On Losing Brain Matter

I am the worst blogger ever. And I can live with that.

First of all, I have been super sick. Like the kind of sick where stuff comes out of your face at a faster rate than you can dispose of it. At one point, I thought I might be losing brain matter by way of my right nostril. I am feeling better, aside from a nagging headache and the desire to sleep every day away. After almost an entire week in bed, I spent a good night watching They Might Be Giants at the Freebird. I drank beer and flirted with an inappropriate boy because it seemed like it would be amusing (oh, and it WAS, internet). Honestly, I was just so over being stuck in the house that I just wanted to get out of and feel like a human being. Something about They Might Be Giants makes me feel human. Super-human, even. Party Boy, Rack and I stood close enough to the stage to snap pictures with our phones and almost get spit on. Which was pretty rad. (This may not seem enjoyable, but something about being that close to the stage makes the spit part not really matter. Seriously, Billie Joe Armstrong spit on me once at a Green Day show and I was elated.)
St. Patrick’s Day turned into the debaucherous event that it is supposed to be, complete with the Psycho Rasta, one of the Nude Dudes, and Spliff’s stalker. Fortunately for her, since she wasn’t there with us, her stalker bought me a bunch of shots and followed me around babbling about how he handled things all wrong with her. I narrowly escaped his clutches when he had to use the restroom and I went and hid behind a big banner until I was sure he wouldn’t find me. I was, however, prepared for the level of ridiculousness that was about to ensue and had the forethought to drop my car off at Party Boy’s job and hand over the keys after beer number 2. See? I am responsible! I ended up leaving the festivities after being gifted a new piece of jewelry from Anthony, paying for ONE drink, searching for a lost camera, and then watching one of the only black men at the bar attempt to do an Irish jig and then giving up and doing The Butterfly instead (Ahem…Anthony).

Also, for the second time in my drinking career, I have used the men’s bathroom at The Regal Beagle. First, let me simply say…Fucking. Ew, ya’ll. EW. But the fact of the matter is, I had to pee. I had been searching for a lost camera for well over an hour and the line to the ladies room had become unbearably long and full of bitches who were far girlier than I and would probably spend more time standing in front of the ONE sink so that no one can even get INSIDE, let alone into a stall. Anyway, the last time I had to use the men’s room there, I almost punched some fucker who started yelling at me because I had no other choice (the ladies’ room was broken), the argument ended when I told him to go fuck himself and skipped him in line. I really sort of did think he was going to hit me, so you can see why I was hesitant to try this again. But I did. And mostly, the guys thought it was hilarious. They didn’t attempt to hide their junk from view (which I kind of wish they had…because let’s face it, penises are ugly.) and no one yelled at me for being bold and not caring that I had different equipment. I actually gained a green hat and some swigs of Jamesons from a flask. Yeah. So, I was popular in the men’s room…but not like that, get your heads out of the gutter.

I did, however, end up leaving around 9. You know that you are having a successful holiday if you are drunk enough to have to leave the party before the sun is even completely gone. So, mission accomplished. Hope you all had a lot of green beer and Jamesons whiskey from a flask of a boy from Minnesota. (Thanks, Boy From Minnesota, you made my day a little bit brighter…or…drunker anyway.)

I’m done.

Skanktacular Spectacle and Mr. Waspy

Last night, Spliff and I met up with some friends for the Rock of Love/Flavor of Love casting call. No, we weren't auditioning but we did want to have front row seats for the skanktacular event. (Yes, I said skanktacular.) To our dismay, however, there weren't as many skanks as I had hoped. Just the normal amount for a Thursday night but there were cocktails. And you can't go wrong with cocktails. The highlights of the night included A Psycho Rasta encounter, a bunch of guys whose pants were entirely too tight/short or with highlighted hair, a really cute singer who played Jeff Buckley, and a lady with a sash and a tiara who was recruiting people to sign up for the show. They were doing the interviews in a different room so we didn't get to watch them, which was really disappointing, but we got to see Jerms and his band play and I got a free martini, so it wasn't a total loss.

I was a little irritated that the VH1 people wouldn't even tell us who was going to be in the next Rock of Love. I guess they can't, you know, because the show isn't over yet...(Even though Poison was just here a couple of weeks ago and Bret was seen with Lacey and that hoebag Brandi (the one who looks like a Barbie on crack, not the one who just went home)) but what was really weird was that they were interviewing for all of the shows at the same time and the interviewees didn't really get to pick what they were trying out for. That's sort of messed up...I can't imaging auditioning to be the love of Bret's life and showing up only to find out that I have to compete for the love of a human-sized turd. (Not that Bret Michaels is any better.) I'm just saying.

Either way, we were there on skank-watch and it was fairly uneventful.

Today was super eventful, however. I spent the majority of today fighting off a mob of wasps that have somehow infested my bathroom with various sprayable cleaning agents. This morning I walked into the bathroom and heard a buzzing and looked at the window and saw the silhouette of the bastard and (for the third time this week) and of course ran, screaming out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. It happens like this every time. I usually find the wasps right about the time that I finish my POT OF COFFEE and by that time, I have to pee so badly that I am already considering peeing in the yard. At this point, I close the door and pretend that I don't have to pee until it becomes so unbearable that I have to arm myself with a shoe and a bottle of Clorox Cleanup (I wish I had a beekeeper suit) and spray the fucker until he falls down. At that point, I leave the bathroom again and close the door. I usually go back in right before my bladder explodes and then I smack him with my shoe until I am satisfied that he is actually dead and not just pretending. Because I don't want him coming back to life and stinging me in some part of my anatomy that would only be exposed while I am peeing.

Today all of that happened and I avoided the bathroom until I could no longer hold it. I made sure the fucker was dead, did my peeing and left. Later, right about the time I was deciding to take a shower (at FIVE), I went back in to find ANOTHER FUCKING WASP. This time I put a cup over him, sprayed bleach on the floor and placed the cup over it, forcing Mr. Waspy to fall into the bleach to his death. Take THAT, wasp!

That's about the entirety of MY day...How was YOURS, internet?


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Now playing: Old Crow Medicine Show - I Hear Them All
via FoxyTunes

Dread Locks and Night Swimming

This weekend sort of slipped by when I wasn't paying attention. Friday started entirely too early with a trip to the airport and then to bring my grandpa to the doctor and by the time "Intervention" was over, Spliff and I were being hauled off to see the hot bartenders. Seriously, people, Spliff hadn't met the new hot bartender/neighbor yet and I couldn't let her wait another minute. Too many martinis later, I was spilling an entire container of fries on the floor and trying to pick them up and get them to the trash can without dropping any of them. Let me tell you...this is not easy. They may as well have physically run away from me. It took forever. And I wanted to EAT them, not DROP them.

Saturday started out pretty normal with Spliff's little head popping into my room at 11 to say, "Herrrrro?" I spent the afternoon procrastinating and not accomplishing any actual homework at all and then checked my myspace and found out that, TA-DA! There was a reggae festival in two hours! A reggae fest will always mean an encounter with The Psycho Rasta and other assorted hot guys with dread locks, but the whole experience usually turns out well. Psycho Rasta manages to stay about an arm's length away from me and aside from the irritating glare thing that he does, I barely notice him. Or I pretend I don't until it is impossible. Jerms' band played a really fun and energetic set and Spliff and I danced around while Jennagiraffe tried to talk to a boy. The whole thing was like a reunion. There was so much beautiful hair in one place I felt like I might burst into flames and I didn't even blink an eye at Z when he tried to lead me away from Jenn. That's right, folks, even with weak knees and flushed cheeks, I stayed by Jenn's side. What the hell is WRONG with me? Eventually, he is going to get tired of hitting on me mercilessly and THEN what will I do? I will kick myself in the ass, that's what.

Anyway, after dancing around in the still, 90 degree heat for several hours, we decided to head back to the house and go swimming in the ocean. Because there is nothing better than night swimming. I managed to drag JM AND Mr. Johnson in against their will and we walked home at 3 am with stringy hair and smeared mascara (Mr. Johnson has neither hair nor mascara to worry about)...My bed is full of sand and my hair feels like straw but holy crap, I love the effing ocean.

It was a good day, internet. A good day, indeed.

One Week

More and more lately, I am seriously tempted to sell everything, grab “the family” and run off to some island in the middle of the Pacific. That’s where The Grateful Dad made a good choice.

The move is only a week away and nothing is packed. The house is just as it was before we decided to move with the exception of 5 empty boxes in the living room. Spliff is sick and has been in bed for 3 days and I can’t seem to get into the groove of packing up all my shit for the 47th time and moving into a new place.

I feel numb. I feel frustrated. I feel inadequate. But most of all, I feel perpetually off track. I filled out my application for Radiography school yesterday and I feel confident that I will get in, but I am not absolutely positive that it is what I want to do. It just seems like a solution to my constant search for purpose. At least for the moment.

My job is going alright. Not as perfectly as I had expected but it is definitely an improvement. Even with the lack of training or support from the higher ups. I constantly feel confused and like I am not doing a good enough job and am trying to learn everything that the other people have learned over their 30 years of doing the job, but I am being pressured to learn it in a month, with no training at all.

Mr. and Ms. Fat Thighs have been scarce, which is nice. They have been preparing for their move as well and have been, like always, caged up in their apartment. It is better for everyone that way, because I am quite positive that I could accidentally hit her repeatedly with my car if I see her outside.

I ran into the Psycho Rasta yesterday on my way back from picking up some Ginger Ale for Spliff. He was walking down the street a few blocks away from my house, looking confused. I drove by him, hiding my face and hoping that he wouldn’t notice me. He didn’t and I kept driving right on by. I was surprised to see him, even though I am sure he is living just a few blocks away. It had been a few months and the last time, I had tried to avoid his stare but had accidentally glanced in his direction, faked a smile and a nonchalant little wave, and ran out of the bar. That’s two ex sightings…all in one week. All the more reason to stay home.

Today has been very strange. I have spent most of it being tired and irritable because I stayed out too late watching Steel Pulse and avoiding the psychotic rasta man that I dated briefly. I can only blame myself for my terrible mood.

The doctors are in rare form though. I have been dodging flying raisinettes all day. Two of them thumb wrestled, and one did the robot in the hallway. I am not really sure what they have been smoking, but I wish I had some. I wanna be in a robot kind of mood. I really do.
A very cute resident chose today (of all days) to speak to me, even crack jokes. I can’t understand for the life of me, why today would be the day he would speak. On normal days, I am cuter and less pissed-off-looking. Maybe he likes pissed off girls. Who knows?

“The Hitch-hiker” has been calling me. He is a nice guy, so far. We will see how that goes. I can’t imagine what an intelligent, decent guy my age with two bachelors degrees wants with me and all of my dysfunction. So, there must be something wrong with him. I am sure it will show soon enough. It always does. I could write a book.

On a happy note, Lucas said I looked pretty last night. Coming from Lucas, that is a HUGE compliment. Go me!

Stuck-in-my-head Song of the Day: Corner Stone - Bob Marley