Stupid Star State

I sometimes have nightmares the federal government has decided to reinstate prohibition. The world is in chaos. Wine cellars are being raided. Alcoholics are jumping off bridges. This blog as we know it is ruined. And I’m sleeping with mafia bosses just for some bootleg booze.

It’s terrible. And it’s become my reality. Hi, my name’s Kayla, and I cannot buy alcohol.

It started when I came to Texas. You all know about Texas.  That’s because most of us were taught about 50 territories (give or take the Dakotas) that make up the United States of America. Texas children, it seems, did not.

Much like little Texans will soon not know of Thomas Jefferson (that’s a whole other bag of shit), they seem to not know other states in the Union exist. And that sometimes, people live there. And sometimes those people need a stiff drink.

Our flag does indeed have 49 other stars, no matter how eclipsing their Lone Star wishes it could be.

I’d say about half the time I try to buy alcohol (so, 4-5 times a week), I am rejected. The cashier or bartender takes my ID, and upon seeing the word “Missouri,” jerks their head back, squints their eyes, and their brain very audibly farts.

“Missouri?” they ask, in a mixture of disgust and disbelief.

They take a few moments to scan the foreign document then throw it back before contracting some sort of STD.

“We don’t accept out-of-state IDs,” they arrogantly say.

Though I’ve heard this nonsense before, I always act surprised and say, “That’s weird cause I’ve bought here before.” Then I show them my other Missouri ID and, for good measure, my Mizzou ID.

“Sorry,” they lie. And I’m forced to be a cranky fiend and tell them it’s their lost business. And no, I’m not putting the 12-pack back.

You’d think a state so cocky would prepare for tourists wanting to visit their superior southern world. But as I found out from the traffic cop who couldn’t get over my non-Texas license plates, legal immigrants will be punished.

In every other American state, I am 23-years-old and mature enough to get belligerent and barf up the beer I legally bought.

Sell me the alcohol, and YA’LL won’t get hurt.

Too cool for school

It’s that time of year again. Drunkards roam the streets, clinging to the last few days of summer like they won’t drink all semester anyway. Furry pink rug sales skyrocket, as gaudy, tasteless decorations are accepted and expected in dorm rooms. Campus is stirring with prettier and taller people than it will see all year. Hair is straightened, heels are endured, new outfits debuted… all for the new school year.

Even I’ll get caught up in the hype. I’ll pick a back-to-school outfit that’s casual yet cute and curl my hair loosely, so it looks natural. I won’t look like I tried, but every girl will know I did. I’ll have highlighters handy and perhaps write due dates in a calendar because, of course, this semester will be different. I’ll be organized and well rested. I’ll sit in the front of the class and participate often without being annoying. I’ll resist tripping sorority girls.

And this time, this semester, I’ll give myself a stellar introduction.

Perhaps I should preface this by saying I’m hopelessly terrified of first-day-of-school scenarios. I remember I was so scared my first day of high school, I actually had to leave class, multiple times, to tend to a nervous bowel situation. But I digress.

The point is, new situations and new people scare me. Yes, this coming from the girl who booked it across the Atlantic to live alone in Europe for a year. But back then, you could have shipped me off to Baghdad with only a George W. bumper sticker to cover my ass, and I would have said THANK YOU for getting me out of Bolivar. But I digress again.

It’s not that I’m worried what people will think of me because I have an unmatched ability to join classes in which NO hott guys are present. I’m not sure what it is. This is just one of my many feelings that doesn’t make sense. Like my unnatural fear of flying. Or my unnatural dislike of babies.

Anyway, I might not even have this stupid dread toward first-day days if we didn’t ALWAYS have to do obligatory introductions. Name, year in school, major, reason you’re taking the class, and… here’s the kicker… something interesting about yourself.

Something interesting? What am I supposed to say to that? I once pooped 6 hours straight my first day of high school? I can bong a beer in 3.4 seconds? A few years ago, I outran a cop while naked? All interesting, but probably not appropriate, at least for first impressions. That’s stuff better saved for weeks 3 or 4.

It’s not that I’m uninteresting, it’s just I can’t really think of something so special about me, it deserves to be mentioned right off the bat. I’m not sure what kind of bullshit I’ve made up in the past for these kinds of exchanges. It’s not like you can say something like, “I have 450 tattoos,” or “I can contort my tongue into the shape of a penis” or “I am magic.” Because they’ll make you show them, and then when your tongue looks nothing like male genitalia, they’ll just think you’re weird. Or a liar. Or sleep with strange men.

But this time around, this semester, I’m going to come up with something interesting about myself so that maybe I won’t be so terrified on the first day of school. I’m not so concerned with truthfulness as I am coolness.

Here are some of my contenders:

Lil’ Wayne is my uncle. He gets sloppy drunk at family Christmases, so I take care of him.

I was a child star. Remember that Alex Mac show? That was me. Hollywood was too superficial for me, though.

I met Chuck Norris. And lived to tell about it.

I’m married to a billionaire. But if I tell you his name, I’ll have to kill you.

I dated Chelsea Handler before she went straight.

I skydive, like, everyday.

I choreograph all of Beyonce’s videos. Post Destiny’s Child, that is.

I was the first to come up with the phrase, “That’s what she said.”

OK. This is just a preliminary list, mind you. I’m open to suggestions any of you other fantastic liars can come up with.

In the meantime, I’m going to work on giving wrong directions to all of the frantic newbies around campus.

Planet Her

I was walking to class today when I spotted a creature out of the corner of my eye. It was coming near me, so I instinctively ducked behind a tree, hoping it hadn’t seen me.

She hadn’t. The DG shades she was wearing on a rainy, overcast day probably impaired her vision. I followed this mysterious being (I believe the scientific name for it is “sorority girl”), attempting to figure out exactly what I was seeing.

The tan wasn’t fake; it was perfectly even. Scarily even. It was a tint I had never seen before, somewhere between leather and tar. I’d have assumed her daddy was an oddly shaded black man if it weren’t for the hair.

The color of morning urine, with highlights of white. It lit up the entire quad, and I thought that probably explains the shades. It was the straightest, sleekest, style I had ever seen—even in Pantene Pro-V commercials. Whereas the morning’s mist might have frizzed out the rest of the world’s hair, hers was well-behaved in a permanent, poofy position.

She had on a thin layer of makeup, blush not accenting her cheekbones as much as her entire face. Perfectly manicured nails, a light shade of pink, clutched a Coach bag that probably had everything but books in it.

All of this, and homegirl was wearing…… sweats. I couldn’t get over it. A baggy pair of grey pants, tucked neatly into some Uggs. A tee shirt and tight Mizzou fleece. Was this bitch SERIOUSLY trying to pull off the effortless look? Did she think covering up her charred skin with a cotton blend would make people think she woke up like that? Nice try, blondie, but I’m onto you and your two-hour morning routine. I didn’t know whether to hate her or hate her and laugh at her.

Anyway, my thorough inspection and ultimate evaluation of this girl happened within a short sidewalk path. I know I probably shouldn’t have judged her as mercilessly as I did. After all, she’s more than likely a decent person.

As long as she doesn’t chip a nail. Or have one too many Bacardi Silvers. Or speak.