The Point

You guys,

This is gross.





So it should come as no surprise that during the first few days of my eighth grade year, I decided to join the Christian kids on campus for a few minutes of worship every Wednesday morning. Obvs,  because of that huge divide between church and state (yes, the divide that is somehow still halting my ability to get married in all 50 states) we weren't allowed to actually hold our meetings on campus. But luckily we lived in Texas, so there was a church across the street (and next door, and down the road, and catty corner, and behind...) our school.

The group I joined was called something completely unoriginal like "Christian Fellowship for Young Adults" or "Fellowship of Christian Athletes." I don't really remember specifics, but it totally involved the words "fellowship" and "Christian."

And before you ask, no, I was not a campus athlete.

But it didn't matter, because I was Christian and I was willing to get to school early to trek across the street and hang out with J.C. and friends. That's all the kids cared about.

So. One specific Wednesday, I got to church and I was in such a good mood! It'd been a few weeks so I knew most of the kids pretty well and I liked the church even though no one else was a Catholic like me and also, we were given free juice boxes and Krispy Kremes. It was a beautiful morning to be in 8th grade.

Everyone got into the pews and before we began reading scripture, the adult hosts asked if they could have two volunteers: a young man and a young lady. I was more than happy to volunteer. I guess you could see the excitement on my face because adults chose me to be one lucky volunteer and then they chose a tall lanky boy, a basketball player or something, to be the other.

The two of us are asked to go into the lobby until we were called back in. We went outside and talked about the metal crosses hanging from the walls and stained glass and our love for J.C. and yadda yadda. After about five minutes we were called back in.

On the alter were two grey trashcans. In the trashcans were cheerios. We were told - with no explanation - to eat the cheerios as fast as we can; it was a food race!

I don't remember who won.

I don't remember what the point was.

What I do remember is the look on everyone's face afterwords: pure disgust. I couldn't figure out what was up, because for the rest of the morning, everyone looked at me and the basketball player really funny. But soon, our 45 minutes of J.C. time was up and everyone walked back across the street and went about our usual middle school lives.

It was second period when the loudspeaker crackled in math class and the principal's voice came through, asking if Miss Abernathy Q- could "make her way to the principal's office."

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

In Texas, there's a big belief in corporal punishment: if you behave badly, the principal has the authority to beat you with a paddle. No lie. So every time anyone got asked to visit his office, all they could think about was what had they done wrong and how much would their spanking would hurt. Even if you weren't in trouble, you still thought about it.


Unfortunately, I was not receiving a spanking. Instead, I got to the office and found the room crowded with my parents, the basketball player and his parents, and the balding yet terrifyingly strong principal. What had I done wrong?

All of the parents were yelling and the principal was blushing and trying to take control of the room. I stood in the door awkwardly for about five minutes as blame and the words "disgusting," "sue," and "school board," were fired back and forth between the principal and the parents.


Finally, I realized something major had happened and I was out of the loop. "What happened?" I shouted.

Everyone stopped yelling and looked at me. It was nauseatingly silent in that office. I wished I hadn't asked.

"Sit down," the principal motioned to an empty chair by my parents.

"You didn't tell her?" My dad asked. He. Was. Pissed.

The basketball player looked up. "Yeah, my friends told me about it in class."

"WHAT?!" I asked. Honestly, I hate hold outs.

"The cheerios you ate this morning? They were covered in snot."

I cocked my head. Exactly how would this happen? Can you guess, dear reader, how this happened? I couldn't. But luckily, the basketball player explained it for me:

While we had been chatting it up in the lobby, two more volunteers were chosen. These two kids were asked to stick cheerios up their noses and then shoot them out into the trashcans. Five minutes later, we were asked to digest said cheerios.

FUCKING DISGUSTING.

I said as much and - for once in my life - was not at all chided for my crass vocabulary. The principal turned about as scarlet as a pomegranete seed upon hearing my opinion. He suggested that I wait outside with my parents while he talked to the basketball player.

When the kid and his parents finally left the office ten minutes later, the kid told me he didn't think it was that big of a deal. As long as we didn't get sick, he didn't care. He hoped he saw me in church next week.

Was that a joke???

I let my parents go into the office without me. They screamed a helluva lot, but we didn't end up suing.

And in the end, I don't know how they resolved the matter.

But I never went to any Christian fellowship meetings ever again.

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.


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.

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!

I love you all enough to find this bar on GoogleMaps

You guys.

I suck. I know I do. I'm so sorry.

It's not that I want to let you down and miss my Thursday deadlines. I really don't. It's just life has gotten so busy! First I had mystery fleas in my apt. Then I signed up to take a writing class (which is kicking my ass). And then five crazy women descended on my house for a weekend. Also, at some point in the midst of this, I ended up at a Lady Gaga concert (!!!!), getting fitted for a bridesmaid dress, and watching three love triangles crash and burn. At least you can trust I've collected some good stories!

To the four people out in cyberspace (and down the block) who actually read this: I <3 you! I will make it up to you. I promise! Hold tight. I'll be back as soon as I can.

xo,

Abernathy

Hey crew,

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.


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.


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.

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.

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.