Young Forever

So we live a life like a video

When the sun is always out

and the champagne’s always cold

and the music’s always good

When your only worry is which way the current is guiding you. Dodge the other canoes. Or don’t. Collide and converse with other forever youngs.

Fight the current. Or don’t. Let it take you to the turtles, sunbathing with their homies.

Or do. Struggle towards the distant skyline. Watch the big city get bigger. The music clearer.

Fear not when, fear not why

Fear not much while we’re alive

Life is for living not living uptight.

Take off the lifejacket. Use it as a pillow. The oars as rulers of shallow waters. The friends as laugh tracks.

It’s not a worry. A fight. Or a struggle. Compared to the workweek. It’s the day they coined “picture perfect” for.

They leave a lot more quickly than they come. The days you’d swear were a dream if not for the sunburn.

Rarely does the universe report directly to you. Rarely does it gather all things necessary for forever young.

The warm weather without the sweat. Only enough clouds to decorate the sky more beautifully. Two best friends with two days off.

Check, check and check.

Later, we’ll pay $25 for a 3-block pedicab ride. We’ll miss Snoop Dogg’s show. Later, we’ll meet creepy old men who’ve had more plastic surgery than Heidi Montag. (Because we’re all in search of forever young.)

Let us die young or let us live forever

We don’t have the power but we never say never

Sitting in a sandpit,

Life is a short trip.

At least for a day, the current was kind. Forever might be asking too much. But I’ll take a day.

Beffers

In high school, we started writing a book about our life. Singular. We began by describing the day we first met–a day I’m sure neither of us really remember. Because children don’t implore themselves to remember significant events. They don’t see the importance of memories, as there’s so much more future than past.

And back then, we weren’t worried about who we would call when he broke up with us. We didn’t need the kind of girl who would kick him in the balls, just the kind of girl who was good at kickball. We only thought about the future with idealism–as high-paying doctors without all of the school, famous actresses without the “yeah right’s.” Never heartbroken. Never struggling to pay the bills. Never homesick or worried about the number on the scale.

.

I’m sad I don’t remember the day we first met, but I imagine she impressed me with her correct spelling of “spaghetti” or some other equally tricky word. Or maybe I’m just rehashing memories of her mom’s famous spaghetti…

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But I do remember birthday parties. I remember her go-kart, which wasn’t nearly as fun as her riding lawn mower. I remember playing Blind Bat in her basement and telling ghost stories at my Back to School Campouts. I remember watching MTV shows we were too young to understand and her dad acting appalled when we sang along to “Can I get A.” Jay Z had nothing on the songs we came up with in band. “Shut up Trevor… Trevor shut up!”

.

I remember being the third wheel on most of her dates in high school. I remember getting drunk off of Bacardi Silvers and throwing epic parties when my parents were away (“DO NOT throw your beer cans in the woods”). I remember the time she hoisted me through my ex-boyfriend’s kitchen window so I could steal his beer. The time we danced alone to “The Electric Slide,” completely sober. Skipping school to eat fruit and yogurt out of the same bowl. I remember people speculating we were lesbians, which is probably what everyone’s thinking now…

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I could go on, but the point isn’t that we’ve had such great, ideal experiences together; it’s that we’ve had awful ones.

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Third grade was the beginning of our problems when she refused to let me hang out with her clique. This contributed to all sorts of self-esteem issues, but I’m over it. I’m so over it, I don’t even replay the scene where Mrs. Fullerton tells me I’m better off without those girls. Ever. Honestly. Sigh, and then there were the thousands of fights in high school. Most were petty, she-said, she-said. Some were more serious, namely when boys were involved. But seeing as we had every class together, most were resolved by 7th hour.

Things got more intense when we headed our (very) separate ways to college. I was jealous of her new, fun friendships; she was jealous of my… Bible. And by the time I got back from Spain, it seemed we were still an Atlantic apart. We couldn’t skip school together anymore. We couldn’t bond over mutual hatred of jocks with necks bigger than our thighs. We didn’t have the same schedules, same friends, not even the same taste in music.

There was a 6-month falling out. Which is a polite way of saying I was a bitch. I’ll blame it on regressed 3rd grade memories.

But every friendship goes through its ups and downs, so what makes ours so special?

I think it’s the history. The history her new friends will have to wait 20-something years to match. The fact that we grew up in this small town together. That we broke out of the small town separately, but always with the same state of mind. That there was more. More big buildings to climb. More roads to navigate, more people to meet. With the understanding that none of it would ever match home. The spring afternoons lying face-first on blacktop, soaking in the heat.

Somewhere along the way, we saw the world wasn’t ideal. We made memories we didn’t want to make and lost the ones we wished to keep. We went months without speaking and said things we never meant to say.

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But I like to think we came as close to ideal as ideally possible.

Cold Feet, Warm Welcome

Seems it’s been a while since we last spoke. Or rather, since I spoke and you listened. Whatever, I wrote, you read… get off my balls.

When we last left off, I think I was doing dangerous things with boiled eggs and cowboys in Columbia. And truly, my life and my mindset couldn’t be any more different now. I’m growing into growing up just beautifully. Kayla is becoming an adult. Despite the fact that I just told you to get off my balls.

Just a week ago, I was a hot mess with cold feet (literally and figuratively). As many of you probably know, I spent the wee hours of my new year’s day in the emergency room with a nasty case of frostbite.

Seems champagne does not, in fact, act as a buffer between bare feet and concrete in 9-degree weather. This I tragically discovered after coming inside to warm up. After a few minutes, I was screaming at the top of my lungs and rolling around on the carpet, hoping one of those two actions would just make my feet fall off already.

As my feet turned odd shades of red and blue, a smart man told me he was going to take me to the hospital. With that, my screams of agony turned into pleas for him not to make me go because, despite my wincing and snot and tears, I was all better. Really, my feet felt like what I imagine a taser feels like, with pulsating shocks and a pain that leaves you paralyzed. I just didn’t want my parents to find out I was so stupid.

But when I fully grasped what “amputee” meant, I put on shoes (a little late, huh) and got in the car. For the next hour, the only phrases that came out of my mouth were “owie,” and “I’m such a fuckup.” Then, “100 dollars for a fucking hospital visit?!” Then back to “owie,” and “I’m such a fuckup” for the next 24 hours.

The fuckup part is how I’ve felt for the last 5 years. I’ve been young and dumb and disappointing for so long, that it became habit. I know people always throw around the “woe is me,” stuff, but seriously, it seems like I’m always getting myself into this kind of nonsense. Frostbite? Really?

I feel like I’ve played that part for too long. Between ditching cars, setting kitchens on fire, tripping up and down and over things, and now frostbite, I’m ready to take on a role besides the fuckup.

So I got this brilliant idea to apply for a badass internship in Texas, completely unashamed to admit I’m just following Dana Sweet around. It was a chance to start anew, to take on any role I wanted, to accomplish things. And of course to be near Dana Sweet.

But first I had to leave him. In the weeks leading up to my departure, I tortured myself with love songs and bawled every few hours over the thought of us ending. My first. My baby. My beginning and ending thought of everyday. The man who I hoped was on the line every single time my phone lit up the past two and a half years.

I was absolutely terrified, but not so much of how our relationship would change. I think we were both ready to change our relationship. Instead I dreaded, loathed, feared how much it would hurt not seeing him and not having him as mine. I replayed our “goodbye” scene in my head a million times, each time unable to fathom actually driving away. I began writing endless letters to him, incapable of signing my name to any of them.

And when the day came, he held me while I cried, we said goodbye, I turned up the CD he made me and drove south.

Goodbye hurt, but not nearly as badly as I had anticipated. And not nearly as badly as frostbite. I think I had once again pigeonholed myself into a role that wasn’t necessarily who I was.

I think I allow myself to cry too much because that’s my role. I’m the girl who cries when she sees a puppy on TV, when I hear certain Alicia Keys songs, when he’s 5 minutes late calling or when my computer breaks. I’m a girl. I stick out my bottom lip and whine. I speak baby talk and profess often how crazy I am about my man. I’m vulnerable and weak. And when that’s my role, when that’s what I’m used to, it’s easy to accept it. It’s easy to make fun of it and not strive to be any better.

But one week and one thousand miles later, my cold feet (literally and figuratively) are gone. When I crossed the Texas border, I was listening to Jazmine Sullivan’s “Dream Big,” (YouTube it NOW) and of course crying, because I’m just so damn excited to do good work and to start a successful life. The freedom and thrill I have are truly indescribable. I’m so happy.

Despite how often and how much I hated the journalism school at MU, I find myself overjoyed at the degree I chose. And my goodness, it’s no lie that MU has the very best School of Journalism in the world. I never knew how much I knew until I was thrust into a daily newspaper. I feel the confidence I’ve been missing these last few years and the ambition that had turned into apathy during college.

I also feel strong. I drove here, moved in, figured out the cable and heating, found my way to a grocery store, AND fixed my fireplace all by myself. OK, men did that last part. But I found and asked them.

Yep . Although 2010 started off on the wrong foot/feet, I think it just might be my best year yet.

Hard-Boiled Memories

Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this story before. It’s worth hearing again.

This is the story of how I found myself weaving through oncoming traffic at 8 am with a drunk cowboy, a grumpy man and one dozen hard-boiled eggs on my lap.

It all started when someone said, “hot” and another person said, “tub” and the usually dim light bulbs in Joel’s head sprang to life with a brilliant idea. Well, to be honest, it probably all started a few hours earlier with shots of strawberry Burnett’s, but that’s just every other night of our lives. This is when things turned interesting.

Much like vodka is a sexual lubricant (not literally, trust me), so vodka is a fear lubricant. It’s as if getting fired, thrown in jail and/or decapitated by a barbed wire fence (but that’s another story) simply won’t matter in the morning. As such, Joel decided it wouldn’t be stupid at all to take a gang of us to the hotel he worked at for a dip in the hot tub.

And considering we were all wastey faces, we would also need a room in which to sleep. Two rooms, actually. Two suites, actually. And somehow, Joel was able to convince a co-worker to get us these for free. Sexual favors were probably involved, but I don’t ask questions when a hot tub is involved.

So for the rest of our night, we got to pretend we were a big deal. We set up shop in the two suites, and I changed into my friend’s bikini—which struggled to hide my vajayjay but did a splendid job of covering my nipples just enough to get everyone excited for a little slip.

Though I doubt my friends appreciated that as much as you might think.

Ill-fitting suits aside, we were the classiest people in that entire low-budget Interstate hotel. We spent the early morning hours soaking in luxury, sipping on plastic-bottled vodka and diet soda, and discussing important topics like economics. Or more accurately, how our supply of vodka was dwindling and WHO HAS THE FUNDS TO BUY MORE?

When we were thoroughly exhausted being high-class, we crawled to our rooms, barfed, and passed out.

A few hours later, still wet and wasted, we were jolted back into the reality of our pathetic lives by 7 am alarm clocks. Seeing as we were posers, we had to get up, make the beds, take out our trash, empty the ashtrays, and make the room look as if a bunch of college drunks hadn’t used it as a nightclub.

While we were cleaning, Joel snuck into the kitchen to bring us all back some much-needed hangover food. When he returned with four slices of bacon, a few miniature bagels and a couple dozen hard-boiled eggs, I tried to remind myself it’s the thought that counts. Though I’m not sure what that thought was.

A quarter-slice of bacon and UNLIMITED boiled eggs for everyone!
Alas, it was almost time for the manager to arrive, so we needed to slip out the back door ASAP. Never the kind of people to leave gross food behind, we made out with a plateful of eggs, all a little proud that we had not only managed to get some free suites, we also took your eggs, bitches!

We split into vehicles, and I hopped in with my cutie Joel, who was driving while sporting a cowboy hat for some reason. Also in the front seat was the usually cute Brad, who was a Mr. Grumpy McGrumperson that morning. He had been cursing at Joel all morning to JUST GET HIM HOME already, and when Joel made a few pit stops, I just sat in the back with my eggs and chuckled.

Until Joel turned onto Broadway. I could tell he was going to kill us all as soon as he began his turn through the stoplight. It was way too sharp. And before I could yell, “YOU FOOL,” Joel had missed the median and was driving the wrong way down East Broadway’s one-way street.

We all screamed, some of us dirtier things than others, but Joel remained calm. STOP JOEL! WHAT THE FUCK! STOP!!! Cars were swerving to get in the other lane, but Joel kept his cool. And he kept driving. While I was texting my mother one last “I love you,” and wondering how the coroner was going to get the egg smell off of me, Joel was explaining that he was just going to keep driving until he could cross the median.

I think I passed out, but I’m pretty sure Brad grabbed the wheel and forced Joel to turn around. And when we were finally safely driving in the right direction, Joel was all, you guys need to get a sense of humor. Sheesh.

Grumpy McGrumperson yelled enough for all of us about the absurdity of Joel’s rationale. About how he almost killed us and didn’t even care. About how still drunk Joel was and how someone else should fucking drive.

Me? I ate a hard-boiled egg and loved my friends.

Moldy Mondays and That Mess I Call My Life

I was weighing the pros and cons of boiling pasta in a skillet when I realized it. My life is a mess.

Even if I had had the time, I didn’t have the room to clean a pot in our kitchen of chaos. I’ve been eating out of Tupperware for days for the same reason.

On a similar note, I actually Googled whether or not it’s safe to tear the mold off of bread and still eat it. When Yahoo Answers advised against it, I did it anyway. I have neither the time nor the funds to  get more bread.

I feel like I just don’t stop. A bill always has to be paid, usually with a late fee. There’s always a new e-mail to answer, new tasks at work, a project, paper, or unpaid newsroom shift.

And I’m always running late. Always forgetting to do stuff or stressed because I assume I forgot to do something. I’m 100 miles per hour all day, multitasking like a champion. I just paid an MU bill online, scheduled an appointment to get my oil changed AND cooked moldy garlic bread—all at the same time.

And the worst part about it is, I’m poor. Being 22 and still having to rely on my parents’ income makes me feel like a bitch. But at least I’m a thankful bitch. Thank you mom and pops!

I guess I’m not special. (Yes I am). In this situation, I’m no different than every other college student: overworked and under (read: barely) paid. I just feel like I’ve been doing homework for far too long. Something like 17 years. I’m over it.

Then I think about why our kitchen is such a mess and why I can’t afford a new loaf of bread. It has a little something to do with our weekend drinking binge that only stopped long enough to sleep a few hours. It has a little something to do with being in college.

College. When it’s appropriate to start drinking in the a.m. because strangers are getting ready to play football down the street.

College. When passing out on the couch in snow boots while it’s 70 degrees is just another Friday, and eating drunken El Rancho with friends is more satisfying than sex.

College. When three grown women can choreograph dances in a messy kitchen, laughing until it hurts, only half-caring if the neighbors see. Because we’re not really grown at all.

And I suppose I’ll eat a little mold any day if it means not really being grown at all.

Of Childhood, Character, and Cow Parts

I remember an old rusted freezer, tall and menacing, with an outdated Bud Light calendar attached to the front door. It sat in the corner of our garage and held something like a whole cow’s worth of meat that my family would eat throughout the year.

Back then I couldn’t care less about the fine cuts of steak or pounds of ground beef it held. I only dared open the heavy, creaky door for the latest delivery from the Schwan’s man. Orange push pops. Ice cream sandwiches. Sundae cones.

Despite the fact that my sugary delights shared space with a slaughtered animal, childhood was as it should be. It was summer in a small town, in an even smaller neighborhood filled with kids and imagination. I lived a short one-minute sprint or bike ride away from my best friend, Emily.

When Emily and I weren’t weighing ourselves or arguing about who was the biggest fatso, we ate junk food. We ate my dad’s outdated Little Debbie cakes, popsicles, cherries from the neighbor’s tree, and that day—ice cream from the meat freezer.

Probably after having bickered for ten minutes about who would go get the deserts, Emily (being the bigger fatso and wanting it more) gave in. She went into the freezer to get our ice cream treats.

I imagine we ate them while riding our bikes down the gravel road, swerving as we licked the melted goodness off our forearms, all while planning a neighborhood show for our new band, EK Music.

And as quickly as our childhood imaginations could conjure up ticket sales and world tours, parents could ruin with reality.

Hours after the day’s activities had washed ice cream stickiness off my hand, Emily and I came back to my house to see my father had just arrived from work. His bellowing voice called me downstairs, and I knew I was in trouble. Eager to get it over with, I ran to him.

He stood, taller than the freezer, his face red with anger. The freezer door had been left open. The meat inside was ruined by sticky Missouri heat.

My father screamed about the hundreds of dollars worth of meat in the freezer, about how he didn’t know what could be safely salvaged. He was frustrated in a way that only children can make you feel.

So I bowed my head and told him I was sorry for leaving the door open. I apologized for being so careless, and I probably cried, not out of fear, but because I hated disappointing my father. Surprisingly, he let me go back outside to play with Emily.

Later that night when I came home for dinner, dad told me he knew Emily was the one who had left the door open. I’m not sure if he could see it in my face or her face, but he knew.

And I’m thankful for what my father told me that night. He told me I had a good heart. I was a good girl for taking the blame for my friend.

I think I often forget that about myself. I get caught up in my mistakes, in the disappointments. I beat myself up for not being good enough, for bumming a cigarette or spending too much money at the bar. I allow others to question my character and worry they don’t like what they see.

I don’t give myself credit for being a good girl. A good woman, like my daddy raised me to be.

When it comes down to it, I am the kind of person who will take the blame for hundreds of dollars worth of defrosted cow parts. I know that much.

Boy Oh Boy

I’m going to try something crazy here. Something I meant to do all along. Something that needed to happen years ago.

I’m going to write a blog that isn’t about The Boy. That’s right. I’m not going to mention anything about how sexy he is. Or how much I want to strangle him sometimes. Or how even when I want to strangle him, he’s so sexy. I’m not going to do it.

So instead of talking about that pretty boy I like a lot, I’m going to use this blog for its intended purpose: documenting drunkenness.

Consider this the last you hear of The Boy.

For those of you who refresh your Facebook feeds every 20 seconds like I do, you might have noticed I’m a big fat liar. I’m not so much a liar as I am a fool, really. I tend to underestimate my drunk state of mind, convincing myself no matter how much I chug, I’ll never in a million shots get hypnotized at a XXX show. That just has regret written all over it.

Alas, regret is my best friend when I’ve been drinking. It’s like El Rancho to me. I’ll have a chicken taco salad and a delicious side of regret, please. Both hurt in the morning.

So after all of my sober protests, after continually refusing to ever participate in such a thing, I ran up on stage to be sexually embarrassed for the humor of others.

As I sat there under the harsh stage lights, I repeated to myself, “Don’t show your boobs. Don’t show your boobs,” all while wishing I had worn matching underwear just in case. By the time I got to the third refrain, I was already getting sleepy, feeling like, “meh, tits shmits.”

I was out of it so quickly. Watermelon vodka may have played a part in that. But even I was truly surprised. I was falling forward in my chair, thinking oh my fucking god, I’m getting hypnotized. Tits shmits. And then I knew I was totally going to get naked when he told me I couldn’t move my arm, and I thought, yes I can asshole. And then I couldn’t move my arm. TITS SHMITS!!

Things get blurry from here, although I do remember bits of what went on. I remember him trying to tell me it was really hot outside and that I needed to take off anything black. All I had on was a shirt and bra, black leggings and black underwear. And I remember thinking, this dude’s going to have to be slicker than that to get these pants off. At least buy me a drink.

So that basically explains how I acted during the hour and a half-long show. I did crazy things my stage frightened ass would normally never do, but I didn’t do anything very slutty.

So many people just X’d out of this blog right now.

The friends who actually let me do this told me most of what went down. One story goes that the hypnotist had us watching pornos, and while the other people on stage were practically jacking off, I was laughing hysterically. I can be very awkward about sex.

I can also be very awkward about humping a chair. This I saw video of, and I just want to clarify—that is not how I hump. I can’t be sure what I was doing up there exactly, but my arm was swinging around like an elephant trunk. I was moving my ass side to side, completely off beat, hair covering my face, looking like a strung-out hippie beating up a chair. Not sexy.

I also participated in a scene with a crazy, violent man who was hysterical about his McDonald’s order being messed up. I hugged him and told him to calm down. Kayla would cook him something at home. If I were in the crowd, I totally would have booed my boring ass. SHOW US SOME TITS!

Except for smacking some asses, that was basically it for my XXX hypnosis. I was a prude and woke up with no regrets.

Well, from the hypnosis, at least.

And there you have it, folks. A whole blog and not one mention of a darling, disgusting, delicious, damned boy.

Know and Be Known

He knows I’m particular about my feet—in that they MUST stick out of the covers while we sleep.

I know he’s particular about his feet—in that I MUST pumice them every time he comes to visit.

 

He knows I will probably yell at him if he comes around when I’ve been drinking.

I know that’s why he stays away on Friday nights.

 

He knows I cry too much.

I know he jokes too much.

(We both know this is a disastrous combination.)

 

He knows I am bad at driving.

I know he is bad at vulnerability.

 

He knows I could live on seafood and veggies forever.

I know he could live on pepperoni pizza and chicken forever.

 

He knows I’ll give him all the Reese’s in the pack.

I know he’ll take them even if I don’t offer.

 

He knows when I say I’ll be home in an hour, it will be two.

I know when he says he’ll call me back, he won’t.

 

He knows which tears to comfort and which tears are out-of-line.

I know he’ll always be there when it counts.

 

He knows not to tell me to “shhh.”

I know not to call him a “bitch.”

 

He knows I talk to other guys, but he’s my baby.

I know he talks to other girls, but ho’s are ho’s.

 

He knows everything I hate, adore, miss and crave about him.

I know the same. 

 

And there’s something about being known, isn’t there? I think that’s why so many people, including myself, blog. It’s a shameless effort to be understood. A plea for a connection.

 

Yes, there’s something about being known, not famously, but intimately. That he can know my deepest flaws and insecurities but choose to care for me regardless—that’s special. It’s on a level of unconditional.

 

Being known for better or worse is all we really want. It’s why we share secrets, why we hold hands to discuss the feelings we don’t want to confront, why we make promises, and why we pour everything we have into another person, even while fearing he won’t like what he sees.

 

Because when somebody does like what they see—when even my tantrums, emotional breakdowns, hang-ups and bad decisions don’t deter him—the realness is beautiful.

 

Nobody has to love anybody. We choose the souls we delight in. Appreciate those who choose you. Choose those who appreciate you. Know and be known.

When No Means Ouch (Part Two)

At least when my friends make me do dangerous things, I have the illusion of options. I could say no, and I do, but somehow I always end up with bruises in naughty places.

Still, there are other things in life I really can’t get away from, no matter how much I try. Like seeing Jon Gosselin’s face everywhere. Or, what’s only slightly worse, moving. I HATE moving.

Moving sucks for many reasons—reasons I don’t want to get into because thinking about it will cause me to flail my arms in rage. And if I flail my arms, someone will lose an eye.

This move was particularly awful for the simple fact that I had to move out of a place that was equivalent to an inner-city crack house dumpster. That was tucked inside a giant pile of human feces. That was shoved inside the belly of “The Half-Ton Man.” You get it. Gross.

Anyway, to avoid arm flailing and eye impaling, I’ll skip the details and just say that when I was able to finally get everything moved into our new place, I wanted nothing more than to just sit for hours and think about how I wasn’t living in filth anymore. The last thing I wanted to do was drive to St. Louis and die.

By now you know the story. I said no. And then I went to St. Louis. To a pool party, no less.

OK, here I will concede that if my friends WEREN’T around, I’d probably kill myself. See, there are these things called directions. And there’s this thing called Kayla. And they don’t get along. For some reason I always think I know where I’m going, though. No matter I just led us into every ghetto within a 100-mile radius, I’M RIGHT THIS TIME!
Except I’m not right. I’m never right.

But, with only a few detours, we did make it to the pool party. No thanks to me.

Now, if there’s one thing I hate more than dying, it’s wearing a bikini. Especially around strangers. So, I took the ride up to STL as an opportunity to put on my trusted skinny suit: vodka. It’s like an automatic liposuction. Invisible Spanx. God’s gift to insecurity. Pamela Anderson has nothing on this girl.

So, thanks to the many circles I took us in, I was skinny by the time we arrived at the party. Not only was I skinny, I was a gymnast.

Given the fact that I can’t walk up stairs without stumbling, someone should have intervened when I started heading toward the diving board. They should have tackled me, punched me in the face, and said, “it’s for your own good.” Alas, in all of my stubborn and silly drunkness, I joined in a game of “chicken.”

The first sweet skill I chose to debut was a front flip. And I guess I’m used to jumping off of diving boards that act more like dead planks than springs because, boy, did I flip. I never even knew drunk people could spin that fast. But there I was, in my bikini, drunk as a skunk, flying through the air with the greatest of ease. Too concerned about my boobs popping out, I didn’t even think about the landing. Until I felt it. On my freshly-healed thorn-face. After putting my boobs back into my suit (they waited to say hello til they were under water), I emerged from the deep end to the laughs and snickers of strangers, all pointing at my red, slightly-smashed face.

But never one to let public humiliation stop me, I did more flips.

Because I love you, I won’t keep you in suspense. I can report no broken skulls or mouth-to-mouth. In fact, I only fell TWICE! Count them, two times, into the pool. And I did a lot of very dangerous tricks.

My stunt selection included diving through a child-size intertube, the circumference of which was about half my chest size. Thank god for gravity. Also, I performed the long-jump over volleyball nets. And back flips over noodles. And Brad’s genius idea: shotgunning a beer into a front flip.

It’s truly amazing the kinds of superpowers alcohol gives me. I’m a fucking acrobat.

But, the party had to end sometime. Had we continued a few more hours, it’s very likely I’d be writing this from a coma at University Hospital. So, quitting while we were ahead and not dead, we decided to head further into STL and hit up a local bar.

I had to go in my pajamas because I had packed nothing else. I was a little bit sad I couldn’t get hott and pick up guys, but in my drunkenness, I convinced myself they should like me for me, not my looks. I’m a very irrational drunk. But if they didn’t like me, I’d just impress them with one of my flips. No need for a water landing!

After drinking pitchers of Bud Light and taking Jager-Bombs (because we’re such frat boys), we layered on some Jack in the Box. And just when you think the story is coming to an end with no blood… BAM! Brad elbows Timmy in the nose. As blood poured profusely from Timmy’s face, all I could think was, I can’t believe it’s not me.

Timmy ended up snoring the whole night, seeing as Brad destroyed his septum. In response, Brad chucked shoes at him hoping to shut him up.

Because that’s how my friends are. They make you bleed. And make you do things you don’t want to do. And then kick you while you’re down. All for the story.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When No Means Ouch (Part One)

The thing about my friends is that they’re always making me do things I don’t want to do. They’re kinda like rapists in that way. Just won’t take no for an answer.

It’s not that I don’t WANT to hang out with them, it’s just sometimes I don’t have the energy to even prepare myself for the kinds of shenanigans we will inevitably get into. I don’t have enough blood left to shed, nice things to destroy or livers left to replace. I just. can’t. do. it. NO MEANS NO!

But like the conniving little date rapists they are, I always end up doing whatever it is they want me to. No lie, I’m a sucker for peer pressure, and DAMN they can be relentless.

Take for example, earlier last week, when I came home from a long day at work to be tackled by Joel and Brad. On the sidewalk. I didn’t even make it into the house. “You’re coming camping,” they said. “No!!!!” And I gave them about a thousand legitimate reasons why there was no way in hell I could go camping. Really, I just didn’t feel up to dying that night. Which is what camping with them is equivalent to: dying. No. No. No.

And then we went camping.

Brad was our certified camp connoisseur. Mostly by default, considering he was roughing it with two gays, a dog, and Kayla. Alas, Brad, in all of his brilliance, announces that the woods directly to our left are for losers. He has camped there before, and dammit, they’re just too easily accessible. We must camp in the woods over THERE! “There” being a football field away. A football field of shoulder-high grass and thorns. And who do they elect as Co-Sucker in the “carry this cooler full of 60 beers across the threshold of pain” race? This girl.

And so began the process of dying. Joel and I made it no more than 10 feet into the brush before stopping to wipe the sweat from our brows and down a beer. Things picked up from there. (Natty Light is to me as spinach is to Popeye) Not that I didn’t curse Brad’s name the entire way. I cursed just about everything. Sticks, bugs, flowers, Republicans. But when we finally made it to the Promised Land known as our campsite, beer never tasted so good.

After setting up the tent and starting a fire (none of which I contributed to, in not-so-silent protest), our night was going rather well. If you don’t count the fact that NO ONE brought bug spray. But what’s one to do when the evening is pleasant, and nobody’s getting hurt? Cause pain, of course.

In what will go down in history books as “The Most Pointless Yet Destructive Idea Ever,” Joel decides we must frolic in the field. NO, Joel. NO WAY. Let’s just sit and enjoy the fire. NO.

And then we frolicked in the field.

Look at me skip around. Watch me wave my hands in the air like a damn fool. The stars look nice. Yes, the moon too. OK, let’s go back.

And here’s the part where I must tell you I lied. (It’s OK to lie if you tell the truth later). The Field of Doom wasn’t really full of thorns—only weeds and things. Truthfully, there was only one little patch of thorns our drunk bodies had to make it through. One small obstacle. Just a tiny trap. Falling for me on this trip was inevitable. But because the gods of balance get off on my clumsiness, I had to fall, not in the millions of soft plants around us, but into the thorns. Head first. DEATH.

Obviously it’s difficult to untangle oneself from a thorn bush. But getting out of such a mess while drunk is harder than, well, being able to say “no” to camping. Oh, and you know those fools weren’t much help. They tried to assist me, but their laughter got in the way.

Yes, immediately after I stood up, I fell over again. But this time it was only into a stump. No one should ever have to feel lucky to fall into a dead tree. But THANK GOD.

When we got back to the cooler, Colt thankfully played monkey and picked thorns out of my scalp. He may have eaten them too, I don’t know. Some Truth or Dare was played, body parts were exposed, blood dried, flasks became empty, and we went to bed.

I awoke the next morning to assess the damage. I would be picking thorns out of my mess of hair for days, but my money maker, the face, was only a little bloody. Both legs would need to be amputated, but my right arm was maybe salvageable after a bath in peroxide. Limbs are overrated.

Joel woke up and lured me back through the Field of Doom with promises of free McDonald’s, and while we were on our way to the car, my body pushing through the pain, I got a text message from boss-man. He was wondering why I wasn’t in the newsroom that morning. BECAUSE! I replied, summer school is OVER?! No, he said. You have three more weeks of work left. Summer is overrated.

And at that point, I really did die. I stopped walking, fell into the gravel, and croaked. My last words were, “OUUUUCHHH!”

Stay tuned for the next installment, where I say no to dying and end up doing back flips.