Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A Musical Guide to the Holidays

Ah, the holidays are upon us as we scramble to get last minute gifts done and pre New Year's botox injected. I know how hard it is for all of you out there to juggle responsibilities and drug habits, so I am here to ease your load.

In all of this hubbub, when do you get the chance to do something for you? You are a nice, magical person just like the rest of us, so sit back and let me check off something from your "To Do" list. I took it upon myself to suggest a compilation of my favorite holiday songs that are not only a treat for your ears, but one for your abdomen muscles as well. They are as follows:

"Funky, Funky Xmas" by the New Kids on the Block
This sweet jam, circa 1989, not only encourages you to enjoy yourself on Christmas, but to get funky with it. Assuming the word "funky" is supposed to mean cool or groovy, they missed the mark by being rapping white children from the 80s whose pants could be used a safety device in an emergency plane landing on the Atlantic Ocean. Needless to say, this group is the authority on classy apparel and musical epiphanies, so rockin' their album is the obvious choice.

"Jingle Bells" by Barbara Streisand
My favorite Jew took a classic holiday song and sang it to make you feel as though you just took a line of coke off your grandma's dresser. Trying to keep up with her while spewing out lyrics that have been ingrained in you since childhood is a hard feat. Instead of feeling like a loser, download this song and turn it into a drinking game. Anyone who can't sing - you'll end up shouting actually (trust me) - the first verse without sounding like a Mets player with a stutter, drink!

"Christmas Tree" by Lady Gaga (featuring Space Cowboy)
This dance song is crazy and unsafe. She sings about tasting her Christmas tree and that it's "delicious". Do not chew or nibble on your tree. The pine leaves will scratch your face and the bark will kill you. Then, she claims she wants people to get under the tree! What? You put presents under your tree, not people. Finally, she wants to take off her clothes and "Fa la la la la"... um... oh, wait...

"Merry Xmas, Happy Holidays" by *NSYNC
I don't care who you are or how much you don't believe in God, it is impossible not get amped when pumping this track. This is the holiday song that no one wants to admit that they love because it's *NSync and the video showcases their ability to fly over the earth in a sleigh, feed a bunch of homeless guys (who are presumably gay), and dance through feathers without their hair moving a inch. Jealousy is an unfortunate thing and should not be present during the holidays. (Get it? Present? HA)

" I Wanna Rock You Hard This Christmas" by the Dan Band
If anyone knows me well, they know that I like my music chocked full of blatant, sexual innuendo. The Dan Band does not disappoint with this holiday romp encouraging us to enjoy our holiday "While the egg nog is all noggy, and the fire is all aglow, while our bodies are heatin' up in yuletide places down below!" And with a Christmas album entitled "Ho", they've got my heart and my Christmas Tree! (I'm onto you Lady Gaga!)

"Dick in a Box" by the Lonely Island (Performed by Andy Samberg and Justin Timberlake)
I like this track mostly because it involves a smorgasbord of holidays - Kwanzaa (a personal fave), Hanukkah, the Country Music Awards and Christmas. Their message is equality. Everyone deserves such a fine gift on their religious, sacred holiday of choice. Maybe if our world leaders would take a hint from this song and video, including the amazing blazers, we would have a little more world peace and a little less aggression.

"Where are You Christmas?" by Faith Hill
Holy shit. Faith Hill lost Christmas. There are gonna be some pissed off gentiles come December 25th. Ironic that she sang this song for the The Grinch Who Stole Christmas movie because it wasn't the big, creepy green dude we had to worry about. Although belting out this number in my car, drastically off tune and at a frightening loud decibel, is a butt load of fun, my advice to you, Faith, is that the next time you lose a national holiday, don't sing about it. Just lie and say you swore you saw it on the counter before you left and either the dog or the baby got to it (Because no one can get mad at dogs or babies.).

"I'll Be Home for Christmas" by any artist
This is my all time favorite Christmas song. I have lived away, very far away, from home for so long that this always makes me nostalgic and happy. It's a great song for soldiers who are overseas or for anyone who is missing loved ones. Even if you don't celebrate any holidays or have any religious beliefs, it is so nice to be able to go home and visit friends and family once a year. You can reconnect with old acquaintances, stroll through your hometown, and most importantly, prove to your grandparents that you aren't a lesbian like they predicted you would be. Oh, and of course, free presents! Holla!

Friday, December 11, 2009

This Christmas, BNasty!

I'm constantly giving people advice on career  moves, relationships, and how many tequila shots is too many. Since everyone wants to know how to have a fabulous holiday, it is only natural that they turn to me for the answers. Although Christmas is not my favorite holiday (Halloween is by far!), I still not how to rock the shit out of it.

Let's be real here, this holiday is all about traveling, booze, and trying not to get fat in the short span of time that you're home. I'll address the traveling first; no matter what, it's gonna suck. There will be lines, angry airline workers, and inevitably the fattest dude on the plane will try to sit next to you. Then he'll do his fat guy breathing all over you and steal your arm rest.

This brings me to my next point - booze. Don't wait until you're home with people who have a way of making you feel sympathy towards those who commit homicide. Start in the bar while you wait for your plane. Better yet, get a buddy to drop you off at the airport and start in the car. If you do that, you might even be able to take a cat nap on the plane while Jabba the Hut sucks up everyone's oxygen.

Once you are sufficiently sauced up, you arrive home and start stuffing your face with your mother's buttery mashed potatoes and your dad's secret stash of very expensive brandy. If you keep this up for days on end, the last month you spent sweating out your insides at the gym will all have been for nothing. And that dress you bought for NYE will literally scream when you try to squeeze it over your chunk. To counteract this glorious fatfest... dance bitches. DANCE. (See my blog about my fave Xmas songs for something to get that rump a shakin'!) I don't care when or where you do it, just do it. When you're gnawing on that titanic piece of ham, do the Tootsie Roll. When you're helping your sisters put up Xmas lights, do the Roger Rabbit.  When you're giving the Christmas toast, do the Sprinkler.  Just get creative and keep that fine fanny moving!

In closing, my advice to all of you is simple: love the ones you're with, enjoy whatever holiday that your parents have forced upon you, and most of all, BNasty!

Monday, December 7, 2009

Top Ten Reasons I Will Probably Murder a Cab Driver

Have you ever had the utter joy of riding in a taxi? If not, get your country ass out to a city where you can have the grimy experience of riding in one and meeting the scum of the earth - cabbies! Here is a list of reasons that may lead to a guilty conviction of mine one day:

10. 98% of cab drivers do not speak English in America. Like, at all. Okay, they might know numbers, but unless you are a computer, it is hard to have a conversation based on about ten digits. They speak a common language all over the world - Asshole. (It's the secondary language in Canada, for the record.)

9. They never encourage you to wear a seatbelt. They don't care about your safety. All they care about is their POS car and that you don't puke in it. To counteract their lack of human emotion, I actively try to puke every time I am in a taxi, wether I've been drinking or not.

8. All cab drivers are on their blue tooths the ENTIRE time they're driving. I don't know who the hell they're talking to, but I know for sure it's not their mothers. You see, cab drivers are grown in factories overseas. They have no mothers. Or souls.

7. Speaking of no souls, one time I was in Vegas trying to get a cab ride to the hospital because my friend had been taken to the ER. Every time I told the driver I needed to go to the hospital, they sped off and left. You see, they would rather leave a person to die outside of a casino than to risk anything happening to their stained, booze covered shit mobiles. No souls.

6. Taxi drivers always try to take you the long way, hiking up the price of the ride. And when you correct them, they start huffing and puffing and before you know it, you're in a full scale cuss out session with the guy, threatening him, his family, and his beloved blue tooth. I really fucking hate having to cuss.

5. Cabbies are overly defensive. One time, I was leaving a club and some band was smoking a bunch of pot. As I stepped into the cab, I mentioned to my friend that it smelled like a pot factory outside. The driver turned and said "You have a problem with my incense?" and I was all like "Huh?"(He is one of the 2% of cabbies that speak English.) After clearing up what I was talking about, I then got mad because I had to explain myself to this cretin. So, instead of sitting there in silence, I made obnoxious remarks about him and his stupid incense for the rest of the ride. One comment was along the lines of "I hope your incense burns the car down."

4. All cab drivers have a bizarre tick. I have seen them shake, seize, blink excessively, growl, snore, sing, sit on the horn and hold the middle finger up the entire duration of the ride. My friend had a cabbie that barked at red lights. I had a cabbie that picked me up - he literally looked like a corpse - and mumbled to himself the whole time. When we came to a stop, he became quiet. I thought he died.

3. These creatures never respond to you, so you must assume they understand what you tell them. For instance, I told a cabbie my address. I fell asleep and 40 min later we are on the side of the rode and he was consulting a map. After I got us to my house, I demanded to not pay the full amount because he was driving in circles and never told me he didn't know where he was going. This resulted in me and him outside the cab in each other's faces. He claimed I was blackmailing him. Obviously, he was not apart of the 2%. So I gave him a good old fashioned verbal lashing and then went inside when he threatened to call the cops. I knew I was safe because he claimed that he would call 411.

2. In the great state of California, all taxis MUST accept credit cards as a form of payment. No matter what they tell you. They do not like to do this, however, because then they have to claim their tips. I have had more fights then I can remember (literally) with these drivers because they won't take a card. Then, when they finally give in realizing that they won't get paid if they don't, they bitch at you because you don't tip. Hey buddy, next time don't accuse me of being drunk and unruly and I won't insult you, your religion and I may just leave you a tip. But probably not.

1. Every taxi these days has a GPS. I'm not sure why this pisses me off so badly but I think it's because cab drivers are supposed to know where they are and where they are going. Also, GPS will take you the shortest route, so they have no excuse to screw you over by taking the long way. Mostly, it upsets me when I give them an address and the name of an infamous bar or restaurant and their GPS doesn't recognize it so they turn to you and shrug. Are you fucking kidding me? What do you suppose I should do? Just go somewhere else? That's like going to a lawyer and saying your 1st amendment rights have been denied and they tell you that their internet is down so they're not really sure wtf the 1st amendment is but if they had access to Wikapedia they could represent you. Maybe.

These are my reasons for hating the necessary evil that is taxis and their drivers. I hope you all join me in my efforts to puke in every cab I ride in. Make me proud!

A Ghost Did It!

One of my greatest fascinations and greatest fears in this life is the paranormal. I love it, study it, talk extensively about it and yet, God forbid, if I ever saw a ghost (spirit, whatever), I would shit myself.

Since I was a kid, I have laid awake at night, convinced that any noise in the dark is a ghost. I cannot accept that the house is settling. It's far more logical that a civil war soldier is re enacting his last moments on earth in the living room than the fact that it's winter and the wood frame is contrasting.

I blame my family.

When I was young, my sister Laura, who I shared a room with, would talk in her sleep/ threaten me and my little brother John would sleep walk, resulting in a very active night life for my imagination. My oldest sister tells me that I claimed to have seen "Mary the mother of God" when my parents forced us to go on a trip to Catholic Family Land (Yes, that actually exists, but that's a whole 'nother story for a whole 'nother blog!) and ended up in a cemetery. And my parents and teachers told me that if I didn't take communion at church, then the devil would be able to not only possess me, but physically harm me. Good times.

As an adult, I have a had a few weird, "ghostly" experiences. I have had a lot of those instances where you put something down, go back for it, it's gone, you search everywhere and then suddenly it's on the floor in the middle of the room. More so, I have had bizarre noises (a tapping on my coffee table while my room mate and I were talking), physical movements (I saw my phone move), Hank the ghost which is a long ass story, and a glass smash by itself in the middle of my kitchen. All of these situations scared me, but why should they? If you believe as I do, there is a life after we die here on earth. Can't these visits perhaps be nice people that I have loved saying "what's crackalackin'?"? (For the record, I am pretty sure my Grandpa wouldn't break a very expensive wine glass just to say hi.) I love the debate, either way.

As you're reading this, you are most likely doubting me and what I "think" I've seen or heard. Perhaps your own spiritual beliefs would prevent you from thinking anything supernatural exists. I do, however, and one day I am gonna get my happy ass on Ghost Hunters, see a ghost and then freak out. It will be glorious and aired for the world to see.

In the meantime, I will keep my eyes and ears peeled for my next encounter with the afterlife. And when my room mate asks who drank the last of the vodka, I'll tell her the truth. A ghost did it!

Friday, October 30, 2009

You Know What I Hate?

These are some things that I hate:

1. I hate when you tell people you don't like a certain food and then they insist on force feeding you their version of it saying "Well, you've never had MY ______ !" No bitch, I fucking hate pineapple. Putting Old Bay seasoning on it actually makes it worse.

2. I hate when you are out with one of your girlfriends and two guys approach. Then they end up boxing you out to fight over your friend. What? Is that just me?

3. I hate my scar on my thumb. It's from this one time I was trying to open a dented can of ravioli and the can opener could only open it half way. So fattie here tries to pry the metal the rest of the way open and slices her finger. Probably should have gotten stitches. And yes, I ate that ravioli.

4. I hate when men drive. People are always saying Asians and women can't drive. Sure, they may be slow, but it's always a man that just comes right over in your lane assuming that his giant truck will just scare you out of the way. It's always an elderly man holding up the left lane. And dudes always hit on you while your driving, too. That shit is unsafe AND unwanted. Oh, yes, please let me stop going 70 mph on this freeway, pull over onto the shoulder and talk to you, man I've never met before!

5. I hate when, for example, you're going shopping for a friend who is a plus size. You find a store that is specifically for them - 1XL through 3XL - and you are finding lots of great stuff, draping them over your arm. You make your way to the back of the store in the middle of your own conversation with your shopping buddy when the chick that works there asks if you're ready to try on your clothes. Um...  no, I am not ready to try on this table cloth. No, madam, I cannot say I am ready to see if this flag will squeeze over my apparently enormous body. No, you fucking whore, I don't want to try on this tarp for a hover craft!

What? That's just happened to me?

An Ocean and a Pond

Remember when our parents let us swim in the creek together? Despite suggestion from public safety officials? We were so happy there. But eventually, the water became too thick and muddy and you needed to find a bigger body of water. You found a pond.

I met you at your pond and it was wonderful for so long. We helped each other swim laps. While no one could beat my canon balls, you had a mean flailing leap with which I could not compete. The days were endless and lovely there in our pond.

Suddenly, a clock started ticking. An alarm. It was so loud and it made me mad. But I couldn't ignore it.  I knew it meant that I needed to leave the pond.

I found myself at the edge of an ocean. A brilliant, sparkling ocean full of blues and greens and even gold. I wanted to show you. I wanted you to see that I had found a better place, like when you showed me your pond. When I tried to though, you said you had built a pier over your pond. Better yet, you had found some floaties to keep you safe.

While the clock seems to have lost it's alarm, I still hear it ticking. It takes away day after day that I do not have with you. These days, these years, I will never get back.

Sometimes I walk to the shore, at the edge of my great ocean and pray. I pray that your pier would rot away and that your floaties would deflate. You would be left in the pond alone and a great tide would sweep you out into a river. That river would carry you into my ocean and pull you onto the sand. There I would be waiting to pick you up and take you home.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Killer Robots!

It was brought to my attention the other day that I never discuss anything of real importance in my blogs, just my drunken shenanigans and "self loathing". But I am a deep person who has opinions on all kinds of world affairs. My stance on politics, religion, and New York Fashion Week is something that should be heard. Ultimately though, our greatest issue on earth, as a whole, is obviously killer robots. So, fasten your seat belts my good sirs, I'm about to blow the lid right off this issue!

Anti - killer robot groups would have you believe that these robots are nothing but a terror to our society and a threat to our way of life. I am here to tell you that they're not so bad. Imagine, if you will, a world where you could create your very own killer robot to do your bidding. Let's not be naive here bitches, if these robots are evolved enough to kill, they are evolved enough to do your laundry and be your little slave babies.

What would I do with my personal killer robot you ask? Good question. First, I would make it look like Ryan Reynolds and train it to work out sans most of it's clothing. (Some of you may find this creepy, but you must understand that I am doing this for the sake of humanity and there are some things that I need. So stop being so selfish, ok?) Then, I would teach my robot Spanish and call him Miguel. A bilingual robot will come in handy more often than not. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I would install a Gaydar system in it so it could find me new friends to dance with. (Naturally, my robot could also dance and would eventually join Dancing With The Stars. His team mate will be Mischa Barton.) And finally, I would put together a list of people for my robot to kill, making our planet a better place to live. The list is as follows:

1. Carlos Mencia
2. Paris Hilton
3. My old religion teacher from high school. She was a real bitch.
4. Terrell Owens
5. Speidi
6. Whoever invented Crocs
7. That jerk that peed on my stairway last night
8. Cats - the entire species
9. Miss California
10. Matthew Glen Kelley

As you can tell, my list is thorough and well thought out. You may be asking why I would list one of my closest friends, Matt Kelley, however, so let me explain. Setting aside the fact that I hate him, I could give him no greater gift in this life then to let him be killed by a huge robot. He is such a hard core loser, that it would be his greatest moment, a gleam of true happiness in his eye, to fall at the hands of a metal monster who will conveniently be singing "Man in the Mirror" as he destroys Matt's very life force. Sometimes all we can do is murder our friends as an act of true selflessness. *sigh*

In closing, killer robots are hardly the worst things that could happen to the earth. Sure, they wreak havoc on every country and do not have morals preventing them from mauling women and children. Sure, they have no emotions and cannot ever really love you back no matter what you force it to say to you. (This one is all YOUR fault James Cameron. You made me believe...) Sure, they will probably turn on you and rip your head off at any given moment. But what about all the robot piggy back rides you could get? Does that mean nothing to you people? Or all the lawn mowing and weed picking they could get done? Do I even have to mention the fact that you will NEVER have to get up for the remote again?!

Don't hate on killer robots, it's not cool. I wouldn't want you to, Matt wouldn't want you to, and neither would Miquel. I rest my case.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

No, These Are Just Leftover Flowers From Work

Recently, I worked a commercial that had a high profile talent and was sent to pick up flowers and magazines for the trailer of a man that could buy my soul three times over after taxes. Spending the rest of the day watching the trailer so that no one would thieve in it, I felt the familiar burn of bitterness and hostility creep into my chest.

The day ended and the only thing left where the trailer had been parked was the bouquet of autumn flowers that I had arranged in a water filled pretzel barrel (Crafty was supposed to supply the vase and used this barrel instead. They make at least $150 more than me PER DAY and this is what they came up with). Being that my efforts were left for trash, I picked up the neglected flowers and put them in my front seat. As I left the lot for the evening, the security guard stopped to get my pass and hit on me in an incredibly unprofessional way.

"Those from your boyfriend?" he asked.
"No," I admitted.
"This your last day on this lot?"
"Yeah, so you take care now."
"Well, maybe we could keep in touch."
"Yeah, totally, I'll come back and visit you," I laughed, driving away while he yelled after me for my number. But it brought up an old and weathered thought - why is it that I attract guys like him? The creepy, weird ones? The night shift security guards, the physical trainers, the bouncers, the mentally unstable, the elderly?

This question has plagued me for years, since I was a teen. My mother tried to reassure me that when I was older, men would appreciate who I was and what I looked like. She failed to mention which men, though, probably out of kindness. Time reveals all truths, however, including the bangs she cut me in seventh grade that were an atrocity of an epic proportion.

I parked and got out to walk to my apartment. Passersby looked at me with questioning eyes and I could guess what they were thinking. Some nice man, an investment banker or a lawyer perhaps, bought me beautiful flowers. Was it my birthday? Anniversary?  And what's up with the vase?

Rounding the corner, another creepster waited in the dark with his creepy questions.

"You gotta boyfriend?" he slurred.
"No, these are just left over flowers from work," I barked. Why didn't I ever just lie to these people? I rushed past him, not eager to continue a conversation with a guy I'm pretty sure I've seen before on America's Most Wanted. Coming into my empty apartment, I set the flowers in my kitchen and fluffed them a bit. Even guys that I've "dated" never bought me flowers and I could only guess as to why, none of the reasons very flattering on either party.

My friends say that if I don't want to be alone forever, I might have to start lowering my standards like every other woman on the planet. Maybe one day, I would have to say yes to the freaky dude at the club with the long hair or the Mexican guy whose been screaming sexual things in Spanish every morning on my way to work. I must trade happiness for companionship and abandon parts of myself for the sake of this. Because the women who get the guys that I want are amazing - they're beautiful, petite, smart, and socially tactful.

I know what I am. I'm a loud mouth, a little dumb, lumpy and some have called me "man-ish". What I am not is someone who settles, unlike 90% of the population. So perhaps my flowers will always be left overs. But at least at night, I can eat Cheetos dipped in ice cream, read my paranormal books and write my weird stories. Girls who get first hand flowers might have men but they don't always have freedom. So suck on that bitches.

There Will Be Snickers

If you're anything like me, you can gage how drunk you were the night before by what is laying beside you in bed the next morning. And no, we're not talking a bisexual situation here (this time). We're talking food my friends, food.

My people tell me that once I am thoroughly drunk and I start demanding food, we have a ten minute countdown before I am face down, passed out asleep. Obviously, this time line does not always allow the proper amount of time to eat the food before I am asleep which results in evidence on my pillow. And as a horrific side note, this ordeal has no exceptions - not concerts, clubs, beaches, football games, or sobriety check points. My drunk waits for no one.

It has gotten progressively worse/impressive over time and all the local fast food chains know me by name. But what do you do when you're wasted and you can't drive yourself (and no one else will either) to a combination Pizza Hut/ KFC, you ask? You either plan ahead or cook yourself.

I have woken up next to half cooked meat, messy chicken nachos, a variety of Lean Cuisines, frozen pizza (literally), blocks of cheese (with gnaw marks in them) and a very elaborate plate of spaghetti. As you can imagine, the bigger the plate, the drunker I was. Usually, the plates like spaghetti would be partnered with a stolen street sign leaning against my door and the sinking feeling that I may have committed a few felonies the night before.

No delicacy I could convince my roommates to cook me could ever compare to the morning I awoke next to a king sized Snickers bar. I woke up at about 8 am and rolled over to discover my lover - nay, my soulmate - for the night. Only a bite was taken out of it and I was glad to be able to enjoy it's chocolatey goodness with at least partial sobriety.

"Well, hello there sir. I didn't catch your name... Mr. Right you say?" I cooed at the bar. A wide grin and  a few chomps in, I passed out again, chin full of chocolate covered drool. Hours later, about noon, I woke up startled. Had I fallen back asleep and so rudely ignored my new house guest?

With a sigh, I turned to face the Snickers. Although it was now halfway gone, I began to chew excitedly again, marveling at the peanuts and caramel.

I should really wake up. I have things to do and people to see... I thought as I drifted back into slumber, letting the bar's tranquility take over.

Waking up the third time that day, at about 2 pm, I realized that I seriously needed to get the fuck out of bed. But there he was, just staring at me, only a few bites left.

Why are you so good to me...? I wondered as I finished the bar. I dragged myself out of bed and stretched. It was one of the best nights of sleep/ one night stands I have ever had.

As time has passed, I have realized a few things: I can't stand people that drive slow in the left lane (it's rude and annoying and I don't care if you're old), I think asparagus taste like puke, and while there may not ever be boyfriends or husbands to be around when I'm drunk, by God there will be Snickers.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Ode to My Fanny Pack: The Underdog of Bags

Oh, sweet Fanny Pack. How do I love thee?

Your skin is weathered and licorice black
Your zippers are strong and grounded
You grip my waist with a sense of duty
A sense of pride
An attention whore for the decades existed
And decades to come
You demand to be front and center
Drawing eyes, you hold steady in your position

There you wait
Ready to hold my phone
My lipgloss
My flippy floppies, if need be

100% genuine leather
Made in Mexico
Found at a thrift store
You were fated to be mine
To join me at every dance party requiring tube socks
Patent leather pants
Mullet wigs

You bring people joy
You bring me nothing but satisfaction
High Fives

Those that say you can never be
Let them be silenced
Let them gaze upon your beauty
And weep.

*** If you'd like to see me rockin' a fanny pack via youtube, click here:

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Hermosa Fiesta: A Labor Day Celebration

This past weekend was Labor Day, a day to look back and honor all of those people who ever had jobs and fought for fair laws and hours in the workplace. In their honor, apparently, Americans feel the need to have barbecues, fireworks, and in the case of Hermosa Beach, CA, an enormous festival. This festival shut down the main streets leading to the pier where vendors could sell things and people could get shit faced drunk and not get run over. I was one of those people.

Saturday morning, after hosing off my stairs because some drunk asshole decided to half die there the night before, I looked out upon the vast sea of tents floating along the street. A hot guy jogged by and I thought it my best interest to dive right in.

A USC game was on, so Freaky and I left a screaming and hollering DNasty to her game so that she could freak out alone. We made our way through the free samples, a few times naturally, and decided to wade through the tents that were actually there for monetary gain. While some of these tents had cool stuff and unique artwork, I beg of you tell me: why in the fuck would someone put up an entire tent dedicated to sell nothing but cheap, wood, "funny" signs saying things like "Wine a Little Bit, You'll Feel Better"? Or a tent that viciously attacked defenseless hats and shirts with an enraged bedazzler? Or better yet, a tent that only sold thick, leather bracelets with yin yang symbols that only a member of Creed would be caught wearing? The answer: old people. (Side note: Watch yourselves. They're everywhere and they will buy anything that would fall under the category of junk.)

As we made our way through waves of the excited elderly waving dollars, we came to the opening of a fair ground. To our left we saw that there was a beer/ wine garden. Exchanging a glance, no need for words, Freaky and I skipped to the garden where we got the biggest cup of wine ever sold to us in the continental United States. Plus, all proceeds went to charity so we'd tell people that was why we were there. Instinctively, we scoured the crowd that was enjoying the live band for hot guys. With a sigh, we realized that there were none and that those god damned old people infiltrated our shores once again. We'd have to just swig our wine and rock out to the 80s cover band "Heartless" that was playing. Man, they were awesome. The lead singer was a fatter, red haired version of Steven Tyler and her voice was made to sing "Barracuda".  Obviously, this is what Labor Day was all about.

We were not the only ones enjoying the band's fortysomething enthusiasm for the music of their youth, however, and two heavily intoxicated twentysomethings with no self esteem got onto the grass dance floor and continued to dry hump the air and each other for an impressive five minutes (I believe they recreated a scene from Cirque De Soleil at one point.) as random, elderly men slowly staggered by . There was a lot of drink flinging, falling down, awkward gyrating, and cries from the crowd to "please God make it stop!" before a crazy, Asian tranny broke up the scene by trying to join. He/she was wearing a barely there red swimsuit and, quite frankly, I think her/his angry face and "sexy" face are on in the same. The crowd, as a whole, took a step back and the singer made a depressing yet utterly true comment about the fact that her life had brought her here to this moment. Best charity event EVER.

Our lips now purple from our massive drinks and a decent wine buzz in us, we decide that we want to get on a ride. (Bad idea after you've been drinking? Yes, yes it is. However, we're professionals, we know what we're doing so stop questioning it, ok?) After being told we were "too big" and "too old" to go on almost all of the rides, we found one that we were allowed to ride. Not without parents looking at us like we were creepy and *gasp* perhaps a little drunk. The man told us to climb into the giant green dinosaur and we did so. It was one of those rides that spin but have a steering wheel inside to spin you around faster. Whirling and whirling we went, laughing hysterically, and slamming our heads into the side, delighted at speed and sheer stupidity of what we were doing. Stumbling out, I thought it best to leave because apparently acting strangely around children is a good reason to get the police.

We made our way back through the tents again and met up with DNasty so she could get us more free samples. (I actually considered changing my clothes so that I could get more as well. Then I realized how pathetic it is to go to such lengths for a free carton of soy milk that I will never drink.) A guy popped out of nowhere and offered us free drinks at his tent. DNasty answered yes before I could go over the probability of this guy being able to maim and murder us in public without me being able to leave a trail to his warehouse where he would surely hide us. I don't like to think anyway (it hurts) so we all followed and had free drinks while they tried to sell us some cable bullshit. I wasn't listening because I couldn't care less. Jack Daniels wanted to make out and I had to plan my outfit for the night.

Awhile later, we came inside and began the long, music filled, make-up smearing, pregaming process of girls getting ready to go out. Finally, we were ready, and on our way out, ran into a buddy who got us into Sharkeez and paid our cover. The dancing began and so did the drinking and smack talking. We're having a great time when the girls spotted a dude that apparently looks like USC's new quarterback. (After Mark Sanchez left the team, a part of me died. That piece of man meat was basically the only reason I accompanied DNasty on the couch to watch the games.) Freaky was talking in a language the guy didn't understand, and to help, I translated. Actually turning to look at him, I was momentarily stunned. He was absolutely gorgeous.  I'm not sure how I formed words after I saw his face but I managed. And for a reason at that moment I could not understand, he seemed interested in me. (Yes, me you asshole.)

He was nice, beautiful, tall, completely ripped, and a Navy Seal. A Navy goddamn Seal. Could he be any more perfect? As the night went on, I realized that the answer was no. I also realized why God would allow me to think this incredible god like creature would want to talk to me. The answer: to insult me. (Now I'm not sure why perfect strangers feel compelled to say rude, uncalled for things to me with no provocation, but they do. [It's been hypothesized that I make people feel very at ease and they feel they can say anything to me including the ugly truth. That makes me the ugly truth so this theory is not one of comfort.]) So, after being informed that I have "lumberjack hands", a question regarding whether I was a whore or not, and the overall sense that he had no respect for me or women in general ended my little bubble-o-happy. On a nice note, Freaky and DNasty both met very nice men who spoke to them like human beings and I assume told them they were pretty.

The next morning, I awoke from my whiskey haze feeling sorry for myself.  After devouring an enormous burrito and two mimosas, my two girlies led me back home for a nap (not before I knocked over a bike in the street) and made me lay down. I felt better (aka sober) when I woke again and we all talked in my kitchen for a bit. We discussed the weekend and the fact that we didn't have to work the next day (Monday). I posed an asinine question : "What do you guys want to do tonight?" They looked at each other, rolling their eyes at my stupidity and internally questioned my patriotism.

DNasty: "Um, we're going out tonight, Brenna. It's Labor Day and in America, this is how we celebrate."
Freaky: "Dance Party."
DNasty: "Did you vote? Do you enjoy your freedom? Then how about you not be so selfish and let this country know how much you care by drinking."
Freaky: "Dance Party."

They were right. I was being unpatriotic, selfish. After all, my work, my writing, my labor, was based a lot on how I go out and drink so I would be doing this country a service by going out and dancing my ass off at Union Cattle. God bless all those workers, Americans, that came out to dance with me. I applaud you and so does Uncle Sam.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

My Life Has No Meaning... Or Does it?

Moving to Los Angeles was one of the biggest decisions I've made in my entire life. I was a kid fresh out of college with big dreams and a decent chunk of ambition. I always wanted to be a writer, producer, and even perform what I created. Looking back, I never thought I'd end up in the reality where I currently reside.

I'd been working as a freelance production assistant in TV, films, and commercials since I moved almost two years ago. Quickly, I was growing tired of the disrespect, illegal hours, lack of drug use I'd been warned about, and lack of personal satisfaction this was getting me. A thorough love of unemployment crept up, but other than that I preferred commercial work over anything else. The reason? Less time, more money. My life was coming together so nicely.

I was working a commercial for a brand of cheese awhile ago. (Yes, cheese. Didn't you read the title?) I was standing on set, in the baking heat of the south bay, when the shot they were setting up was ready. Bored, I looked around at all my coworkers faces that were genuinely interested, actually serious about what was happening. 

I always understood yet never empathized with the brotherhood, gang mentality of people in this industry. Although other professionals have a hard time understanding what we do and go through, I never formed that "I'm better than you, do you know what I do? I work in the movies, bitch!" mentality. Because who gives a shit? I'm not a doctor, I don't save lives. I'm not the president, I can't change laws to better people's well-being. I'm not Pamela Anderson, I can't make the world smile with the flash of just one boob. Those are things to brag about. Just as I thought that, the director yelled "action!"

I would like to preface this by saying I never read scripts of anything I work on before hand. I don't care what it's about because with what I personally do, it kind of doesn't matter. (A blessing and a curse.) The director prompted the scene. As I watched on, in horror, four grown men lifted pieces of huge, fake cheese in front of their faces and started dancing around, jumping up and down. And then it hit me - my life has no meaning. This is what I must partake in to pay my bills. By my choice (I use the that term loosely), I put myself in the presence of people who would rather critique the jumping and wiggling of said grown men than to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or the fact that someone was paying good money to have these men do this. No bragging rights belong to me, sirs and madams.

It made me think back about all the ridiculous material that has been shot in my presence. Let alone the ridiculous things I've had to do for it behind the scenes. I've had to follow around/ document an orangutan's every action (including pooping on a conveyer belt), help collect a DP's dirty underwear to be cleaned because he didn't feel like it, have a stand off with a bobcat (a real, unplanned bobcat) while being a stand in, track down the correct concealer for a male television host, and drive a 15 pass van in circles for twelve hours straight. I love coming home at Christmas, fresh off a commercial about a new milkshake (who was treated with more respect that I) and have people bubble about how "glamorous" my life must be. I realize people don't know, but it makes you feel like a shit head for wanting to shake them and let them know that their jobs are a slice of George Clooney's ass next to yours. So I tell them my stories about when I see famous people (like a drunk Kate Walsh, Tiger Woods making fun of me, or that one time my friends assaulted Lance Bass from N*Sync) because that's all they really want to know about anyway.

Was it worth it to live through this crap to get where I wanted to be? I supposed it was but continued my pity party internally while everywhere else in the world there was hunger, war, and poverty.

Later at a party I retold my day with disgust fueling my enthusiasm. Someone said "You know? You should be a writer. You should write this down. All these crazy stories might be real inspirations."

No shit.

Vegas: Gross... Amazing

Holy shit.

DeVon, Cayce, Morgan, and myself went to Vegas this past weekend for birthday shenanigans... shenanigans indeed.

We arrived at the Luxor, immediatley blaring a barrage of nonstop Lady GaGa from the hotel room in a haze of hairspray and glitter. Being broke, we packed snacks and a handle of Smirnoff's finest. Pre-gaming is an art that I like to believe I have perfected. (You want to get a decent buzz, but not so much that you can't get past security at the desired bar you will be attending.) 

Stepping off the elevator, we were invited to free drinks at a club called Rok at New York, New York. Yes please. As we arrived, we realized our sweet DeVon has not yet perfected the pre-game tight rope. God forbid we stand in line for three minutes - do they know what we look like?! After informing the entire line of how unnatractive they were, she marched up to the bouncer and got us straight in. Although no one in the club wanted to talk to us because of the rant, we did get in and got our free drank on. DeVon-1, Ugly People-0.

Free drinks run out so the next obvious step is pizza. We're getting sleepy... long day. We make our way back to the Luxor but decide to give LAX Club a go (even though it sucked two years ago and it would surely suck tonight.) The moment we step inside, a promoter pops out of nowhere and leads us to the VIP bottle service section (ropes and all bitches). I thought it was because it was my bday... turns out Father Time had a table and wanted some young girls around. However, they were nice and really didn't bother us so we drank their free booze and danced. I don't actually remember the rest of the night but Devon speaks of a red haze (aka Noir After Hours Club) where we drank some more VIP booze that I obviously didn't need. A French man name Michelle (it was so fun to say!) and a chiropracter whose name still escapes me hung out with us there. (I abused said doctor. [I slapped him in the face, called him a pussy, and held his mouth shut when he was trying to have a convo with me. I assume I thought it was funny.] After the abuse, he actually thought I was awesome. Turns out he was right.) We didn't get back to the room until the sun rose. 

In the meantime, the Sisters McFreaky (Cayce and Morgan) go back to the room, break out some hummus we packed, and turn on the TV. Cayce starts ralphing into her hands (quite red from the Sun Dried Tomato hummus) while Morgan sprinted to retrieve a trash can. Then, Cayce forces Morgan to clean her hands off. Ah, sisterly love.

Next day - pool. It's my actual birthday and i think I lost 6 pounds due to severe dehyrdation (I looked great.) A promoter earlier had stopped us to offer free champagne that night and shots if we showed up to a place called The Cathouse (Sidenote: If it's in the Luxor, assume it blows.). Never ones to turn down free stuff, we show up. We had to wait a minute which did NOT sit well with our fearless DeVon. Once in, we got our free champers that tasted oddly similar to piss (don't ask how I know that). I drank it anways out of principle. Looking around, someone allowed 4 incredibly fat, unattractive 40 somethings to basically pole dance for our delight (to be clear I think everyone should be able to get in to whatever club/bar they wish. But for the love of God, if you look like John Goodman in drag, stay off the fucking tables). We need to go because an elderly woman hit me with her oxygen tank while trying to do the A Town stomp. DeVon- 1 Ugly People - 1.

We meet some of Dev's cousins and the lovely Kristin and Liz at Studio 54. Perfect! People are buying me drinks all over the place and I am dropping them accordingly. However, we are amongst the "normals" and obviously we don't belong there. VIP section here we come! More free bottle service with people I couldn't pick out of a line up. It's 3am... we need to call an "early night" b/c we have to check into Rehab in the morning (but not before pizza and a stale birthday donut). We walk back from MGM, sans 5 inch heels, and promptly get AIDS on our feet (DeVon actually steps in spit. Turned on yet?)

8:30 am - Woosh!! Curtains fly open and sunlight rips into the room searing my bloodshot eyes. Devon's awake, turning on GaGa and dancing around the room.
Cayce: "Wow, Devon's acting like it's Christmas morning."
Me: "Hun, to her this IS Christmas morning." 
There isn't enough hemerroid cream in the universe to cure the swelling around my eyes. I chunk on the make-up and hope for the best. Who cares, I'm still a little drunk anyways.

We use our hook-up at Rehab and get in quite quickly. For the most part, this pool party was everything we had dreamed... minus the fact that half of New Jersey was smeared across it, insistent on throwing their overly tanned bodies into the booze/dirt infested pool screaming things like "Look at my gold chains!" and "How perfect are my eyebrows?" Aside from them, the hotness I was promised was there. Brok from "Tough Love" actually checked me out - in a bathing suit. Well, that or the combined shocking paleness of Cayce and me was enough for a double take. Kristin, Liz, and Dev found some guys who wanted to give us free booze from their bottle service at a cabana (turns out that it wasn't actually theirs... mad points for hitting on girls using other people's stuff.) 

After a quick cat nap, we got ready to go to a place at the Hard Rock called Body English. Not before a saunter inter a rocker bar called Wasted Space (which happens to explain it perfectly). The bands that played thoroughly scared the girls so we left for the other club. Literally, the second we step in, we are ushered into the VIP section full of Europeans and Australians. (I really have no clue why we kept getting such luck with all the freeness but I'm going to climb out on a limb and say it's because of me and my boobs. Or perhaps that the girls I am friends with are incredibly beautiful and friendly. [Hmmm... nope, I think it's my boobs].)

Making out with an Australian for like 6 hours straight can be exhuasting, so by 6 am we were ready to leave and actually friggin' sleep. Not before I destroy a peice of red velvet cake, though, which I later regretted on many different levels (and the pictures are terrifying). 

We manage to sleep until noon (which is the most sleep we got the entire weekend) and then checked out and hung by the pool (when I say "hung" i mean we crawled into chairs and flung our limp bodies over them, hoping the sun would cook the booze out of us). Staggering to our cars, haggard, make-up crusted faces, stiff hair, and sun burned skin (I'm sure we smelled like heaven), a promoter walks up and offers us free drinks. Devon-2,Ugly People-1. Even looking like that, she wins.

Leaving sweet, sweet Sin City that evening, we recounted our long, crazy adventure (some of which will stay in Vegas as it should) and discovered some things. They are as follows:

-Morgan is permanently, emotionally scarred from hanging out with us.
-Cayce can catch her own puke.
-Devon HATES ugly people.
-I can survive off nothing but LUNA bars and vodka for days.
-All men cannot resist Cayce. Seriously. Don't even try. Her charm transends race and generations. If she were the president, we would have world peace.
-Old men with balding mullets will do anything to rub Morgan's feet. While she is sweet and innocent, she has no problem telling people to fuck off. She would make a good Sec of Defense. (Being that there would be world peace, she could just sit back and be amazing. Because that is exactly what she is.)
-Devon has no shame. She could talk her way out of a paper bag trying to sue her with a sexual harassment lawsuit. She would make a great VP because she could go in with demands after Cayce bats her lashes. 
-I am a lush. I'm pretty sure I died twice this weekend. Legally. So if I was a position, I'd be like the automobile industry as a whole, and my friends would always be bailing me out.

All in all, this past weekend was more faboosh than watching a Sex and The City Marathon while making out with Ryan Reynolds. Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes - you make me feel special - in a good way! And to Vegas... I love you, you dirty, dirty whore!

Ode to My Car: A Love Story

Remember the first time you fell in love? It was great, wasn't it? It was exciting, fun, sexy. The anticipation of the first ride was palpable. And it didn't disappoint...

It was 2002, I was 17 years old. Although I've always been a bit of a wild child, I was a good kid with excellent grades. Because of that, my father promised to buy me a car for all my hard work. I loosely explained what I would like - a fast, black convertible. He obliged.

Homecoming night of my junior year I saw her. Standing alone in my driveway, the world became still. Her sleek, dark curves, her tan, cool top, and her engine. V6... the things I could do with that!

I slid into the smooth leather seat and turned her on (as she did me) and revved her up. She purred, I swooned and that was it. My Japanese love machine I lovingly called "Lil E". (Apparently, if I don't name things that sound like they could possibly be a rapper, I can't love them.)

We were a packaged deal from then on out. She saw me through high school and numerous colleges. Although people tried to separate us by showing me new cars, I refused and she remained faithful, too. What did I do to deserve such a beautiful thing?

She took me out to California so we could start a new life together. It was hard for her travel all that way, away from home, away from the weather she loved so. She did it though, out of love for me.

But like all great relationships, ours began to crumble. I was working so much, putting lots of time in with that and trying to see my friends. When she started to complain I explained "California is different. It's all spread out from the valleys to the beaches. You need to understand." She kept grumbling, though, and eventually started to let herself go. 

We began fighting a lot. Once she left me stranded in Manhattan Beach claiming that I kept "draining her battery!". Another time she threatened to kill herself if I didn't get her flushed out and replace her oil. I thought that was a little dramatic. Worst of all was the way she was beginning to look; the sun spots. Dear God, the sunspots. If she were a dog she would be a Dalmatian at this point. Naturally, she blamed me for not knowing how important it is to "spend time with me and wax me. You know, make me feel sexy." Everything was always my fault.

Last night, it all came to a head. It was late and I had worked about 14 hours. I was exhausted and just wanted to go home. Instead, she decided that it was time to have the big talk. 

"Where is this headed, Brenna?" she demanded.

"Nowhere if you don't turn on your headlights!" I yelled, irritated.

"What's wrong with my headlights, huh?" she screamed incredulous. "They were just fine until you decided you didn't like how bright they were a few years ago. You wanted brighter ones and hired some dumb ass mechanic to put them in. He broke the piece that holds them steady and so now they point every which way and jostle out of place. If you had just appreciated me how I was naturally, maybe you wouldn't be standing here now."

"It's not just your headlights. Look at you! Look at your coat, it's ghetto and blotched! And the holes in your bumper make it look like you got shot!" I retorted.

"How dare you. First my rack and now my ass. It's all about looks with you. I've seen you checking out other cars when we're out," she sadly, looked away.

She had noticed that? "Ok, maybe it's unfair to attack how you look. But every time I turn you on, I never know if you're gonna throw the 'check engine' light at me or not. And that noise you make when we hit any bumps, it's awful! You sound like you're falling apart. I'm embarrassed to be seen with you when you do that," I admitted. 

She shook her head. "I'm embarrassing? You should see yourself rock out in here when you think no one is looking. You don't know how to use the tiptronics and carelessly throw food around. And don't think I don't realize how many times you've farted on my seat!"

I had to continue, I had to get it all out. "Your gas mileage is appalling. You think I didn't know? And your lug nuts don't match. What's that about? Oh, and how many times have I had to deal with your radiator? You get so crazy sometimes!"

Then, she turned on me. "Oh, yeah? Well what about when you're little brother dumped a blue slurpee in my backseat that you never even tried to clean? You're friends smoke around me and burn me, you've left me unsafe to be robbed, Kristina threw me into a parking lot wall, her stepdad hit me and you let your little brother smack my ass! Where were you?"

"True, but those things were out of my control. If I've neglected you recently, it's because I just can't bear the thought of dealing with you," I sighed.

"Do you not love me anymore?" she cried.

"Of course not! We've been through so much together, 120,000 miles! You were my first, my only. The thought of us being apart tears at my heart. But I don't know how we can go on like this," I replied.

"Therapy maybe..." she suggested.

"I can't afford it. Between a paint job, axel adjustment, engine work and God only knows what else, I would be broke. I'm not sure it's worth it to me anymore," I looked away.

And so we sat there in silence. As much as I don't want to say goodbye, I realized that eventually I would have to move on with my life and upgrade. The thought of selling her for parts, like a common whore, was heartbreaking. I'd rather fix her up with some other nice girl looking for a car to get her along. Would I? Could I? 

We drove home with no lights, barely acknowledging the screams from people to turn them on. As I arrived home, miraculously never getting pulled over, I shut her down and told her what was in my heart.

I whispered, "I'm too old for this and I love you too much to see you suffer. When we find you a new place and I find a new car, that should be it for us. No calls, no visits, no tweets. Don't think I won't miss you and what we've had in here. I'll always love you." I stroked a piece off trash off her seat and that was it.

Am I Too Old For This...?

Do you ever wake up after an especially (and unnecessarily) long weekend and think - am I getting too old to be doing stuff like this?

Last weekend, Dev and I started out Friday night going to an 80s cover band concert. Of course we can't just go and enjoy the sweet melodies of her favorite era, oh no. Firstly, we MUST dress up as obnoxious as possible... we don't want anyone looking at us like we're losers. Next step, we meet up at a friend's apt who is pregaming before the party bus arrives (thats right, party bus). Bring on the jungle juice and jello shots! Dancing around a large, moving vehicle while screamsinging and chewing my way through a rainbow assortment of evil (jello shots) got me a wee bit nauseous, so i spent a solid 15 min on the floor of the bathroom texting everyone about how I was "gonna barf FACT". This was not a fact, however, and Dev yanked me up and elbowed our way to the stage Will Ferrell-dart scene-Old School style. The band was surprisingly good (and young!) and we enjoyed them very much. We hit the party bus again to get back to the friend's apt where an afterparty bops on. The neon was blinding and the spandex was rampant. It was glorious. Then the hottest cops you've ever seen broke up the party (and my liver silently rejoiced). Dev decided to steal someone's bed, but not me. No, I am too classy. I decided to sleep in the car... the backseat you ask? Why, that would be too logical! I recline the passenger seat past where it probably was meant to recline, turn on the butt warmer and some music, gnaw on a LUNA bar and pass out face down. (For the record, I was wearing stretchy black pleather pants, a neon yellow shirt, a side ponytail, the sweetest leather fanny pack ever, and orange hightop Converse [I know how badass those shoes are, thank you for saying so.] so I can only imagine how I looked to the neighbors walking their dogs and playing with their children in the morning.)

After she comes and taps on the window at about 9:30 am, we head back down to our apt where I continue to sleep until 12:30 pm. Then, that trick makes me go to her damn football game. After the game we return to our apt and admit to each other the mutual overwhelming urge to rent "Twighlight" and watch it before the sisters McFreaky come down that night. (Side note: we're obsessed. I'm a gay, 13-year-old boy in drag.)

We don't make it to the bar until about 1 am but pound the drinks accordingly. The sisters meet us out to basically walk us home where we stand in my kitchen girl talking and taking shots of tequila (patron, a thank you) until about 5 am. Necessary? Hell no, but it friggin' happened. I digress...

Next morning, these bitches wake my ass up at 10 am so that we can go have brunch with our gays in Weho. (In gay talk "brunch" means "get wasted during the day and watch hot men dance around in their underwear".) We drive up and begin at about noon-ish. Golden Girls is playing in the background, the mimosas keep coming, and the conversation is abundant (just like David's laughter - one of my new faves!) and before we know it we're staging a photo shoot at the bar/restaurant. Sexually harassing our adorable bar tender Ivan is on the itinerary and of course dancing like robots (sexy robots). It's about 3 pm ish... we should really start heading back.... but everyone is going to another bar! I just hate feeling left out...

After the next bar (where lil Momo showed us how to do a sweet floor slide under my legs) Dev and I head back down home. We arrive to our sweet bachelorette pad and decide we're bored. It's only 8 pm! 

We walk to Patrick Malloys and guess what - half off all bombs! A dance party with just the two of us on the floor and three bombs in, we decide maybe we've had enough. We run into her friend and his buddy, I decide I hate his buddy (he was a douche) and bitch the guy out. We come up to our apt, realize I have locked us out, accidentally break our neighbors doorbell and Dev has to break into our window. Good night.

Next morning (Monday), I wake up at like 1 pm and I feel like SHIT. Dev is at work and she must feel 10 times worse I can imagine. I am filled with a sense of embarrassment, nausea and a little bit of dread (it's a small town out here). I can barely speak b/c when I party too hard I lose my voice. Am I getting to old for this? 

After a call from the bank about "fraudulent charges on my card" (which I assume is just all the bars I hit up over the weekend) I have to go in and talk to someone. Naturally, the hottest teller to ever grace Bank of America is the guy I have to deal with. How are we supposed to fall in love and skip on the beach if he sees my account, realizes my spending habits and asks why I am not at work on a Monday? On top of that, I didn't bother to put on make-up, I sound like a 60-year-old smoker and am sweating out the weekend through my pores. He helps me out (turns out there really was fraudulent stuff) but I get the sneaking suspicion he thinks I'm a terrorist or a spy from the way he grills me about old addresses and what I do for a living. I need some green tea...

I go to a coffee shop and need to leave because I start getting that weird mouth watering sensation and I think I'm gonna barf on the weird hippie guy next to me who smells like a pot factory.

I come back into the apt, leaving the front door open to get fresh air circulating inside and go into the bathroom. False alarm. I come out into the hallway and hear a strange noise in the kitchen. What the hell... there's a damn bird in my kitchen trying to escape out the window! I start yelling at it to get out (I heard birds speak German so I know he couldn't understand me) but it refuses. I don't want to deal with this!

The bird gets more and more hysterical, as do I, so I get a broom. I think I saw them do this on an episode of "Whose the Boss?" so I'm sure it will work. After ten minutes of trying to sweep it back into the hallway and screeching everytime it gets near me, I realize I'm going to have to get the kitchen window open. I shoo the bird over to the fridge, unlatch the screen and beat it toward the window. That little fucker hesitates on the window sill, looking out at the freedom it took me 20 min to give the little idiot. Another bop with the broom and it's out. I shut the screen and put the broom down, my arm brushing my chest as I do. What is that...? It's BIRD SHIT! On my FUCKING boob! Which has now been transferred to my bracelets. A bird shit on me in my own house. Is this some bizarre warning from God?

Dev gets home a few hours later and we're talking about our days and upcoming events.
Dev: "By the way, don't forget, we're going to Vegas this weekend!"
I mull this over a moment... can I handle yet another crazy weekend full of assorted animals, colorful drinks, and dance parties?
Me: "Oh, man we're gonna get wasted!"

What the hell, I'm only 24.