Sunday, January 30, 2011

6:22 PM

Is There An Exit Wound?

Hello everyone!


So, I know that I haven't shared this with you all yet, but I have a history of corrupting kids. I mean, I did--back when I was a kid. Now I'm 23 and I don't corrupt anyone because that calls for a serious investment of will, which I am too lazy to deal with. I either deal with sweet people, or I find people who are already corrupted and make them be my friends.

Today's tale is the oldest tale I've shared thus far and it involves a tag-team corruption of my little sister. 



Is There An Exit Wound?

When I was about 7 years old, I spent all of my time with my sisters: Charlotte was 5, Corrina was 3, and Sue was 1. Sue was too young to play any good games, but Charlotte, Corrina, and I were inseparable. 

from http://blog.franchesca.net/

We played a million different games: princesses locked in the tower, raising the babies, teenage mutant ninja turtles, and slugs (which was just the three of us fighting over who could catch the most slugs while we were crawling around under the back porch). We were disgusting and girly and wonderful.

At the time we lived in this two-story house with three bedrooms, all of which were upstairs. One belonged to my parents, one was for me and my sisters, and the other was a guest bedroom. The guest bedroom was really our playroom. My mom wouldn't let us keep our toys in there, but we would drag them out of the toy box and into the guest room everyday. It was huge and clean and perfect for staging elaborate plays and Barbie dramas.

There is one day in particular that stands out. My mom was downstairs cleaning the house while Charlotte, Corrina, and I were playing "olden times" in the guest room. We were wearing long flower print and gingham dresses we'd gotten at Goodwill and pretending to be respectable young ladies. We also had an old rotary phone we were using to call each other and invite one another over to our houses to "take tea in the parlor."

Half way through peppermint tea at Corrina's mansion, Charlotte cocked her head to the side and said, "I wonder if that old phone still works."

"It does," I told her. "It's just not plugged in."

"Are you sure?" Charlotte asked, eyeing the lack of cords on the phone skeptically.

"Of course I am." I told her. I am the oldest sister, and more often than not, I say things just to seem like I know what I'm talking about--whether or not I actually do.

"Prove it," Charlotte countered.

Corrina's head whipped back and forth like she was watching a tennis match as Charlotte and I discussed the status of the rotary phone. She had the receiver in her hand and looked unsure of what to do with it as we argued.

"There's a small white cord on the back," I told Charlotte, "plug it in." The electrical cord still on the phone had been cut short by my parents in an effort to discourage us from trying to actually use the phone to call anyone. 

But alas, girls will be girls.
Little Miss Sunshine!!!!!!!

"It doesn't have the end on it," Charlotte pointed out.

"Well I know it works, so I don't have to do it." I told her, knowing full well we probably shouldn't plug the shorn cord phone into any electrical outlet.

Now, I don't know which of us first suggested we ask Corrina to plug in the phone, but soon enough, she became our target. "Corrina," we said, "you're a big girl now! You're allowed to plug things in. You can do it."

Corrina glowed when we called her a big girl--Charlotte and I were forever telling her she was practically a baby--just like Sue. She smiled and didn't argue with us. Without a hesitation, Corrina pulled the phone over to the wall and jammed the short length of cord into the outlet nearest her.

There was a loud pop and the room filled with smoke. Charlotte and I began screaming. The air smelled dirty, like something had caught fire. Corrina's hair jutted out from her head in crazy angles and she cried as though her heart was on fire.

My mom rushed into the room and found Corrina sitting by the wall, phone still in hand. "Abernathy, Charlotte: get Sue and get into the car NOW."

My mother pulled Corrina into her arms and carried her out of the house and into the car. I don't even think we were all in our carseats and seat belts before my mother was peeling out of the driveway, rushing to the emergency room on the Air Force Base where my dad worked. During the ride, she kept saying, "I can't believe you two would do that. You know better. You could have killed your sister."

When we arrived, my mother scooped Corrina out of the car and ran into the hospital, screaming, "she's been electrocuted!" Corrina was crying and a nurse immediately rushed to my mother to take her back into an examining room.

Charlotte, Sue and I were left in the waiting room to fend for ourselves.

The funny thing about military bases, is that you always seem to run into people you know on them. One of my mom's friends from her military wives group saw the three of us sitting around and--upon bullying why were there out of the receptionist--decided to watch us for the hour my mom was in the heart of the hospital with Corrina.

This is probably one of the few times in my life that I've behaved well while being stuck in stuck in one place for longer than 40 consecutive minutes. Sunday mass? That's a joke. Class? I can't tell you how many professors gave me B's just because I passed notes during lecture or showed up with a thermos of Baileys one too many times. And I've been threatened with being kicked out of movie theaters more times than I can count.

But on this particular occasion, the fear of my mother's wrath was enough of a sedative for me. All I could think about was the whipping Charlotte and I were destined for when we got home.

from Russian facebook

I wasn't for a second worried Corrina wouldn't be okay: when you're seven, bad things are beyond you.

When my mom finally emerged, Corrina was holding her hand and nervously holding a lollipop. "They couldn't find an exit wound." My mom said, "so the doctor says she wasn't electrocuted because she'd have to have an exit wound to survive."

"No mommy," Charlotte told her, "you didn't see her hair. She did get electrocuted."

"Are you filled with electricity then?" I asked Corrina.

"No, Abernathy!" My mom scolded.

"Whoa," Charlotte was looking at Corrina in a whole new way, "maybe you're magic."

"Whoa." I repeated.

When we got home, Charlotte and I got sent to our room. My dad got home a few hours later, and he ended up scolding us for quite a while. He took away all of our toys, but we didn't get spanked. When I asked my mom about it years later, she said that she and my father didn't spank us because they were afraid they'd kill us.

Only half of me thinks she was joking.

fin

The point of today's story is......

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

8:15 PM

Climb Every Mountain

Hey y'all,

No intro, let's go...


Climb Every Mountain

Where I went to college, we have three nights every fall that are, unavoidably, going to be party nights. Resident Assistants assigned those nights know that they will accompany some overenthusiastic first year or sophomore to the hospital to get her stomach pumped. They know that they will only be able to write social violation reports for extreme cases such as cocaine snorting and arson because everyone on campus will be violating some rule on those nights. Luckily, those students who aren't criminals or addicts or RAs are free to enjoy these three nights without fear of repercussion for minor infractions.

As an undergrad, this.was.amazing.

During my first two years in school, I had fun and I drank on these nights, however, I kept myself in check. But in junior year, I got cocky.

Really cocky.


I have *such* a crush on Runaways era Joan Jett
Photo by Brad Elterman

The specific night on which this story occurred began simply enough: I had a few drinks in my room with my friends. I wandered around the halls and drank some more with friends. Then I went outside for a few cigarettes and met up with my friend Stella and her boyfriend, Stanley. We were just running out of alcohol and debating where to find more when Rosaline approached us.

Rosaline is a year older than me and she is the very definition of a hippie. The wedding rings she salivates over are wooden. She doesn't shave her armpits unless begged to do so. She has been known to go days at a time without showering. Her clothes usually have beads or talismans sewn on to them and they jingle as she walks. Obviously, she's one of the most awesome people ever born.

As she shared a cigarette with us, Rosaline announced to Stanley that she was about to have a major load of mary jane delivered to her room and he had ten minutes to decide if he was in. Stella is allergic to mary, so it was always a major treat for Stanley if he found it when he came to visit Stella.

Instead of rushing to say yes, Stanley told Rosaline he'd let her know in the next few minutes if he'd be joining her. Stella and I exchanged a quick glance of concern: Stanley should have been jumping for joy. Right then Rosaline's phone rang and she walked away to answer the call.

"What's going on?" Stella asked, brow furrowed. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm fine," Stanley answered Stella and turned to me. "Abernathy, go with me."

"WHAT?!" Stella and I shouted. I wasn't even sure Stanley liked me and here he was insisting I score mary jane with him.

"I can't go alone," he almost sounded like he was begging as he looked off to where Rosaline had disappeared. "She's kind of...different. And I don't know these people. C'mon Abbi."

Stella shoved me, "Abbi, go with him. You know Rosaline isn't the most put together and if something goes wrong you can get Stanley out of it." I looked at Stanley and examined the wrinkle-free button down oxford he was wearing, the Sperrys on his feet, the Ray Bans poking out of his pocket...he'd never do this without me. Stella was staring at me and I knew she could tell what I was thinking. "He needs you Abbi."

Thanks to Jose Cuervo and a serious lack of judgement, I finally agreed.

As we walked up to Rosaline, a rusted black jalopy pulled up to the edge of the lawn. Rosaline turned to us, "That's him. Go wait for me in the smoke room."

"The Smoke Room" was just some girl's dorm room where people were always smoking something--cigarettes, pot, crack. Seriously, the girl had no boundaries. Tentatively, Stanley and I headed to the room. My college was pretty small, so I knew the owner of the smoke room, but I worried about the implications of entering such a laissez faire environment.

Inside of the room, people were sitting everywhere. A few were smoking cigarettes, but no one was talking much. We all sat awkwardly for about five minutes before Rosaline joined us. Immediately, the room came together like a well-oiled machine: three water pipes appeared out of thin air. In no time, they were packed and lit and beginning to circle the room.

Stanley sat directly across from me. We each received pipes at the same time and looked at each other cautiously as we took our hits. Something felt weird, but I didn't say anything: I hate smoking mary. I'd only done it a few times before and never using a pipe. I sat and took the room in, which was becoming increasingly more difficult as the people within the room breathed think pale clouds of smoke into the air.

When the pipe reached me a second time, I knew something felt wrong. I looked over to Stanley and he caught my eye before motioning to the door, "I think we should leave here. Now."

Like sixteen year olds with handles of SoCo at a busted house party, we bolted. "That was crazy!" Stanley said.

"I know." We walked over to the lawn, to find Stella still smoking on a bench.

"Done already?" She raised an eyebrow as Stanley slid onto the seat next to her.

"Something was off with the mary," he told her. "Right?" he looked to me.

"Right." I breathed. Suddenly, I did not feel so well. "I'm going to go find a beer." I said, trying to save face as I began looking for a dark corner to get sick in.

***

When I came to, I realized that I was in the back of the senior dorms. I'd snuggled into the brick wall and artificial scratches all over my arms and back. I couldn't remember how I got there from the bench with Stanley and Stella, but I was sure that if I moved even an inch, I would die.

I heard music coming from the dormitory above me. Inside, girls were still drinking and smoking and partying as the night wore on. This is where I began hallucinating. 

I wiggled deeper into the earth and held my breath, sure that if someone in the dorms found me outside, they would turn me in to the police. As I listened to my breathing, it occurred to me that the ground I was laying on was on a slight incline. I became terrified that the hill was actually a giant mountain and I was going to roll down it into the street below. In my confused state, I was convinced that I was going to roll into the street and break my arms. Then someone would call the paramedics and they would call my parents. My parents would show up at the hospital and say, "Abernathy, we are so disappointed in you!"

Then they would kill me.

American Gothic by Grant Wood

I began crying and digging into the ground, literally clawing into the dirt for fear that I would roll down this "mountain." Eventually, I passed out.

***

I woke up and realized that I was beyond drunk and high. I was genuinely fucked up. Making my first intelligent decision of the entire evening, I left my hiding spot on the ground and stumbled to the back door of the senior dormitory. Luckily, a friend of mine walking through the hallway saw me standing awkwardly outside and let me in.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"I don't know!" I started crying again. "I don't want to break my arms on the mountain!"

"Alright, Abernathy. I'm walking you home." This was A Big Deal. My dormitory was at most a hundred feet from the senior dorms. I knew then that I looked just as fucked up as I felt.

via halfgodboy

My friend walked me back to my room, where I found my friends sitting around talking. I didn't even acknowledge them as I peeled off my jeans and t-shirt and crawled into my bed.

One of the girls asked if I was going to get sick.

"Probably," I told her. "I'm pretty sure I'm dying. I'll miss you."

***

When I woke up in the morning, there were twigs, clods of dirt, and leaves in my hair, under my fingernails and in every inch of my bed. I felt so sick I didn't eat again for two days.

It was easily the worst hangover of my entire life.

fin

Okay, so what was The Point? I found 5. Additional points can be submitted in the comments!

The Points
1. Do not ingest anything given to you by strangers.
2. If you hate smoking mary, DO NOT SMOKE MARY.
3. The party gods will punish cockiness.
4. If you are going to be that idiot taking random drugs, enlist a friend to play babysitter.
5. Learning to say "no" to your friends is the greatest gift you can ever give to yourself.

Friday, January 7, 2011

9:27 PM

The Code: A Story with Hand Gestures

What's up, friends?


Well I am no longer taking my creative writing class, so I have approximately 5 extra hours a week to split between this blog and submitting my work to literary journals. Hopefully this means we'll be seeing a lot  more of each other. Pretty soon we might even be going steady (get it? ahahaha).


It's funny the way people focus on their academic passions after school, isn't it? I started a blog to write and took a class for credit just because I missed learning. A classmate of mine looks up which new books professors are requiring for classes she took in school, then buys the books and actually reads them. A set of best friends I know have declared 2011 the "Year of the Civil War" and will be exploring the war through road trips, documentaries and films, and a heavy duty reading list. 


Best friends do crazy things together. That's kind of what best friends are for. Here's a story about me and my lesbi-bestie Arla.


The Code: A Story with Hand Gestures

After we came out to each other Arla and I decided to lay down some lesbi-bestie ground rules. Basically, they went as follows:


  1. Never hook up with your lesbi-bestie's crush, girlfriend, or fling. In short, we don't share lady friends.
  2. When another woman starts dissing your lesbi-bestie, SHUT THAT BITCH DOWN. Even if your lesbi-bestie may have done something wrong-ish. 
  3. Complete honesty at all times.
Via the Notebook Doodles

That's it: The Code which allows our friendship to thrive while so many others crash and burn.

Almost immediately following the development of The Code girls were out to get us. At the time, there were two girls I was hooking up with semi-regularly (aka every time we were at the same party). The first girl wasn't the best kisser, but she was--by far--the most aggressive. She was also the dirtiest talker I've ever come across. Seriously, I'm blushing now just thinking about it. We can call her Jezebel--for obvious reasons. The second girl was really into calling the shots, so we can call her Rica Suave. 


When you get down to it, the three of us were just friends with generous benefits. 


One night, I threw a huge party with Arla. Our hall was packed with people, alcohol, and a haze of smoke (from God only knows what substances). Towards the end of the night I overheard Jezebel and Rica discussing which girls at the party they would and would not hook up with. One of the girls mentioned Arla as a possible conquest and I began to laugh. 


"That will never happen," I told her firmly.


"That was rude," Rica seemed upset.


"No, it's the truth. Arla and I have a promise and she won't break it over either of you." I informed her.


"I bet I can make her." Jezebel said.


"Really?" I asked. Seriously, Jezebel was the kind of girl you make a friend with benefits and not an actual girlfriend. She had no hope of being the kind of girl who breaks up friendships. 


"I bet I could." Rica said, staring at Arla. 


I snorted. Of course, what I said above about Jezebel applied to Rica as well. 


"Are you jealous?" Rica asked.


"Not at all. In fact, I completely support you. Go, try your hardest. But you're stuck with me." 


Both girls glared at me before crossing the room to try to seduce Arla. It was probably one of the single most hilarious moments of my college career. Arla shot them down and ended up leaving the party to spend the night with a girl who was neither Rica nor Jezebel. 


from thequickanddirty (and obviously the Simpsons)


Two weeks later, I walked into a dance party to find Jezebel crying in the hysterical way that only drunk girls can. Her friends told me she was crying because Arla refused to make out with her. I looked around and found Arla with the girl from two weeks ago. 


I didn't touch Jezebel after that night because, let's be real, I don't play second fiddle.


Score one for Team Lesbi-bestie.
from cafepress


Rica took a much smarter approach and gave up on Arla the night I told her it was a lost cause. In fact, after she found out why Jezebel was kicked to the curb, she was careful never to do or say anything that might pit me against Arla and vice versa. She stuck around for a while and eventually became friends--without benefits--with Arla too.


fin


The point: 
1. Don't mess with other people's relationships. 
2. If you become a friend with benefits, you'll have slim to no chance of transitioning to a legitimate relationship. 

***

Friends, do you agree with my points? What am I missing?

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

11:02 AM

The Point of 2011

You guys,

I have this crazy cumpulsion to clean twice a year: the two weeks after New Years and the week it finally hits 75 degrees outside. I call the latter spring cleaning, but apparently most people it summer cleaning. Whatthefuckever, for me 75 degrees is just warm enough to be acceptable. Summer is 99 degree days...

Anyways, with all this New Year cleaning, I've had a lot of time on my hands. So I've been doing some thinking about the new year and what that means for the future of The Point. I'm not really sure I figured everything out, but I came to a few conclusions:

1. This blog is my fear blog. For reals. I began writing it because I was scared I was a bad writer. And I don't post every week because What if my story for the week sucks? What if I edit it horribly? Ugh, that's so lame, don't you think? This year, I might give you something imperfect, but--with writing--something is always better than nothing.

2. I blog under an alias so I can talk about my real life experiences without my friends, acquantainces, enemies, frenimies and former flings freaking out. So--technically--I could tell you all some really messed up tales. I should probably tell them to you.

3. I don't know that I can write for you all every week. BUT, I'll try. We're going to nix that goal of Thursday though. I effing hate Thursdays! Just check the blog regularly and occasionally, you'll be rewarded with a new post.

4. Pictures. Let's start using pictures!
PINK FUCKING SKIES!!! (from electronicneonkiss)

And the format. Let's switch that up! I'm tired of the purple and blue bubbles and I'm already so sick of all this yellow. Ugh. Also, I'm going to set up a space where you kids can contact me. Because who knows what you might want to say? What if you are one of characters and you think I did you a real disservice in my story? What if you have a super fab photo I should post? What if you want to offer me a book deal (it could happen)? Or what if you remember that time I hired a stripper and you think I should write about it (More on that later...)?

Friends, it's 2011! It's a new year and time for a fresh start. So keep an eye out, because coming to you soon will be a better, brighter, prettier version of The Point!
from FuckYeah, Raainbows

Mad love,

Abernathy