasts. From hummingbirds to eagles, they're all frightening to me. Turkeys, parrots, pets, birds of prey... All scary, all unnecessary in life. I clearly remember running (literally, running...) across Glenn-Terrell Mall from the 'Falcon Club', a group of swarthy ne'er-do-wells, strapped with leather gloves and a falcon on each arm, their razor sharp talons glistening. I didn't for a second trust the leashes the birds were tethered with, because... hello? They can fucking fly. Who's going to stop them?
Cause: I should mention that I was allowed to watch a little film by a certain Alfred Hitchcock at a young age, aptly title: 'Birds'. And what do you know? It was two hours about horrible, winged creatures.
Also, one time, a 'friend' (similar to the one who constantly dresses like a clown) locked me in a chicken coop for at least 25 seconds. They pecked, and pecked, and pecked at their food, and- it was terrifying. I don't think I'll ever be able to overcome the panic I felt in those harried moments before she opened that two foot tall gate and let me out.
And thank God she did, or else I'd probably be chicken food, if, in fact, chickens could evolve into carnivorous beings at the drop of a hat... And if I was chicken food, who'd be writing this? No one. And if you we're reading this blog entry, that was written by no one, or by my ghost perhaps... hmm...
Which brings me to my last irrational fear, GHOSTS.
Just kidding. I don't believe in ghosts. They're freaking ridiculously improbable.
What we should watch out for are those cotton clown clothes wearing, escalator riding, ferris wheel riding (they ride both, okay?), high-pitched mute sounding, telepathic chickens. They're everywhere.
Lurking on corners, in closets, under beds... in trunks.
Ugh. I'm creeping myself out, a bit.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
the 'bitch' is back.
A few weeks ago I wrote an entire post lamenting about my lack of coolness. You know, my inability to party like the college student I used to be...
Hahaha, hahaha. Guess who's back?
I'm here to tell you that Saturday night, two days ago, during an impromptu visit to Pullman... bitch could hang. As a matter of fact, bitch hung out all night, drinking and laughing and dancing with the best of them (and by the best of them I mean the people who never forgot how to hang, aka my friends).
And since Saturday night brought me back to my roots, Sunday, naturally, was quite possibly one of the worst days of my life. Evidently I can drain bottles like it's nobody's business, but eventually reality sets in, my BAC drops, and I spend the rest of the day vomiting, sneering, crying, shuddering and cursing the day I met alcohol and subsequently fell in love.
It all started with a call from my dear friend, we'll refer to her as 'Maci'... as in we all refer to her as 'Maci'. Some people assume it's her real name. It's not.
Anyway, this 'Maci' calls me, and asks if I'd like to go to Pullman with her for the night. I thought, why the hell not? She said 'fall things' were on the agenda, so being the naive, lame person that I've grown to be, I figured we would go to dinner, carve some pumpkins, and maybe, if we were feeling really adventurous, we'd go to a haunted house. I should mention that I don't like haunted houses, I don't enjoy things grabbing at me or screaming at me or jumping out at me... spurts of terror-induced adrenaline coursing through my veins is for some reason unbeknownst to me, not my idea of a good time... so going to a haunted house was quite a stretch.
It seems that I needn't have worried. The words 'haunted house' were never uttered, though, the words 'round of tequila shots', were. Twice. And we all know that's just as frightening.
The night began with a walk up to Dupus Boomer's, WSU's only full bar that's legitimately on campus. I should have known that the minute we decided to forgo vehicular transportation, that we were in for a long night. Evidently we all had the foresight to know that no one would be in shape to get behind a wheel... though I probably could have been issued a citation for man-handling my wheel-y suitcase up B-street later that night... but that's neither here nor there.
At Dupus, we by-passed the 20 person line and walked straight into the bar, sitting down for mugs of hefeweizen and Blue Moon, ridiculously large margaritas, and what almost looked like double-shots of Jose, (they ran out of Pancho, so we had to make do...). Someone even ordered gator bites... and while they didn't taste like chicken, I'm not so sure they tasted like swamp, either.
After dinner and drinks, we meandered out of the CUB, singing the chorus of 'Who Let the Dogs Out', jumping on statues and, for some reason, quoting the Green Street Hooligans, mostly by yelling "FUCKING WANKER" in a British accent to anyone who'd listen... Our (or I should say the boys, as I generally decline to yell 'wanker' in anyones direction... I'm pretty sure) revelry was especially disconcerting to two boys of the brethren wearing their letters across the street, and the night almost became a little more interesting... but they were scared of our (again, not me, I just like the camaraderie I feel when I use pronouns) cool accents, obviously, so they backed off.
We shuffled into the Coug, put some Johnny Cash, Bob Marley and Nirvana (quite a threesome, I know) on the juke box, and immediately tucked into three Boone's passes and five pitchers of Pullman water (Busch Light...). I should also mention there were six of us... aka, we did work.
It was when we cheered (loudly) for ASU's last touchdown that we seemed to have alerted the staff to our presence, and one of the bartenders decided to come over for a chat. She draped herself over one of my friends, who we will refer to as 'My Man', and looked up at the screen, asking what happened. Now, a lot of people know and love 'My Man', so I thought nothing of this sign of affection, though in my wildest dreams I never expected the next turn of events... As I was about to explain, someone in our party, we'll call him 'Kriegs' stood, and yelled in her face, "NACHO BITCH!"
My tongue nearly fell out of my mouth.
As some of you may, or may not know, 'Nacho Bitch' is practically famous amongst my group of friends. Legend has it that 'My Man' was once eating, you guessed it, nachos at one of the local watering holes, when he happened to procure some cheesy residue upon his face. The girl he was probably trying to wheel at the moment alerted him to this fact, and, rather than hand him a napkin... licked it off of his cheek. At least, that's what I heard through the grapevine, aka my drunk friends who played witness to the incident. She was then dubbed 'Nacho Bitch', and has since lived on in what I assumed was, practically fictionalized, over-exaggerated infamy.
But lo-and-behold, 'Nacho Bitch' was alive and not so well, as she seemed a little perturbed to finally realize her nickname. She assured us that she had a real name, and to that I thought, no shit, we didn't think your parents named you after an encounter with a spicy Mexican appetizer. But I kept my mouth shut as she also informed us that she could, and I quote, "cut you off and kick you out if you piss me off." At least she lived up to part of her nickname...
After the 'Nacho Bitch' left us to our own devices, the Coug began to fill with its usual crowd of ne'er-do-well fun-havers, and though we love the place, we decided to skip along to the Club, known as Mike's, to cap off the night. Some people call it Stubblefields, but that's only if they're lame (and I was not, for one night only, so I obviously had to refer to it as Mike's).
As soon as we walked into 'the Club', I knew something was amiss. I could see the floor. I could obtain space at the bar, and if I wanted to, a table near it as well. The bartender could hear my normal-decibeled (I know it's not a word) plea for a vodka soda with extra limes... which begged the question: Where are all the loud, obnoxious drunks? Were we the only ones?
We bought our drinks, deciding to tempt fate by making a purchase off the specials board- a double Captain and Sprite that they advertised as tasting 'like a cream soda!!' With fear and trepidation, we took a sip, and to our great surprise, it did! Of course, I was two margaritas, one tequila shot, three boones passes and countless cups of Busch Light deep at that point, so my judgement may have been ever-so-slightly impaired.
We sauntered down to the lower level, where I once again, stood in shock and awe, and had to ask, "Where are all the drunks?"
There was only one grossly overly PDA-ing couple in sight, the poles and boxes were devoid of inebriated girls, and there was room to move. We could have square-danced, if the idea happened upon us. Thank God it didn't, because I'm sure not one of us would have thought it to be anything less than a superb suggestion.
After another round of double Captain and Sprites, tequila shots, and one 151-infused 'surprise' concoction, courtesy of my favorite Mike's bartender- the place started to fill up. Unfortunately, DJ Goldfinger wasn't spinning, so there were no random "BITCH!" chants through-out any of the songs, but all in all it was a great night. I don't actually remember the rest of it, but I'm pretty sure it was fun.
I think we walked home, though I'm unsure of the route, or who 'we' entails. I had a suitcase, I think, and I struggled in wheeling it back to Providence Court, though it would seem I eventually got there.
Waking up the next morning around 10, I spent a few hours on the bathroom floor, you know, just hanging out. My friends asked if I was dead, to which I replied, with conviction, "Yes."
As I had to work later that night, (fuck my life, right?), we had to head home immediately, even though I was in no shape to drive, ride, or live. But 'Maci' only had to pull over twice, and I only felt like death during 98% of the trip... Sure, I swore off drinking in my nauseated, head-aching state, and yeah, I briefly fantasized about throwing myself out of the car... but greatness comes at a price, you know?
I guess what I'm trying to say is, killer hangover and shoddy recollection of the previous nights' events be damned... being a true 'Coug', and by that I mean drunk, is always worth it.
GO COUGS!
Check back in next week, because I'll probably have tons of fun sober stories. Not possible, you say? Oxy-moron?
Yeah. You're probably right.
Hahaha, hahaha. Guess who's back?
I'm here to tell you that Saturday night, two days ago, during an impromptu visit to Pullman... bitch could hang. As a matter of fact, bitch hung out all night, drinking and laughing and dancing with the best of them (and by the best of them I mean the people who never forgot how to hang, aka my friends).
And since Saturday night brought me back to my roots, Sunday, naturally, was quite possibly one of the worst days of my life. Evidently I can drain bottles like it's nobody's business, but eventually reality sets in, my BAC drops, and I spend the rest of the day vomiting, sneering, crying, shuddering and cursing the day I met alcohol and subsequently fell in love.
It all started with a call from my dear friend, we'll refer to her as 'Maci'... as in we all refer to her as 'Maci'. Some people assume it's her real name. It's not.
Anyway, this 'Maci' calls me, and asks if I'd like to go to Pullman with her for the night. I thought, why the hell not? She said 'fall things' were on the agenda, so being the naive, lame person that I've grown to be, I figured we would go to dinner, carve some pumpkins, and maybe, if we were feeling really adventurous, we'd go to a haunted house. I should mention that I don't like haunted houses, I don't enjoy things grabbing at me or screaming at me or jumping out at me... spurts of terror-induced adrenaline coursing through my veins is for some reason unbeknownst to me, not my idea of a good time... so going to a haunted house was quite a stretch.
It seems that I needn't have worried. The words 'haunted house' were never uttered, though, the words 'round of tequila shots', were. Twice. And we all know that's just as frightening.
The night began with a walk up to Dupus Boomer's, WSU's only full bar that's legitimately on campus. I should have known that the minute we decided to forgo vehicular transportation, that we were in for a long night. Evidently we all had the foresight to know that no one would be in shape to get behind a wheel... though I probably could have been issued a citation for man-handling my wheel-y suitcase up B-street later that night... but that's neither here nor there.
At Dupus, we by-passed the 20 person line and walked straight into the bar, sitting down for mugs of hefeweizen and Blue Moon, ridiculously large margaritas, and what almost looked like double-shots of Jose, (they ran out of Pancho, so we had to make do...). Someone even ordered gator bites... and while they didn't taste like chicken, I'm not so sure they tasted like swamp, either.
After dinner and drinks, we meandered out of the CUB, singing the chorus of 'Who Let the Dogs Out', jumping on statues and, for some reason, quoting the Green Street Hooligans, mostly by yelling "FUCKING WANKER" in a British accent to anyone who'd listen... Our (or I should say the boys, as I generally decline to yell 'wanker' in anyones direction... I'm pretty sure) revelry was especially disconcerting to two boys of the brethren wearing their letters across the street, and the night almost became a little more interesting... but they were scared of our (again, not me, I just like the camaraderie I feel when I use pronouns) cool accents, obviously, so they backed off.
We shuffled into the Coug, put some Johnny Cash, Bob Marley and Nirvana (quite a threesome, I know) on the juke box, and immediately tucked into three Boone's passes and five pitchers of Pullman water (Busch Light...). I should also mention there were six of us... aka, we did work.
It was when we cheered (loudly) for ASU's last touchdown that we seemed to have alerted the staff to our presence, and one of the bartenders decided to come over for a chat. She draped herself over one of my friends, who we will refer to as 'My Man', and looked up at the screen, asking what happened. Now, a lot of people know and love 'My Man', so I thought nothing of this sign of affection, though in my wildest dreams I never expected the next turn of events... As I was about to explain, someone in our party, we'll call him 'Kriegs' stood, and yelled in her face, "NACHO BITCH!"
My tongue nearly fell out of my mouth.
As some of you may, or may not know, 'Nacho Bitch' is practically famous amongst my group of friends. Legend has it that 'My Man' was once eating, you guessed it, nachos at one of the local watering holes, when he happened to procure some cheesy residue upon his face. The girl he was probably trying to wheel at the moment alerted him to this fact, and, rather than hand him a napkin... licked it off of his cheek. At least, that's what I heard through the grapevine, aka my drunk friends who played witness to the incident. She was then dubbed 'Nacho Bitch', and has since lived on in what I assumed was, practically fictionalized, over-exaggerated infamy.
But lo-and-behold, 'Nacho Bitch' was alive and not so well, as she seemed a little perturbed to finally realize her nickname. She assured us that she had a real name, and to that I thought, no shit, we didn't think your parents named you after an encounter with a spicy Mexican appetizer. But I kept my mouth shut as she also informed us that she could, and I quote, "cut you off and kick you out if you piss me off." At least she lived up to part of her nickname...
After the 'Nacho Bitch' left us to our own devices, the Coug began to fill with its usual crowd of ne'er-do-well fun-havers, and though we love the place, we decided to skip along to the Club, known as Mike's, to cap off the night. Some people call it Stubblefields, but that's only if they're lame (and I was not, for one night only, so I obviously had to refer to it as Mike's).
As soon as we walked into 'the Club', I knew something was amiss. I could see the floor. I could obtain space at the bar, and if I wanted to, a table near it as well. The bartender could hear my normal-decibeled (I know it's not a word) plea for a vodka soda with extra limes... which begged the question: Where are all the loud, obnoxious drunks? Were we the only ones?
We bought our drinks, deciding to tempt fate by making a purchase off the specials board- a double Captain and Sprite that they advertised as tasting 'like a cream soda!!' With fear and trepidation, we took a sip, and to our great surprise, it did! Of course, I was two margaritas, one tequila shot, three boones passes and countless cups of Busch Light deep at that point, so my judgement may have been ever-so-slightly impaired.
We sauntered down to the lower level, where I once again, stood in shock and awe, and had to ask, "Where are all the drunks?"
There was only one grossly overly PDA-ing couple in sight, the poles and boxes were devoid of inebriated girls, and there was room to move. We could have square-danced, if the idea happened upon us. Thank God it didn't, because I'm sure not one of us would have thought it to be anything less than a superb suggestion.
After another round of double Captain and Sprites, tequila shots, and one 151-infused 'surprise' concoction, courtesy of my favorite Mike's bartender- the place started to fill up. Unfortunately, DJ Goldfinger wasn't spinning, so there were no random "BITCH!" chants through-out any of the songs, but all in all it was a great night. I don't actually remember the rest of it, but I'm pretty sure it was fun.
I think we walked home, though I'm unsure of the route, or who 'we' entails. I had a suitcase, I think, and I struggled in wheeling it back to Providence Court, though it would seem I eventually got there.
Waking up the next morning around 10, I spent a few hours on the bathroom floor, you know, just hanging out. My friends asked if I was dead, to which I replied, with conviction, "Yes."
As I had to work later that night, (fuck my life, right?), we had to head home immediately, even though I was in no shape to drive, ride, or live. But 'Maci' only had to pull over twice, and I only felt like death during 98% of the trip... Sure, I swore off drinking in my nauseated, head-aching state, and yeah, I briefly fantasized about throwing myself out of the car... but greatness comes at a price, you know?
I guess what I'm trying to say is, killer hangover and shoddy recollection of the previous nights' events be damned... being a true 'Coug', and by that I mean drunk, is always worth it.
GO COUGS!
Check back in next week, because I'll probably have tons of fun sober stories. Not possible, you say? Oxy-moron?
Yeah. You're probably right.
Monday, September 21, 2009
excuses make you lose your power...**
Excuses, excuses, excuses... we all use them. They’re convenient, sometimes easy to come up with, and make everyone feel better about the situation at hand. But when do excuses cross the line?
The other day while driving home from work, I was pulled over by the Pasco police. Why, you ask? Oh, well, it was because I didn't have my lights on, and it was roughly 10:30 PM. I've been driving for nearly six years, ergo I should know when it's appropriate to use my headlights.
When asked about my egregious error in vehicle maneuvering, I came up with this gem of a reason... “I just wasn’t thinking.”
Yeah bitch, I guess.
We, as in humans/Americans/people in general, seem to use the, "I just wasn't thinking", excuse a lot. Why is this? We all know it's total bullshit. Umm, yeah right, I wasn’t thinking... I'm pretty sure it's physiologically impossible to 'not think'. Sometimes I’m just a dumbass, plain and simple.
Overuse of this ‘not thinking’ line could mean one of two things. Either society’s intelligence is nearing reality show star level (several points above a vegetative state, for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Hills), or... we just like to make shit up to cover our own asses.
Could stupidity and the ability to ‘not think’ really be a pandemic of H1N1 proportions? I certainly hope not, but we all had to know that the end of human intelligence was near when a show like, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", had enough material to air more than one episode. Really? You didn't know you were with child? For the love of all that is holy, keep it to yourself, and hope that your kid doesn't someday stumble across the DVD record of you telling the nation the story of its birth, which happened to be in a toilet, while you were halfway through your shift at Wendy's. The poor kid is going to have a hard enough life with you as a parent.
As hopeless as I feel after watching a marathon of idiotic pregnant women confessing their parking lot birth stories (more so because I wasted time watching, rather than caring that it actually happened), I don’t think stupidity is the real issue. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.
I think, what people actually mean when they say, "I just wasn't thinking!" is, "That was so fucking stupid, I can't believe I did that, I’m sooo embarrassed." Blaming your less-than-brilliant idea (or lack thereof) on misfiring synapses in your prefrontal cortex just sounds better than admitting your own defeat.
"I just wasn't thinking!" isn't the only ‘cop-out’ phrase we frequent... Who hasn't used the little ditty known as, "No offense-", as a pre or post statement warning? By informing our conversational target that we mean no ill-will, it's almost as if we're allowed to say anything without fear of repercussions.
It’s quite literally an excuse to be a jerk, because, you’re forcing the person beforehand to take no offense. Like telling someone you’re going to pinch them, and then following through- they can’t get mad, can they? You warned them!
But, like all good excuses, ‘no offense’ can only go so far in protecting you. It’s like verbal birth control, it’ll most likely keep a child at bay (take note, ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant’-ers!), but it won’t save you from herpes... shudder.
"No offense, but that was the most idiotic thing I've ever heard," seems allowable in conversations amongst friends, but I would never utter, "No offense, but your baby is ugly as fuck,"... even if the child in question was exceedingly unattractive. It just seems rude, and it’s one of those things you can’t come back from (like herpes...). It’s highly unlikely that the mother of Godzilla’s mini-me will let you continue in your attempts to assure her that your statement was really a complement, that ‘ugly as fuck’ means ‘pretty as an angel’ in your vocabulary. You’d be better off feigning a strange bout of Tourette’s.
To me, saying 'no offense' is technically just saying, "I'm an ass, and I realize that this is a rude thing to say, but I'm going to go ahead with it anyway because, well, I already told you I'm an ass... What more do you want from me?!?"
When it comes down to it, we're all guilty of using convenient phrases to skirt around common decencies like accountability, assumed aptitude and decorum... it’s part of our charm. And while excuses seem reasonable at certain points in our daily lives, we all need to realize that they are always going to be just that... excuses. They may give us a chance to bide some time and make up for our bad behavior, but they’ll soon become as tired as Tom Cruise... and no one will want to hear, or see them, anymore.
But have no fear! Thankfully, college has shown me that there is one excuse that nullifies nearly anything you could ever say or do (sans bodily harm or injury, those trump all)... Yep, you guessed it.
Drunkenness. No explanation needed. You’re welcome.
PREACH.
**And I'll buy a beer, or juice, for the first person to name the man responsible for the title of this entry.
The other day while driving home from work, I was pulled over by the Pasco police. Why, you ask? Oh, well, it was because I didn't have my lights on, and it was roughly 10:30 PM. I've been driving for nearly six years, ergo I should know when it's appropriate to use my headlights.
When asked about my egregious error in vehicle maneuvering, I came up with this gem of a reason... “I just wasn’t thinking.”
Yeah bitch, I guess.
We, as in humans/Americans/people in general, seem to use the, "I just wasn't thinking", excuse a lot. Why is this? We all know it's total bullshit. Umm, yeah right, I wasn’t thinking... I'm pretty sure it's physiologically impossible to 'not think'. Sometimes I’m just a dumbass, plain and simple.
Overuse of this ‘not thinking’ line could mean one of two things. Either society’s intelligence is nearing reality show star level (several points above a vegetative state, for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Hills), or... we just like to make shit up to cover our own asses.
Could stupidity and the ability to ‘not think’ really be a pandemic of H1N1 proportions? I certainly hope not, but we all had to know that the end of human intelligence was near when a show like, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", had enough material to air more than one episode. Really? You didn't know you were with child? For the love of all that is holy, keep it to yourself, and hope that your kid doesn't someday stumble across the DVD record of you telling the nation the story of its birth, which happened to be in a toilet, while you were halfway through your shift at Wendy's. The poor kid is going to have a hard enough life with you as a parent.
As hopeless as I feel after watching a marathon of idiotic pregnant women confessing their parking lot birth stories (more so because I wasted time watching, rather than caring that it actually happened), I don’t think stupidity is the real issue. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.
I think, what people actually mean when they say, "I just wasn't thinking!" is, "That was so fucking stupid, I can't believe I did that, I’m sooo embarrassed." Blaming your less-than-brilliant idea (or lack thereof) on misfiring synapses in your prefrontal cortex just sounds better than admitting your own defeat.
"I just wasn't thinking!" isn't the only ‘cop-out’ phrase we frequent... Who hasn't used the little ditty known as, "No offense-", as a pre or post statement warning? By informing our conversational target that we mean no ill-will, it's almost as if we're allowed to say anything without fear of repercussions.
It’s quite literally an excuse to be a jerk, because, you’re forcing the person beforehand to take no offense. Like telling someone you’re going to pinch them, and then following through- they can’t get mad, can they? You warned them!
But, like all good excuses, ‘no offense’ can only go so far in protecting you. It’s like verbal birth control, it’ll most likely keep a child at bay (take note, ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant’-ers!), but it won’t save you from herpes... shudder.
"No offense, but that was the most idiotic thing I've ever heard," seems allowable in conversations amongst friends, but I would never utter, "No offense, but your baby is ugly as fuck,"... even if the child in question was exceedingly unattractive. It just seems rude, and it’s one of those things you can’t come back from (like herpes...). It’s highly unlikely that the mother of Godzilla’s mini-me will let you continue in your attempts to assure her that your statement was really a complement, that ‘ugly as fuck’ means ‘pretty as an angel’ in your vocabulary. You’d be better off feigning a strange bout of Tourette’s.
To me, saying 'no offense' is technically just saying, "I'm an ass, and I realize that this is a rude thing to say, but I'm going to go ahead with it anyway because, well, I already told you I'm an ass... What more do you want from me?!?"
When it comes down to it, we're all guilty of using convenient phrases to skirt around common decencies like accountability, assumed aptitude and decorum... it’s part of our charm. And while excuses seem reasonable at certain points in our daily lives, we all need to realize that they are always going to be just that... excuses. They may give us a chance to bide some time and make up for our bad behavior, but they’ll soon become as tired as Tom Cruise... and no one will want to hear, or see them, anymore.
But have no fear! Thankfully, college has shown me that there is one excuse that nullifies nearly anything you could ever say or do (sans bodily harm or injury, those trump all)... Yep, you guessed it.
Drunkenness. No explanation needed. You’re welcome.
PREACH.
**And I'll buy a beer, or juice, for the first person to name the man responsible for the title of this entry.
Monday, September 14, 2009
look at me, i'm maturing... sort of.
It seems like it was just last week that I declared my immaturity... you know, my penchant for Hercules, Mulan and the Little Mermaid and distaste for matrimony and children?
Oh, wait, it was last week. Literally seven days ago. But I'm here to tell you, that yes, I am maturing. Slowly.
As ridiculous as it may sound (and I assure you, it will sound ridiculous, especially if you read it out loud in a Minnesotan accent), I discovered my new found maturity while singing along to a Miley Cyrus song. Right, I know. It's not just my varied music tastes that assure me of my limitless intellectual boundaries...
You see, all my life, I've been terribly afraid of what other people think of me. I'm a very cynical and sarcastic person, but I try to keep my bitchy asides to myself, and the people I call my best friends- you know, the ones that I'm friends with because they either have incriminating photos of that one night, know way too much about the 'real' me, or because it's too hard to break in a new friend at this age. But to strangers, I strive to be unusually pleasant and try way too hard at being humorous and agreeable.
It's exhausting.
I've always been fearful of disagreeing with the status quo, or voicing my opinion if I thought it to be contrary to the majority's. I don't know why, but I've constantly censured myself. It's not even that my opinions are that wacky, or outlandish, or offensive. When I was younger, I guess it was just easier not to have them at all, tame as they may be.
Last Thanksgiving, we were all sitting in my grandparent's living room, when my cousin let out a slight giggle. "Nice shoes, Grandma."
I looked over to my grandmother, who was born in the 1930's, and down to her fancy footwear. She was wearing Rocawear sneakers.
"Thank you! I got them at Macy's." --Was her reply. She didn't care that people her age generally stick to Keds, and I really doubt she knows who, exactly, Jay-Z is. The simple fact was, they were brown and gold and matched her outfit, so she bought them. She liked them, and that was all that mattered.
It got me thinking... maybe that's what maturity is? Liking what you like, being who you are, with no excuses or explanations necessary.
And that begs the question... who am I? I'm not really sure, but here are a few truths:
I like that Miley Cyrus song. I don't like all of her songs, but the new one, Party in the USA? I like it. If it's on the radio, I'll sing along. If it comes up on my iPod's shuffle (yes, I downloaded it) I may pause long enough to hear it through its last chorus.
Clueless, is probably my favorite movie of all time. I have others that I quite enjoy: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Next, This is Spinal Tap, My Man Godfrey, Edward Scissorhands and the Princess Bride... but Clueless? It was brilliant. I don't care what anyone says.
I love Target. It is a fantastic store.
Sometimes I watch NFL games, but only for three reasons. Tom Brady, Brady Quinn, and Mark Sanchez. I couldn't care less about the game. I usually only watch a few minutes, get in a few close-ups of the QB, and peace out to a different channel. Probably ABC Family or something equally juvenile.
I'm disorganized to a fault. It's pathetic, because I have planners and binders and file folders and bins and hangers and ANYTHING anyone would ever possibly need to be a reasonably neat and tidy person. And I disregard them. It's as if I buy them to appease some sort of cleanliness obsessed person deep inside me, but my sloth-like tendencies always come out the victor.
I hate Ugg boots, Ed Hardy, Juicy fits (tracksuits, to those of you who don't have a Jevon dictionary) and probably almost anything fashionable... Perhaps it's that I have no fashion sense, but I'm okay with that.
Apathy is something I've mastered, conquered and learned to hate. It's who I am, but I know that to become a better person, I need to fight against it with all my strength. I'll work on that tomorrow, I guess.
I don't understand the whole Twilight, Edward, vampire obsession. I've read the books, I saw the movie. I still don't get it. And I'm pretty sure I'm one of about eight people that shares that opinion. I also don't understand the hoopla surrounding Star Wars, or the Lord of the Rings. Though, I have to admit, I love Harry Potter. I'm not 11, but I sure as hell would drop anything and everything if my Hogwarts letter rolled in tomorrow, late because of my frequent address changes...
So there you go. A tiny, little peek into the real me. These things may not seem monumental, at all, but most of them are things that I clearly remember lying about. Oh, also, I lie a lot. Mostly to strangers, but does that make it any better? Actually, I think it does... but that's neither here nor there.
It comes down to the fact that you may not like me, but I can't say that I actually care. Well, I probably do, because who am I kidding, I live to be liked... But I'm going to try not to.
I'M BECOMING A GROWN UP!
So suck on that, suckers (lame...).
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