The Point

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.

Holla Amigas,

I want to start off this post with an apology. I realize that I have drastically slowed down my rate of posting on The Point. Friends, I am sorry! I'll make it up to you, I promise. From here on out I'll aim at posting one new entry per week on Thursdays (because I know you need that kick to get you to Friday). I know you'll accept my apology, so let's get started on a new tale from my life of awesomeness.

Today's story is about closets. In case you've never considered this, gays aren't the only kids hiding in them. Lots of people hang out in closets. Obviously, they house a number of lesbians, gay boys and transgendered friends, but they also provide a haven for republicans at liberal arts colleges, mixed race or light skinned ethnic kids who pass as white, feminists who want to grow up and be housewives, and respected public figures who love marijuana.

Lots of people hide who they are or what they love in order to fit in and be accepted by society. Maybe you've even hid in a closet at some point. If you have, you are well aware that you can't come out of the closet one time and be done with it. It's a repetative process. You also know that coming out or staying in the closet is a daily decision. It's like this: your roommate brings over some friends for a dinner party. After a few glasses of wine and friendly conversation, you all begin discussing politics. The controversial issue of same-sex marriage or legalizing marijuana (or whatever makes you part of the closet brigade) comes up. Now, what do you do? Do you share your truth and endure ignorant questions--at best--or hostility--at worst--about who you are and what you feel or do you keep it to yourself?

Guys, it's a daily mindfuck.

Hey Friends!

I was just thinking that this blog keeps going backwards in time.  Luckily, I don't really have much of note to share before this story, so we'll start to Tarantino this shit soon. It'll be effing awesome.

As for tonight's tale.  It's about my first kiss, which funnily enough was with a little lady. Unfortunately, I don't think you're going to hear about my first boy kiss which was probs only a few months after this story. It was really awkward and embarrassing and actually pretty disturbing once you know all the facts. I feel I need a shower just thinking about it, ick.

Now on to my cutest tale yet...

Hola mi amigas,