Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts

Saturday, March 26, 2011

12:50 PM

The Emerald City

Ahoy y'all,

I don't know about you, but I have a huge issue with jealousy. I get jealous of all sorts of ridiculous things, but the aspect of my jealousy which really gets me into trouble is when I get jealous of my friends' time. I don't like people often, but when I do, I want them around often. And when my time is cut into by a sport, job, new friend, or significant other I get angry. Typically, if the entity stealing my time is a sport or job, I suck it up because it would be silly to act out. If it's a new friend, I either play nice and let the thief get jealous or I wage a war of wills. The latter option doesn't always end well.

Now that my friends and I are (almost) all twenty-somethings, the time stealing sluts tend to be significant others. Luckily, I've found a stellar way of dealing with this:

FuckYeahKissing
I bag the significant other as my new bestie.

It's like a twisted and wonderful yet subtle form of revenge when your friends complain that you're too close to their significant other. That's my opportunity to scream "now you know how I feel" and play the victim and complain about the loss of me + friends quality time just because they've found someone to sleep with on a regular basis.

Sometimes I wonder why people put up with my antics.

Unfortunately, my friends usually get the last word: when they choose to end relationships I have to deal with their depression and the loss of a new bestie.

One of my best examples of this hails from college. I had this wonderful stoner friend--let's call her Ella. Ella was dating Jack, a guy from a neighboring school. Jack was probably the easiest significant other bestie  I'd ever made. That boy taught me how to work a peace correctly and from that moment on, we were Mary Jane soul mates. Jack used to show up to campus, drop his stuff in Ella's room, and find me so we could get our munchies on. To give Ella credit, she wasn't so much jealous of my relationship with Jack as she was mystified by our dedication to our shared hobby. I hate smoking and Jack hates sharing, but somehow, between the two of us, it all worked out.

Fast forward to spring. Summer's approaching and as we're getting ready to go take exams and pack up our school year lives, Ella snags me for a heart to heart. That's when she drops the bomb: she's dumping Jack. She's maturing and he's not, she's focused on school and he's not, she's got goals and he doesn't. Basically, she's over it. Jack won't be on campus anymore and she'd appreciate it if I don't invite him 'round because she doesn't want to know where he goes from here.

My 'lil heart was broken.
TheSecretIsOut
And I never saw the kid again.

Is there a lesson to be learned from my loss of Jack and countless other significant other besties over the years?

Of course there is: if my friends would just keep pockets of time booked for me whether they are in relationships or not, they wouldn't have to get jealous when I befriend their significant others and I wouldn't have to childishly complain about missing said significant other while my friend is trying to survive a serious breakup.
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Friday, March 4, 2011

8:41 AM

We're All In This Together

Ahoy bitches,


Don't get offended. I use bitches as a term of endearment.

Do you know what I love? I love when I come upon the chance to do something sketchy with other people. You know, it doesn't seem quite as sketchy to pull the hinges from a door to get into a forbidden room if there are six people involved. Lighting a cement post on fire? Almost normal if fifteen girls are doing it. And talking your friend's little brother into stripping at a classmate's birthday bash is totally not weird if four other people help you decide between the firefighter and policeman costumes.
www.manopedia.com 
(Firefighters always win with male strippers. Girls make great policewomen though!)

The only negative aspect of group sketchiness is that, sometimes, I become a participant unwillingly. And that's when sketchy becomes risky...


We're All In This Together

So. It was my senior year of college and I needed a break. Seriously, being on a campus of 700 or so all the time and seeing the same people day in and day out can be kind of intense.

Arla could see that I was cracking (I'd begun waking up at 10am to watch Judge Judy and drink Natty Light in my underwear until my classes began at 1pm) and so she suggested we go on a road trip. We needed somewhere we could get to in an hour or less because, lezbi-honest, I couldn't go longer than that without a drink. I called up an older friend of ours, Breana,  who had graduated the year before, and within a few minutes we had a place to stay in a neighboring city and the promise of a crazy night out at the local gay bar.

Sweeeeeeeet.
furryelephants.tumblr.com
(This is my fantasy. The bar was no where near this fancy.)


Classes ended at 4:30 P.M.  so Arla and I rolled up to Breana's home around 6 on a Friday. Of course we began drinking right away. Breana had invited a few friends over and they were more than happy to help us drink our cares away. After a few rounds of Kings, Arla and I were sufficiently tipsy. Breana loaded us into her car and we began the journey to the bar.

In the backseat, I began pulling mini-bottles of Captain Morgan's out of my purse. To this day, I don't think I can tell you how I got them. I'm sure it was sketchy, some way, some how. But however they came to be, I was more than happy to share them with my lesbi-bestie and the two other girls smashed into the backseat with us. When we hit the bar half an hour later, the whole backseat was on cloud fucking nine.

Throughout the night, Arla and I rotated the beer-buying duties. Luckily for us, this was a complete dive and all beers were only $1.75. Well, all beers but one: Coronas were $2.50. Drunkenly, Arla and I discussed upgrading our Bud Lights, but we decided $2.50 was just too much for a beer.

About half an hour after we made this agreement, I was across the bar from Arla, dancing with some old guy and his glow-in-the dark wands. Straight bars will never match the Whatever Goes vibe of gay bars. Suddenly, Arla begins walking towards me with a big grin on her face. In her hand was a beautiful, sweating, cold, fizzing Corona. "I got that hot chick to buy it for us," she said, nodding towards an middle-aged woman in leather pants. "Riiiiiiight..." I took a swig and felt the delicious chill of fresh-from-the-icebox-beer roll down the inside of my back before I gave the bottle back to Arla.

"Actually," Arla continued, "that woman agreed to buy it for us, but then some guy just handed me his. He said he didn't drink from it though." I began to respond, but Arla had even more to say, "My mom always told me not to drink beverages provided by strangers because they might be drugged. That's why I'm sharing this with you. If we get raped, at least we'll go through it together."
A Little Princess (you already knew that, right?!)

You've. Got. To. Be. Shitting. Me.

That's what you're thinking right?!

Because that's totally what I was thinking.

So I said as much.


"No," Arla smiled and put her arm on my shoulder, "I really love you enough to do that. I would never make you go through anything alone." I examined Arla's face for some sign that she was joking, but that girl was drunk and she sincerely thought I was thanking her for (possibly) sharing a horrible roofied future with her.

I grabbed her arm, excused myself from the man with the wands, and dragged Arla through the bar until I found Breana. "You've got to take us home NOW." I told her.

I was just finishing the recount of Arla's logic to Breana when Arla began hugging the older man behind me. Breana and I exchanged a look of confusion before Arla explained, "This is the man who gave us the beer!"

fin

To answer any questions: Yes, we left the bar. No, no one messed with us. And Arla only barely remembered her actions the next morning, so I couldn't be as angry with her as I wanted to be.

Now, what would you say was the point of this ridiculousness? Suggest away in the comments.
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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?
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Thursday, November 11, 2010

3:23 PM

Oblivious Abroad

Hey,

so I came up with a new plan for the blog. I'm always thinking of new plans for this thing. My new plan is to post my stories on Thursday evenings. And when I post, no points or morals or big picture ideas will be provided. And then you can give me point ideas through the weekend. On Monday, I'll weigh in. You know, this might make this feel a bit like a discussion and that could be totally cool.

What are your thoughts? Will you play along? I know one little lady who will; my friend over at PostCollegiate! She's a sweetie and you should visit her blog to say hi.

Oblivious Abroad

When I got to Denmark, I told myself that I was on a great adventure and the only goal was to "find myself." Five girls from my college went with me to Hamlet's homeland, but I told them after week one that I didn't want to spend much time hanging out with them; if I latched onto people I was comfortable with nothing abroad would be able to force me to grow up.

I look back on this and think about how much of a badass I am. Seriously, there I was in a country where I didn't speak the language, I didn't know my way around, my parents were a nine hour flight and layover in London away, and I was pushing away the only people I knew.  Sometimes, I'm super impressed by my crazy ideas. 

Anyways, in week one, I accompanied some of the Americans in my apartment complex to this wonderful bar in the center of Copenhagen, The Scottish Pub (so creative!). 



Everyone loved this bar because they served this huge tube, which looked like a bong of beer. You paid $20 or 100kr for it and you and your friends would be able to drink for a few hours (if you were American) or 45 minutes (if you were Danish). I wish I could show you this amazing contraption, but it's not even on the pub's website!

So there I am, week one in Copenhagen, surrounded by hoardes of American kids who are just as lost in this city as I am. A boy from my crash course in dansk (Danish), decides to meet a bunch of new kids through our shared alcoholism, and purchases the beer tube, announcing that he'll share it with the first six kids to show up at his table.

Obviously, within two-point-five seconds, I'm sitting at a fully occupied table. Kids start moaning as they realize the table is full, but the six of us with seats happily push them away. We all stare around the table with giant toothy grins; we know we're about to get drunk on someone else's dime and it can't be anything but wonderful. As we start drinking, it becomes apparent that we don't know anything about each other so we begin to chit-chat: this is what program I'm in. Here are my lofty dreams for my European semester. How are all of the people here so beautiful? (And they are beautiful. Fucking gorgeous.)

About halfway through the beer tube, our conversation took a telling turn. Fun fact: at the time we were in Copenhagen, the city boasted a multilevel sex museum, Museum Erotica:

Unfortunately, it closed in summer 2009. Luckily, this story is set in late winter 2008, and for seven American kids from seven small liberal arts colleges, this museum in the middle of the shopping street was so interesting. What was in there? How much would we have to pay to go in? Is it appropriate for teens? Would we see porn if we went in?

We considered walking over to the museum (which is literally five minutes walk from the town center), but decided it wasn't worth the sacrifice of our beer. Instead, we continued to discuss the attitudes towards sex in Europe (crash course: no one cares about what you do, who you do it with, and - as long as your 16 or so - how old you are when you're doing it). One boy was talking about how his host mother told him he was welcome to have his girlfriends or boyfriends over whenever he liked. He responded by saying, "Thanks for the hospitality, but I have a girlfriend in the States...and I'm straight."

His mother just nodded, "I know, you've told me. But when you decide to have others over - girl or boy - it's okay."

I was about to snicker, when a few of the other kids at the table shouted out terms of agreement; they'd gotten the same greeting upon entering their host families' homes. One's host father had even asked him how he planned to stay in Europe for four months without sleeping with anyone if the girlfriend was all the way in America.

The only girl at the table, other than myself, spoke up. She said her host sister had explained that no one would expect any Dane at our age to commit to being with only one person. Also, they thought we were kind of young to decide we'd only ever be with this gender or that gender. In Danish terms: we were sexually oppressing ourselves.

We all took a minute a good dose of beer to think this through. Playing with her long red hair, the girl spoke up again. "I think it's kind of a neat thing, you know?"

"Yeah," this one guy said, pausing. "We should sexually liberate ourselves this semester."

"Here ye, here ye!" The boy from my Danish class shouted. We all toasted each other.

"Alright," someone shouted, "all around the table: what are you going to do to liberate yourself?"

"Visit the sex museum!"

"Cheers!" We shouted and drank.

"Go to the naked party in my kollegium (Danish dorm): no clothes, no drink!"

"Cheers!"

"Enroll in that new sexuality class that's posted on the bulletin board at school!"

"Cheers!"

"Find a gay bar and compare it to this one."

"Ch-"

"STOP!" The read head girl yelled.

"What?" We all asked.

"You." She pointed at me. Crap. The gay bar had totally been my plan for sexual liberation.

"What?" I asked, annoyed to be called out before my idea could be cheered.

"If you don't want to go alone, I'll go with you. Gay bar, gay club, just call and I'm in."

I shrugged, "Okay."

"No, seriously." She grabbed my phone off of the table and plugged in her number. "My name is Rachel."

"Okay." I shrugged again. "Thanks."

"Seriously." She said. She was looking at me really funny- her eyes wouldn't look away from my face and I didn't really know what to do or say.  I looked around the table, hoping the boys to speak up. They were all staring at us intently. As soon as they caught me looking at them, they began chugging what was left of their beers. I was on my own.

I looked back down to my phone. "Rachel Gay Bar?" I asked, seeing how she'd named herself in my phonebook.

"Yeah," She smiled, "so you don't forget."

"No worries: I won't." I promised her.

But here's the thing: I totally did. It wasn't until three months into my semester (and one month before I was going home), when I was sharing a block of hash with some friends when I decided to check through my phonebook and came across "Rachel Gay Bar." And - after quickly running through that night again in my head- I finally realized she had totally been hitting on me in the Scottish Pub!


Fin

Before you begin making fun of my gaydar epic fail, you have to remember that when I got to Copenhagen, I was thinking that being gay was this thing I might be, but probably wasn't. Like, I knew that might be what was going on in my head, but I doubted it. I guess this is called denial or excessive ignorance of self. All the same, I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever tell you a story where my gaydar works or I have game with the ladies.

Only time will tell.

Now, suggest your points!

The point of today's story is...





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Thursday, September 30, 2010

8:29 AM

Hey, Guess What? We Play for the Same Team!

Ohmigosh guys!

I'm posting TWICE IN ONE WEEK. What the fuck, right?!

This is my gift to you for being patient.

I have another coming out story to tell you. Only in this one I actually do come out of the closet, so weeeee! for that small success. I love this story so much that I'm not even going to give you an introduction to it, I'm just going to jump in.

Hey, Guess What? We Play for the Same Team!

My senior year of college, I had my own room in this wonderful dorm that had high ceilings and hardwood floors. My lesbi-bestie, Arla, lived across the hall and neither of us had a single class before 10:40 in the morning. Life was wonderful.

Part of the reason that Arla and I work so well as besties is that we are both hardcore party girls. We've tested ourselves, and learned we can party for fifteen days straight before we breakdown. That's pretty impressive isn't it? It's okay if you also find that a bit disgusting. No one needs to drink tequila every day for fifteen days, but that's a story for another day.

Luckily, we've developed a few rules and habits to keep us healthy and breathing on nights when the parties get a little too intense. Our senior year we introduced carbs into our recovery plan, and we always wound up sitting on my floor and eating copious amounts of Tostitos and queso sauce. Eating of course led to talking and nine times out of ten, we'd forget about the food in minutes and wind up sprawled out on the floor having wonderful heart to hearts. We are the girliest gays you know.

One random Saturday night, we lay curled up, facing each other and telling secrets on the floor when I announced, "Arla, I think I like girls."

"Really?" She asked.

"Yeah," I smiled, "Yeah, I think I do."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." (Don't you love drunk conversation?)

"Well, I knew that." Arla said very seriously.

I sat up, shocked. "How?!"

"I just did," Arla claimed. "You seem really gay." I made a face, but Arla continued, "Like I even remember thinking that you were gay when I met you first year."

"What?"

"Yeah," she reasoned, "You were really weird. But in a gay way." She thought for a moment. "But I don't know what I am."

"What?!" I exclaimed, "You've only dated a girl for the last three years."

"That doesn't mean anything." Arla rolled back to a seated position and attacked the queso. "Like, what makes you think you know?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. Um...I just think I know."

"No, you're right," Arla said. "You're gay...but what am I?"

"Gay." I said.

"So now we're both gay?" Arla asked.

I rolled back onto the floor and stared at the ceiling. "Yeah," I murmured.

"Yeah." she said.

We sat in silence for a moment. "We're gay." Arla announced. We both broke into giggles.

Fin

The Point of Today's Story: 
Never assume you know everything about the people around you. You'll always be surprised by the new things you'll figure out if you keep paying attention.
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Monday, September 27, 2010

9:09 AM

Are These Girls Hitting On Us???

I'm baaaaaaaaaack!

Hey hos,

I am back with another fabulous story. Are you excited? Were you worried this day would never come? It's okay, so was I. But we made it. You and I, together forever. I promise.

So, we're going to resume our relationship with a story from my time in Denmark. Somewhere around two years ago, I spent four months of my junior year living in the capitol city of Copenhagen and picking up all sorts of fabulous Danish customs which I had to un-learn upon moving back to the states (the hardest one to lose: drinking in class and in the town square as a way of celebrating a good day). This is by far one of my favorite Danish memories and I hope it elicits a few giggles as you read through.

Enjoy!

Are These Girls Hitting On Us???

In my study abroad school, the students were divided up by academic programs. My group, communications and mass media, consisted of about twenty-six kids from Russia, Canada, China and the US. Throughout the semester, each program goes on two or three field trips through Denmark and greater Europe. For the communications program's first trip, we stopped in a small town in Western Denmark named Ringkøbing. 

For our one night in Ringkøbing, we were invited to stay at a convent which had a strict lights out and lock-in time of 12am. Luckily for me and my fellow communication students, our charter bus rolled into Ringkøbing around 8pm. The twenty-six of us quickly decided that drinks were in order, so after claiming rooms and laying down our luggage, we took to the city and sought out the only legitimate bar in the town.  

Now, I have to be honest: I wasn't all that close to anyone in my program. But if I had to name the two people I liked best, they would be Emery and Ekaterina. Ekaterina was from a small town in Maryland and did everything exactly as she wanted, all of the time. As we wandered off of the bus, she complained about all the girls getting dolled up just to grab a few drinks. Seeing an opportunity to cement my social circle for the evening, I volunteered to wear sweats to the bar with her. All of the other girls in our program balked at the idea and continued coating their lashes in Revlon as Ekaterina and I pulled on our scrungiest, comfiest, warmest sweat pants.

We grabbed Emery on our way into the bar and alerted him that he would be our buddy for the evening. So as the twenty-six members of my program found seating in the bar, I cozied up to a table with my two favsies and settled in for a few drinks.

We started out with shots of Jack Daniels on Emery's tab. The bar was named Shooters (can you believe it?) and Emery had on a Jack Daniels t-shirt, so he christened our table "Team Jack" and promised to cover all shots of Jack for the evening. I should have known then that we were in for a long ride. Ekaterina and I took our shots graciously but quickly forgot Emery and got lost in a conversation between ourselves (basically, ripping on the crazy girls in our program. Can you see why we got along so well?). 

I love you all enough to find this bar on GoogleMaps

About two hours, a few rounds of beers, a two rounds of Jack shots later, the majority of our program left Shooters to head back to the convent. Although it was only 10ish, they worried that they would get too drunk to get back on time (a fair argument as the convent was about half a mile away and were navigating the path in the dark). Instead of leaving with them, Team Jack bought another round and stayed on.

We engaged in completely ridiculous conversation and, for whatever reason, Emery kept the shots coming. At one point he got up to get another tray of shots and two Danish girls came over to the table. Ekaterina and I had seen them earlier in the bathroom. They were slim, blond, and dressed in glittering, skin-tight gold dresses. Their hair was teased into crazy angles that only Danish girls can ever pull off. Both girls were wearing heels despite the brick roads of  Ringkøbing. One girl was amazingly tall and the other was a typical height of 5'4 or so. 

The tall girl pulled up a bar stool beside me, "Hi, I'm Lenja." (Pronounce it Len-YA) She pointed to her shorter friend who was beside Ekaterina, "This is Sacha." Ekaterina and I rolled our eyes at each other. We were used to girls trying to get in with us just so they could hit on Emery; he was gorgeous and though I was figuring out how gay I was at the time, even I couldn't deny Emery's good looks. Tall, brunette, and just dark enough to look exotic without implicating a specific country of origin, Emery was smart, he played soccer, and he was amazingly fit.

"Our friend's name is Emery," Ekaterina said. "No, he's not taken but he is from Canada and is only in town for the night."

Lenja and Sacha looked at each other awkwardly. Sacha finally slid her arm around Ekaterina's shoulder. "I don't care about what your friend's name is. What is your name?" I felt Lenja drop her hand to my thigh and I looked over to Ekaterina, who was clearly just as confused as I was.

We introduced ourselves as it began to dawn on us that maybe, just maybe, we were getting hit on. This is when Emery choose to re-join the table. Emery took one look at these girls and, knowing just how gorgeous he was, began hitting on them with a confidence that only boys who always score can have. Ekaterina and I  continued to stare at each other in shock and mumble incoherent words every now and again. Very quickly, we could see Emery's distress as the girls tried to ignore his advances and continued to touch and look at Ekaterina and I. Finally, Lenja and Sacha couldn't handle it anymore, and they left the table.

Emery inquired about our guests immediately, "Did those girls seem weird to you?"

We burst out laughing. "Oh my God!" We shrieked between shots, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!"

"We're wearing sweats!" I screamed! "Sweats!"

"I know! I can't believe..." We burst out in more giggles.

"What?" Emery asked, looking at us both cautiously. "What are you two going on about?"

"Hitting on us!" I half whispered to Emery, "those girls! They were trying to pick us up."

Emery shook his head, "You're joking."

Ekaterina, "As I live and breathe! They think we're sexy-"

"In our sweat pants!" I finished. We both burst out in more giggles. 

Emery looked at us both with new found respect. "Whoa. That's kind of hot."

"Oh shut up and take us home," Ekaterina ordered as she and I polished off the last two shots on the table.

The first quarter mile of the walk back to the convent was simple: we filled Emery in on exactly what had happened while he'd been retrieving the final supply of shots. Then Ekaterina and I decided to hold hands and pretend we were actually together since we were obviously super awesome (and so super drunk). It's around this time that we came across the construction site. Ekaterina had to pee and recruited me to go with her. "Girls don't let friends pee alone." She said. 

"Or girlfriends," I corrected. We began giggling all over again and the next thing I remember we were both fully clothed lying on our backs side by side in front of a bulldozer. 

"Oh no." Emery was standing above us looking worried. "Get up, we have fifteen minutes to get back."

"No," Ekaterina shouted, "we're sleeping out here. In the dirt." She grabbed my hand. "It's okay, Abernathy will stay with me."

"No no no no no," Emery shook his head. "We're all going back to the convent."

"I don't think so." Ekaterina taunted.

"If I have to pick you up and carry you back, you're going home. Is that understood?" I looked over at Ekaterina. She had a crush on Emery (like every girl in our program... but me) and I could see the gears turning in her head.

I sat up. "I'll walk home if you carry Ekaterina." 

I am such an awesome friend.

Emery looked at me suspiciously, but he bent down and picked Ekaterina up anyway. She didn't let go of my hand so I stood up as Emery hoisted her over his shoulder.

As we walked through the glass double doors of the convent, we heard the automatic clocks click to lock us in. Looking up at the clock in the corner, we realized we made it home seconds before our deadline.

***

Today's points:

My friend, K, says the point of this story is I make a cute butch lesbian. I disagree (I'm sure I make a cute butch, but that's not The Point). I think that the point of this story everyone is attracted to ladies who are comfortable in their skin. That and people always think you're hottest when you aren't even trying. In sweats or evening gowns, if we're comfy and having a good time without worrying about impressing anyone, those are our magic moments.
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Thursday, August 12, 2010

8:40 AM

It Means What You Want It To

Hey Homies,

Let's talk about music this week. I love music. I think I love it as much as I love breathing, only I hope there is music after I stop breathing. Like a pandora.com of the afterlife which will have songs to help me adjust to not having a body and sleeping on rainclouds. You know what I mean.

Whatever.

Let's get on with the story.

It Means What You Want It To

My junior year of college, I lived in a suite with three other girls; two girls per room. I lived in one room with my lesbi-bestie, Arla (we were the gay room although we didn't really know it at the time) and our straight besties, Toga and Piper, lived in the other (the straight room). We basically had an open door policy between the two rooms. We also had one or two friends who were permitted to visit whenever they liked. Mae was one of those friends.

You may remember that I went to a woman's college, so by junior year there was a lot of sexuality exploring going on around my campus. At the time of this tale, Mae was basically dating her first girl and I'd also ended up a dark corner or two with a few classmates.

For some reason, that year everyone listened to the Indigo Girls. I don't know why; maybe they're more accessible than Ani Difranco. Either way, the Indigo Girls were the musical artist that gay girls and straight girls alike shared.

One night, Toga, Mae and I were sitting in the suite jamming out to every lesbian's favorite Indigo Girls' song, Closer to Fine. You can hear it here. I was a little bit drunk and curled up on a bed noshing down a hamburger while Toga and Mae sang along with the track. Suddenly, Toga halted and said, "You know, I love this song, but what does it even mean?"

Mae thought for a second. "It means, coming out of the closet."

Toga restarted the song. "You think so?"

Mae sang along for a bar or two before responding. "Yeah. Listen, 'I went to the doctor. I went to the mountains.' You know, it's like going to the doctor because you're gay and he can't fix it. Then you go to God and he doesn't fix it. And you realize the less you worry about it and just be who you are, the more okay you'll be."

Toga nodded, "The Indigo Girls are lesbians, so that would make sense. I'm going to look this up." Toga then proceeded to fire up her laptop and log onto songmeanings.net.

"Yeah," Mae said, scooting closer to the computer. "It just makes sense."

"And you're coming out of the closet right now so you would know," Toga agreed. "Oh look, people on the site are saying it's about how you can't figure out who you are by turning to other people."

Mae pointed, "And the gay thing! There's the gay thing."

I finished my hamburger and looked at my friends. "Hey guys?" They both turned to look at me. "Maybe it's about how we should just live life and not worry about things. You know, because that distracts us from living."

Toga spoke first. "Yeah, I could see that."

"I think that's an easy surface meaning. But deeper it's about coming out." Mae said.

Toga quoted, "'The best thing you ever did for me, was to help me take my life less seriously; it's only life after all.'" We all stopped to think for a minute. "It could go either way," Toga finally decided.

"Yeah I guess," I quipped. "If you want it to be about your coming it out it could be about that."

"Whatever," Mae said, choosing not to argue. "Music can mean different things to different people. You can stick to the obvious meaning. I still say it's about coming out."

I shook my head, "It's kind of a stretch."

"It means whatever you want it to mean!" Mae asserted.

Toga turned up the speakers and began the song over again. "Everyone sing along!" She shouted.

So we did.

Fin

Today's points:
(1) Songs, like art, mean whatever the hell you want them to mean.
(2) If you spend all of your time worrying about life, you won't have time to enjoy it.
(3) The sooner you come out of the closet the closer you'll be to fine.
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Friday, August 6, 2010

4:50 AM

I Love It When My Birthday Is A Shit Show

Hey friends, hey!

It's Thursday. I'm giving you a blog post. We should all be (a) impressed because I hate deadlines and (b) super excited about this. I know I am!

And now, a bit of insight before we start this week's story: my life philosophy is fuck new years. It is not really the start of my year, it's just some random day I don't have to work. My years start and end (quite literally) with the best day ever: my fucking birthday. I don't care if I get yelled at, chided, wasted, sick, lost, naked, embarrassed, broke, high, or in a fight on my birthday. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, has ever interfered with my birthday spirit. Luckily for you, dear readers, this means I have many fantastic birthday stories to tell you!

We'll start with the story of my foray into the world of legal alcoholism: my twenty-first.

I Love It When My Birthday Is A Shit Show
When I got to college, I was amazed to discover that I shared my birthday with a slew of other girls. You only need to know two of those girls. The first is Sharon. Sharon's birthday is actually the day before mine, which is kind of fabulous because it gives the two of us a legitimate excuse to plan a forty-eight hour party. The second girl you need to know is Kayden. Kayden and I share an exact birthday. We're basically twins.

Sometimes, like when I need to borrow shoes for my ginormous feet, being Kayden's twin is amazing. Other times, I'm reminded that having a (fake) twin means two times the ridiculous and drunken behavior. Those times, being a twin kind of sucks.

Such a time was our twenty-first birthday. For some reason I can't recall, a lot of my friends who had previously graduated were in town and I was super excited to meet up with them. Because we would turn legal at midnight on Sunday, everyone agreed that the partying would start on Saturday evening. Kayden took charge and invited everyone to a nice dinner out. However, she neglected to invite me to this dinner nor to inform our alumna friends that I wouldn't be attendance. She even invited my lesbi-bestie, Arla.

I was left me to fend for myself at the dorms.

Surprisingly, I wasn't all that upset. I received lots of calls from my alumna friends who felt terrible and promised to visit me later. Besides, Kayden had a fake ID and I didn't, so I wasn't keen on being the underage girl holding the crew back until twelve. So I settled down with a fellow underage friend and prepared for a few hours of quality pre-gaming.

Eleven forty-five eventually rolled around and I bid my underage friend audios and hiked down the street to the bar to meet up with Sharon, who should have been well into her birthday bash by the time I arrived. I was only going to have two hours out to enjoy my birthday and I didn't plan to miss a single moment.

As expected, Sharon was already there and telling you that she was trashed might be putting things lightly. I chugged a few beers and downed a Tom Collins before walking Sharon outside so she could get some fresh air and realize it was time for her to go home. During this break Kayden called to let me know that she would not be joining me nor would she be permitting our alumna friends to leave the bar she'd dragged them to!!!

Kayden explained that she just didn't want to share our birthday any more. It was the single most idiotic thing she's ever said to me. Friends, I wasn't at my best. I called her a ridiculously vulgar name and hung up.

Upon re-entering the bar, I explained that Sharon had moved her leg of the party back to campus and that we were all to pretend that Kayden didn't exist for the next week...And that's when it happened. Love. I looked down and on my table there sat a sparkling blue drink in a cup the size of a fucking fishbowl. It was beautiful.

"Waah?" I asked, speechless by the sight.

"Blue motorcycle," a friend responded. "I bought it for Sharon."

"Well shit," I volunteered, "I'll take care of it for her."

Do you know what's in a blue motorcycle? Look it up. Seriously. Stop reading, open a new tab. Look that shit up. If you want, you can hypothesize how this story will end now.

Arla showed up at my bar, out of breath from rushing over from Kayden's stupid birthday party, only to find me halfway through the blue motorcycle. By that point, I was sitting with my friend, Toga, and I felt fucking fantastic. My world was warm and hazy, and it swayed gently side to side.

Eventually, I stumbled to the bathroom to compose myself and when I came back out, Toga and Arla had hidden my blue motorcycle! To make matters even worse, my alum friends kept inadvertently reminding me they were with Kayden by blowing up my phone with apologies for staying with her. And to top it all off, the bartender was walking around yelling that it was last call.

Remember how I told you that nothing fucks with my birthday? Well, I looked around and saw a half full pitcher of Bud Light at an abandoned table across the bar. I ran over, took it, and I drank from it like it was water and I was Jesus finishing my forty days in the desert.

Lucky for me, I knew one of the waiters rather well and he decided to ignore the fact that I was breaking enough Alcohol Beverage Control laws to cause his bar to lose their liquor liscense. I finished the pitcher completely by myself and set about my return to campus.

First, I lost my responsible sober friends and went to check on Sharon. She had managed to get herself to bed and she still hadn't gotten sick. Gotta love that birthday spirit!

Next, I found my hook-up buddy and we did our thing. Eventually that ended and by the grace of God, I found my way back to my dorm. I had two beds in my room that year and Toga was already drunk and passed out in one. I considered getting into the other one, but decided the floor looked much more comfortable.

I sat still for approximately ten seconds before I realized I was bored and everyone I liked was asleep. Toga woke up five minutes later to see me hugging my trashcan. "Abernathy," she whispered, "are you drunk throwing up or bored and sleepy throwing up?"

Rest assured readers, I've matured in the last few years and this is no longer a legitimate question for my friends to ask.

"Bored," I croaked.

"Okay," she said.

I then proceeded to leave the room, clean out the trashcan and crawl back to my room. This time, Toga sat up in the bed and watched me curl up on the hardwood floor in front of my closet door. "Do you need help getting into bed?" she asked.

"Naw, floor is better," I moaned.

Six hours later, I woke up to Toga stepping over me. I rolled over onto my back and looked up at her. I was still in my dress, my tights were ripped, and it felt like someone was smacking my skull with a ball peen hammer. "Hi," I whispered.

"Happy Birthday!" She shouted.

Fin

Today's Point: As long as your closest circle of friends makes it to your birthday, forgive everyone who doesn't make it. You've got the people you need and those missing the party still love you.
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Sunday, June 27, 2010

5:30 PM

Aahhh, Real Monsters

Hola mi amigas,

Today's story is about MONSTERS.  It's a about a battle between the glittery good and fucking evil.  This is a story that will haunt your mind for weeks after reading it.  

Are you ready?  

You guys, this is a story about SPRICKETS!

...You know what a spricket is right?  A spricket is a terrible combination of a grasshopper and a spider.  I'm not sure that's technically correct, but that doesn't matter.  What matters is that they are horrifying.  Usually, I don't mind crickets and I'm not a fan of spiders. But imagine a spider that can freaking jump to great lengths and bite you! Whoa.

So grab your teddy bear and get prepared for the the tale of...

Aahhh, Real Monsters
In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I elected to live in an apartment with one of my friends.  We'll call her Ria.  Ria was only a year older than me and throughout college she had easily become my favorite partner in crime.  Basically we did two things when we got together: we got drunk and then we had the best heart to hearts known to man.  I'm not really sure why, but these heart to hearts always resulted in a lot of judging from our friends.  They also resulted in a ton of stupid ideas that no one was kind enough to stop us from testing out.

Luckily, living together was not one of those ideas.  Ria had a super sweet two bedroom apartment. She owned the bigger room and had her own half bathroom.  I got the smaller room and for the most part, the main bathroom was my territory.  Ria only ever entered it to use the shower.  We're both girly-girls from our petal pink toenails to our bedazzled headbands, so having personal dressing stations suited us perfectly.

One night, Ria came home to find me sitting on our couch, wrapped in my towel and chugging a Natty Light (classy, right?). "What's wrong?" she asked as she dropped her purse and rushed to my side.  "There's a monster spider in my bathroom!" I shrieked. "It jumps. It jumps really fucking high." Ria waited a moment, before tightening her jaw and looking me dead in the eye. "Spricket." 

Up until that point, I'd lived a charmed, spricket-free existence.  After Ria explained sprickets to me, she took a shot of tequila, grabbed a broom and headed to my bathroom.  I wish I could lie and tell you that I grabbed the fly swatter and joined Ria, but I didn't.  I hid behind my door frame and watched her like the scared chicklet that I am.

Ria cautiously turned the doorknob and cracked open the bathroom door. She nudged it open with her shoe.  I'd left the light on and as Ria peered inside she declared that there was no spricket. Bullshit!  But when I came out from behind my door frame and attempted to show her the spricket, I was embarrassed to admit that my spricket was gone. Friends, I felt like a five year old who had just made her mom check under the bed for the Boogey Man. Humiliated but determined to save face, I took a shower (as quickly as I could; I knew that fucker had to be hiding somewhere) and called it a night.

The next evening I came home to find Ria standing outside of my bathroom in her towel.  She was looking straight into the room and as I walked up to her, I could see the spricket perched on the bathroom rug.  "I told you so," I whispered to her. She reached into the bathroom and turned on the light. Surprisingly the spricket was even creepier once we could see it in detail! We screamed like five year olds and slammed the bathroom door before running to the security of the couch.

Half an hour and a glass or two of wine later, we were ready to deal with the spricket, which we had now named George. I was armed with a broom and a dustpan, Ria had a dictionary and a knife (I'm serious. I don't know how we survived a whole summer together once you consider our combined brainpower).  We closed the doors to our rooms and stood on either side of the bathroom.  George would have no escape.

I turned the doorknob and kicked the door open.  Ria and I rushed to enter the room and kill George, but just like the night before, he was gone!  After searching the bathroom with utmost care, George was still MIA.  Ria and I both took showers with the bathroom door wide open that night...In case George jumped in and we needed to run out.

In fact, we took every shower that week with the door open.  I spent the week peeing with the door open.  It was a little bit ridiculous.  What we surmised was that George didn't like the bathroom light and so whenever we left it on, he went into hiding.  As you might guess, we didn't turn off the light for days.  


About a week into out standoff with George, I came home to find Ria lining up bottles of household cleaners on the counter top.  As soon as I walked through the door she handed me two, grabbed two for herself, and said it was time to say goodbye to George. We sealed off the hallway and positioned ourselves outside of the bathroom, aimed our spray bottles like guns (I imagined we were the Boondock Saints), and kicked the door open.


I turned on the light and there was George...in the middle of the floor, unaware of his fate. "GET HIM!" Ria yelled.  We began blindly spraying 409, Windex, Lysol, and Green Works.  We must have hit George because he got angry and jumped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Ria was backed into a corner and honestly, for a minute, I thought she was going to cry.  But she just kept spraying and George the fucking spricket KEPT JUMPING. After about three minutes of non-stop spraying (and terrified squealing) on our part and freaky jumping on George's, George jumped back into the bathroom.


Exhausted, we closed the bathroom door and gave up.  If George could survive the volley of chemical warfare we had just dispensed, we figured he was here to stay.  Annoyed, Ria and I went to bed.  


The next morning I woke up and - out of curiosity - entered the bathroom.  Floating in the toilet was George.  I screamed my victory cry and woke Ria, who had a totally different response: she wanted to pray for his soul.  Friends, I cannot make this shit up.  So we did. We prayed for the spricket named George.  And then we flushed him away.

Fin


Today's Point: Today's story is worth two points; 1. Don't live in spricket infested lands. 2. You've got to learn the enemy's game before you can take him down.
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Wednesday, June 16, 2010

3:31 PM

I'll Be Just Like You... Only Better

Hi Friends!

I'm home sick today with the flu. So I figure, why waste this opportunity to share more of my crazy life with you?

Today's story hails from college.  This is a simple, short, and sweet story that gives you insight into the attitude that shaped my entire college career. Here we go!

I'll Be Just Like You...Only Better
During my first month or two on campus I totally thought my orientation leader was the bomb-dot-com.  Our college was a very small, Southern woman's college so there were a lot of unwritten rules (with girls, there always are).  My orientation leader lived in the senior dorms, which were completely off limits to little first years like myself.  Completely. If you wanted to walk through those French doors and partake in the magic of hanging out with seniors, you needed to be invited in and possibly escorted.  No lie.


Thanks to my orientation leader, I was one of two or three first years to get that invitation early on. I was 17 and new to college, so I totally felt like a badass. I was invited with my (then) best friend whom (for her safety) we will call Minnie.  Minnie was a total suck-up.  Unfortunately, when I hung out with Minnie, I became a suck-up too.

Despite this, all of the seniors all thought we were super cute. I mean, we baked them cupcakes.  Of course they liked us. One night, Minnie and I found ourselves invited to a party in the senior dorms.  This was a Big Deal. We were mere first years who had somehow been granted entry to a senior party within weeks of being on campus.  A number of our freshman classmates approached us to figure out how we did it (I blame the cupcakes).  Some classmates were jealous. Others couldn't care less. 


Minnie and I were in a whirlwind of first year controversy.  Obviously, this just made us feel twelve times more awesome than we did before.  


We holed ourselves up in my dorm room to figure out our outfits for the night and then we headed over to the party. It was crazy. The theme was Pimps and Hos.  You've heard of it, I'm sure.  However, remember, I was at a woman's college. I was 17 years old surrounded by girls in suspenders and slacks, zuit suits and mini skirts, plaid jackets and catsuits.  There was drinking and flashing and kissing and it was literally system overload.  I had to walk away.

Minnie and I sought refuge in my orientation leader's room. She was in there with her girlfriend and they were arguing.  After all of our evenings hanging out in the senior dorms with them, it kind of felt like mom and dad were having it out in front of the kids...only this time it was mom and mom. Girlfriend (GF) wanted to leave the party so she could study. Our orientation leader (OL) wanted GF to stay at the party until the sun came up.

GF:      "Baby, don't you want good grades?"

OL:      "Of course I do, but in twenty years, when I look back on my college career I'm not going to remember the paper I wrote at two am.  I will remember this night and partying with all of my friends."

Friends, I saw the words of OL as words of wisdom.  However, OL wasn't impressing me at all with her GPA. Obvs, she was going about this all the wrong way. Of course, friends and memories are super important.  But so is graduating and being proud of your GPA.

So from then on, I made a pact with myself: "You can never go below 3.0."  It became my mantra.  And wouldn't you know it, I graduated with a 3.26.  Is that phenomenal?  Of course not.  But you know, those drunken evenings spent at parties and hiding out from the Resident Assistants as they patrolled the dorms for drunken underclasswomen  led to friendships I wouldn't change for anything the world.

Fin




Today's point: Throughout life, make sure you allot time in your schedule to party 
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