tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54354382612388258082024-03-05T10:38:30.813-08:00The Writing's Off The WallAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-57603975759860704272015-07-28T11:19:00.000-07:002015-07-28T13:44:08.027-07:00Special Delivery<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Tove Lo fashion, 'now if we're talking Buddy (hey!)...'</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This past fall, Buddy took a much welcomed extended leave of absence from our lives. I want to go into details and explain why but I prefer to go Benjamin Button on you and begin backwards.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Usually on your birthday, you receive calls/texts/Facebook messages from friends and family. This also seems to be the perfect day for the randoms you've met along the the way to slip through the window of opportunity. In a previous post, I talked about guys in this category; it's someone you most likely met at a bar and in a weakened, temporary moment of liquid induced insanity, you gave him your number. So, it's ya birfday and you're trying to party like it's ya birfday, but you get distracted when you see a text message from that loser you met at Mad River 4 years ago, who awkwardly tried to kiss you in his kitchen when you refused to take the 'rooftop deck tour'. I'm digressing a little, but it's actually hilarious that some seem to think this is a smart way to impress a lady. Sure, I'll come up on the deck...if you have a fire escape. </span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't intend to come across as mean, but I question why this happens; I appreciate a nice gesture but this really got me thinking. Usually after the 'Happy Birthday' greeting comes the 'Thanks! :)' response but what that means is, 'Thanks, this conversation is over'. In a way, I understand...if he's clueless, he needs a good excuse to come swooping back in like a Knight in Shining Armor but instead of a horse, he's riding in a beat up taxi since he's drunk. I guess they figure a special occasion such as the day you were born warrants lame conversation even though the flame they're hoping to reignite burnt out faster than a candle in a hurricane; in fact, there was never a fire to begin with - except on a bottle of Fireball.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was my friend's birthday a few weeks back and our boozy friend Buddy skipped the birthday greeting and announces it's shot o'clock. I'm proud to inform everyone that Buddy has recently graduated from Fireball to Rumple Minze; yes, it's clearly Christmas in July and the Heat Miser has currently frozen his love for whiskey. At that time, we were located about 30 miles away celebrating, but he made the offer quite clear - that he was at 'S&J's' (Stan & Joes) and that he has a case of the Rumps. It's getting late, but if we make it back to Annapolis, we're only a few short blocks and a Rohypnol away from a good time! Buddy is told that we won't be making it out tonight - it's been a long day and we're tired.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Buddy's response? 'If you're nice, I'll bring you a slice of cheese' He's been bringing the 'cheese' all along, but what he's referring to tonight is pizza. Trying to sway the drunk girl with food huh? Some girls want a sugar daddy but he's under the impression that she wants a Papa John. If we wanted someone taking food requests at 1:30 in the morning, it'd be Giovanni from Pizza Boli's...not you.</span></span></b></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-68451508197422440062015-06-14T09:16:00.000-07:002015-06-14T10:30:26.208-07:00In every lovely summer's day<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>In case anyone was looking to follow up on what happened with our friend Buddy, I promise I won't leave you hanging for much longer</b></span></span></span><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>. Today though, I want to touch on something else.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>June marks six months since my father passed away; next Sunday will be my first Father's Day without him. I think about my Dad every single day. To be honest, some days are very normal and routine</b></span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, almost like it never happened.</span></span></b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> When this occurs, I feel a surge of guilt for feeling happy and wonder if he's looking down wondering if I forgot about him. However, there are nights I shed tears because I simply want to talk to him and I can't. I'm still processing his loss and am sometimes surprised at the emotions I'm experiencing. </b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>My Dad and I did not have a perfect relationship - in fact, we butted heads quite a bit. We tested each other; both stubborn in our ways, but thankfully we were always able to work out these kinks. Though his life was cut short, he was able to make his dreams come true</b></span></span></span><span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> through steadfast focus and integrity. He was undeniably the most giving human being I've ever come across - generous, but not foolish. He was strong in his morals and didn't hesitate to stand up to deceitful behavior. He was brutally honest; I learned to stop lying a long time ago when once</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span style="color: #741b47;">he asked where my report card was (in my backpack) but I was afraid to show him because of a bad grade - so I told him I left it at school. I knew I was in deep shit when he then replied 'Ok, I'll drive you to school so we can get it'.</span></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;">Because of him, I am a better person; even in his absence, his hand on my shoulder continues to be a guiding force. He said that I made him proud, and I want to continue to do so. We used to discuss what song we would dance to if I ever got married; I told him I'd always liked the 'I'll be seeing you</span></span></span></b><span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">' version by Frank Sinatra.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces - all day and through. </span></span></b></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-32521985182649671912015-06-01T16:23:00.000-07:002015-06-01T16:27:15.828-07:00Unlimited Crabs & Ribs<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last night, I had a lot of time to think slash reminisce while I worked on pulling 50 bobby pins out of my hair. #Weddingseason, hayyyy.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Something about standing on a dock at high noon, surrounded by sparkling water brought me back to a few memories from last summer; due to length, this post will most likely be a two part-er. Before I go into details, I'm going to confidently assume that at least 99.9% of anyone reading this has carelessly given out their digits at a bar. Why on EARTH did you commit such an act? I've broken it down:</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. You were drunk</span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. You were bored (and drunk)</span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. You're going through a break-up and need a confidence boost (and drunk)</span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. You were drunk</span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. You were drunk</span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6. You were drunk</span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, yeah...the damage is done. It's especially funny because in a lot of these scenarios, we'll gladly hand our phone to this person (stalker) so that they may enter their 'name' into your contacts. The following morning, you wake up confused when you notice you have a text from 'Cute Nick' or some turd bag nickname like 'J-Luv' - what? Let's face it, no one calls you J-Luv except yourself. The message is your standard 'good morning beautiful' followed by a fugly selfie of said Cute Nick or J-Luv, sporting aviators and an Aeropostale polo with a mother fucking popped collar! Ahhhh! Honestly, the first thought that came to mind was if and how that store was actually still in business.</span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>These conversations are usually short lived, and by short lived I mean non-existent. We ignore it and in most cases, they take the hint. Other times, they'll have a conversations with themselves like ''well, it was nice to meet you. I'll be in town for the next week if you want to chill!' Thanks but no thanks; in other words, you're looking for something to poke on while you're on your 'business trip'. What he <i>should</i> be looking for is a stylist to take him shopping for big boy clothing.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Don't worry; I'm getting to my point. So, there's those guys...the 'J-Luvs' and the 'Cute Nicks' who are never cute but think they'll sway you anyway. Sometimes, you'll meet an in-betweener - I really don't know what else to call it. This guy isn't the worst, but you also don't want to be waking up next to him. You're not attracted to him physically, his personality doesn't make up for it either BUT hey, if you happen to run into him when you see him out - you won't decline a drink offer. Got it? We'll call him Buddy.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>He's easy to dub this because he works part time at Buddy's in Annapolis aka place to eat seafood if you want your head in a toilet later. Buddy is ALSO a real estate agent and kind of a big deal, as he feels inclined to mention every time he opens his mouth. Buddy was smitten with my friend immediately upon meeting; over the course of a year, we'd run into Buddy on occasion. Though Buddy was told from the get-go that there was no chance for romance, he continued to show endless devotion with offerings of cinnamon whiskey. We wouldn't be in the bar for more than 10 minutes before he came barreling over with his hot, Fireball breath handing us shots. 'Hey sweetheart!' That was his choice pet name. Unless she's your girlfriend or you're a 1920's Prohibition era gangster, stop using that fucking word! 'Ya shee, schweetheart..I brought here shome bootleg whiskayyyy!!'</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be continued...</span></span></b></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-11232922456481602102015-05-12T17:56:00.000-07:002015-05-12T18:28:19.315-07:00And that's how ya let the beat build...<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>In</b></span></span></span> <b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the past 9 years of me intermittently living an apartment lifestyle, I've always been on the top floor. This sitch is not ideal for moving furniture, carrying groceries, or surviving tornadoes. In fact, I'm pretty sure the only perk is lack of noise. At my previous residence, the only time I was startled awakened in the early mornin' hours was by the Pizza Bolis delivery guy; his fist was going to Poundtown on the door because 'some' drunk ordered pizza and fell asleep before it arrived - completely justifiable.</span></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast forward to August of 2014 - ooh girl, can you picture it? So, the roommate and I are all moved into our new place, which I need to mention is a 1st floor apartment - started from tha top, now we here. We were enjoying an intense Netflix bender when it began - 'it' being an exhausting and seemingly endless struggle for the duration of our lease. I don't know about you, but I am not a big fan of EDM. I'm especially not a fan when it's blasting loud and proud from the apartment above, causing objects in my bedroom to vibrate. I'm a pretty lax gal when it comes to tolerating loud music and rowdiness; hell, there were many-a-nights just a few short years ago when it was deemed more than acceptable to crank up my hoodrat playlist during a heavy pre-game sesh.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the weeks progressed toward fall, the noise grew but my patience did not. I'll go ahead and call my 2nd floor neighbor 'David' (Guetta) since he seems to think he's a mainstream DJ. </span></span></b></span><b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">David's late afternoon club bumpin' exhibitions eventually went into hibernation; some say you 'can't stop the music' but sometimes you have to before before you're late to your kiosk job at the mall selling E-cigarettes. I actually have no idea what he does for a living but I'm favoring it's something that requires limited brain activity. I DO know his real name, as it's posted on his mailbox every month on a piece of paper threatening his eviction if he doesn't pay rent. Too bad you can't be kicked out for being a total fucking tool.</span></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before long, I began to be kidnapped almost nightly out of a deep sleep by good ole deejay Dave. Any weeknight, it would be begin between 12:30 - 3:30 AM and continue on for several agonizing hours. I like to call any of those time slots the witching, er...bitching hour because that's what I was driven to: waking up and complaining to my roomie about the Douche Rocket that has struck our walls. When you start waking up like clockwork a la Ryan Reynolds in 'The Amityville Horror', then I think we have an issue. Now, I think the adult way to handle problems is to go directly to the source, which in this case, involved several courtesy knocks and a polite request to 'turn your FUCKING music off!' Keep in mind there actually <i>was </i>major emphasis on the expletive. I wasn't shocked he didn't open the door, but a little disappointed because I was curious to see what his shit show of a place looks like. </span></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I imagined a hazy, burnout dorm room type place - with paraphernalia everywhere, a ripped up futon and let's just go ahead and throw a lava lamp in there. There's also a high possibility that he charges $2.00 at the door and if you have a vagina, you get to drink for FREE - from a plastic BUSCH LIGHT cup! Sadly, I have yet to see the elusive Bro Lair, though the privilege is granted only to the lucky lured ladies who are drunk - and I'm talking about David Hasselhoff lying on the floor eating Wendy's drunk. If you've never seen the clip, shame on you and Google it.</span></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As if the music wasn't enough, Dave is pretty active during these episodes - fervently stomping around like the Jolly Green Giant. Speaking of green, I guess he's just anxiously pacing back and forth while waiting for a weed delivery. I mean, this is Annapolis - might as well act like a pretentious asshole and have your drugs delivered straight to your doorstep. You may be wondering why I hadn't called the cops; truth is, I try to give people the benefit of the doubt - that maybe there's a tiny bit of common courtesy lurking around.</span></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When the bass dropped last night around 12:15, we decided it was time to call the boys in blue. It must've been a slow night in Nap-town because maybe 7 minutes after the call was made, we heard the 'KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK'. I opened my door slightly to eavesdrop on the verbal ass whipping - all I heard in addition to walkie-talkie 5-0 static was Dave exclaiming 'I wasn't smoking anything!' I found that funny considering the complaint had absolutely nothing to do with that. He may have not been smoking, but his sub-woofer was.</span></span></span></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-3646786912238663902014-12-18T18:22:00.000-08:002014-12-18T18:22:05.233-08:00Some clouds...<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The train rocked gently back and forth as it lulled past a farm somewhere between Wilmington and Philadelphia. With the latest edition of 'People' magazine on my lap and a bottle of water at my side, I looked out the compact window - just thinking. That's what I tend to do when I travel this way; most passengers become engrossed in laptops or their phones but I usually take the opportunity to simply decompress. Now and then, someone will wobble down the aisle juggling a tray complete with chips, yogurt, and a Bud Light from the snack car - which I always find mildly amusing, as they try not to lose their balance.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">'Daddy, why are husbands always older than their wives?' A young, curious voice probed from the pair of seats behind me. 'That's a good question, honey- I'm not exactly sure, but it seems true, huh?' This conversation, which covered various topics - wore on for a couple more hours, and it became clear that my ears were bearing witness to nothing more than an unbreakable bond between a father and daughter. For the duration, I was thinking of my dad and of all the adventures we'd embarked on and naturally, all of the questions that came along like 'what's a runaway truck ramp?' Like the soft-spoken man who sat behind me on Amtrak #163, my dad was patient and humble and frankly, let me do whatever sparked my creative interest.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sixteen days after that trip to New York, my dad suddenly passed away. In the moment that I found out, I was paralyzed. I walked out the front door and expected everything to pause, because a world without my dad in it was unimaginable. It was a blustery afternoon; the wind took my hair and obscured most of my face. Leaves rustled and danced across the street; I witnessed a neighbor tow her Bulldog behind her. I knew then that though this awful thing had happened, everything around me continued without fail - a relatively uneventful, typical lazy Sunday for most.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">In the hours following his death, my mind raced; I laid in bed that first night and stared at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity, part of me yearning for some divine message. My thoughts immediately rewound to 2 weeks prior when I was arriving back home from the Big Apple. My dad - gracious as usual, offered to pick me up from the rail station. As I hopped out of the train and onto the platform, I joined the herd of other travelers hustling toward idled taxis and shuttle buses. I expected him to be in the parking lot, but glanced up - surprised to see him standing off to the side of the 'traffic'. He had one hand extended for my luggage and the other prepped for a hug. 'Hi honey, did you have fun?' I'll never forget that moment, to see his smiling face in that chaotic sea of strangers was overwhelmingly comforting.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Words cannot express the enduring love and adoration I have for my dad - who is now my guardian angel. At his memorial service, someone brilliantly stated that he was someone who made your goals his goals; a statement so brief yet completely summed up every aspect of his caring and giving spirit. He was larger than life and perhaps that is why God called him home. Coping with his loss is like an ocean; some days are rough, while others are more peaceful and calm - but I am confident he will give me the strength to swim through it.</span></strong><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-27690698376032875962014-10-07T10:49:00.000-07:002014-10-07T14:17:34.942-07:00It had to happen<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A rite of passage is defined as an event that marks a person's transition from one status to another. So, with that being said, if someone gets a hold of your bank card - you transition from Daddy Warbucks to Little Orphan Annie in an instant...at least that's what it feels like.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Like puberty, this is one of those things that has to happen at some point in your life whether you're ready or not. I got 'the call' from a bank representative the other day, who informed me that my 'credit card has been compromised.' By the way, that's just a nice way of saying 'I'm sorry, but you're fucked for 7-10 days while we change your account information and issue you a new card.' Apparently, some bloke with crooked teeth is running around England treating himself to Fish 'N Chips on my precious dime.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>That's just not my bag, baby...</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>In the grand scheme of all things unfortunate, this is really a minor convenience, if anything...however, it happened a few days before I was leaving for Florida. I always feel more secure when I have some plastic with me, in the event of emergencies - and by emergencies I mean buying a round of bombs at the bar for my friends.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The option of Travelers Cheques was brought to my attention, but I'm not Clark Griswold and this isn't 1983.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>'This isn't a vacation anymore, it's a quest...a quest for fun!'</b></span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-23616116497386391232014-08-04T13:12:00.000-07:002014-08-04T13:21:16.481-07:00Heavy liftin'<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My brother has told me several times over the last few months that due to my lack of posting, my blog has basically become a dried up turd. I won't lie and say I disagree with him...summer drought, perhaps? In all honesty, I'm currently going through all those familiar emotions associated with moving: stress, stress, and stress.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been busy packing up my life and movin' boxes to the left, to the left like Beyonce 'cept I aint kickin' no cheatin' man to the curb.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>It's universally said that moving is one of the most difficult tasks that we face throughout a lifetime</b></span></span></span>.<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> This experience cultivates many feelings, ranging from anxiety to physical pain</span></span></b></span>.<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> The process is also an exciting one - it's an opportunity to start a new chapter</b></span></span></span>. <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I've been lucky enough to</b></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"> <b>call two of Maryland's most iconic cities my home; while it's bittersweet to say goodbye to what's familiar, I'll carry the good times and laughs with me as I move forward.</b></span></span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-12688529372048552302014-06-01T07:21:00.000-07:002014-06-01T07:24:41.536-07:00Two types of pains<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, it's been a hot minute since I last posted; I had to blow on my computer like a classic Nintendo cartridge because I wasn't sure if it still worked.</span></strong><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Today I'm feeling good - coming off of a 3 day migraine marathon. It's probably my own stubbornness, but I continued to pop Advil 'VH1 Behind The Music' style without any relief until I broke down and bought Excedrin Migraine. I'm sure anyone who's had this type of headache can agree that they're disabling; I drove home from work the other night with one hand on the wheel and the other with a firm grip on my head, hoping the pressure would stabilize the pain. I'm sure it looked odd, but definitely more dignified than having my finger up my nose.</strong></span><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Recently, I was inspired by a friend who received unrelenting texts from a guy she met at the bar. I do think the term 'creepy' is tossed around too casually; no man wants to be labeled as a stalker but <em>sometimes</em>, a CCT (Creeper Champion Trophy) is deserved. I think some of these guys misunderstood the phrase 'don't take no for an answer!' In the dating world, 'no' actually means 'no chance in Hell'. Guys - when a woman says she just wants to be friends, don't misinterpret that as 'I want to have sex with you!'</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What's even worse is when someone tries to impress you with their 'assets' - this is a common Annapolis strategy. I don't mind friendly conversation at the bar, but frankly, I don't care that you live on a 'boat 'and want to take me for a ride on it - you act like you live on a floating Taj Mahal. All I really got from that statement was that you're homeless, so I think I'll take a rain check on the Roofie Coolata cruise.</span></strong><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-17533921173728352262014-04-26T11:36:00.000-07:002014-04-26T11:40:07.981-07:00Up on the roof...<strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Eight years ago, Justin Timberlake released a song about karma and I've got a story that really proves that 'ole JT was right on the $$$ about what goes around really comes back all the way around.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just the other night, as I was digging into some savory Chinese takeout, I began to reminisce. When I was in college, there was this guy that made me feel nauseous at the near sight of him. He wasn't unattractive by any means; in fact, many women considered him the 'campus hottie'. In my eyes, he was just a regulation D-Bag with a piss-poor attitude. I don't care how great you look; it's like that saying goes 'you can polish a turd, but it's still a piece of shit'. My friend had a class with him and he constantly demanded to copy her notes, only after sleeping through class after class. Upon her rejection, he said 'you obviously don't know the way things are done around here'. </span></strong><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>It was a typical Friday evening at the bar and I see him roll up with a bag of Chinese takeout, but before he comes in, he places the bag on the roof - I guess he figured this was an inconspicuous place to store his drunk food. I guess he didn't</strong><strong> consider the possibility that <em>anyone</em> would be curious about a random brown paper bag chillin' on a low roof. When I say low, I mean that Wee Man from 'Jackass' could reach it if he jumped.</strong></span><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I decided it was time to call it a night, I ventured outside into the parking lot and eyed the bag. I walked over and grabbed it without even thinking twice. I couldn't wait to get home and explore the contents, which included spicy General Tso's chicken, rice, Wonton soup, and an added treasure: 1 eggroll. I'm about halfway through my meal when I realize my phone has gone MIA. I should've known that I wouldn't escape this risky operation unscathed. I had no idea where it was, but began to retrace my steps.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I trekked down the hill, across the football field and back onto campus. Along the way, I come across a few duck sauce packets and laughed to myself, thinking this is what I get for trying to teach that asshole a lesson. I stood in the dorm parking lot across from the bar, deciding I should accept my loss when I looked down and noticed my phone sitting on the curb.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Word on the street is that he incessantly searched for the culprit over the next few weeks; I don't think he found out it was me, but maybe one day, he'll come across this blog. I guess he didn't know the way things were done around here.</span></strong><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-72352730017433199342014-03-20T19:53:00.000-07:002014-03-20T19:53:40.045-07:00I'm here to tell ya...<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I started this common hobby of blogging, I knew the possibility of a 'dry spell' was possible. It can be a let down when you go to check your favorite blog, only to find the latest post was two weeks ago - say whaaa? However, it isn't writer's block. I'll admit that once I kick off my work shoes, the last thing I want to look at is a blinding computer screen. Additionally, life unexpectedly gets in the way but I promise I'll do my best to keep you all laughing and hopefully coming back for more nonsense.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, last weekend after the restaurant gig, we moseyed on over to a frequented bar that I don't frequent often 'cause it's loud and the crowd is something less than desirable. I have a good idea of what I'm getting into when I walk across the parking lot and Zack Galifianakis' clone busts out of the door, pulling his fat girlfriend behind him while slurring at me "you're gonna get lucky tonight - there's a lot of dick in there!'' Thanks, Zack.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A couple of shots later, I've forgotten the sense of loss I felt when I paid $7.00 to gain access to this sausage fiesta. What kind of cover charge is that anyway - is Nickelback in there? The drinks have been flowin' and I'm feeling a case of 'Barcolepsy' coming on - it's been a long day and all I want to do is get some decent shuteye.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Soon enough, the group begins to coordinate the location of a late night meal. Survey says: Double T Diner. Food? What? OK, I'm awake (sort of). I haven't been to this place in 10 years, so I wasn't opposed to an intoxicated trip down memory lane. Late night diners are always a show; sub-par food and top notch entertainment. Of course, it's 2 am and you're drunk so anything you eat IS a five star meal - nothing less. </span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The waitress sashays over and flops down an Atlas in front of everyone, at least that's what I thought it was until I realized it was a MENU. If I wanted to read an encyclopedia, I would've gone to the library. My brain is not wired for sound decisions at this hour; I really just wanted to tell Olga or whatever her name was to pick something and surprise me, but instead, I pulled a copycat move and said 'I'll have what she's having' while motioning to the friend sitting next to me.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">And what's with the disclaimer sized print? I'll be sure to bring one of these next time.</span></strong><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-70462329919998778012014-03-11T16:23:00.001-07:002014-03-12T08:45:14.553-07:00it's TOOL TIME!<b><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With all of the snow behind us, (hopefully) I got to thinking about another major threat to all of mankind (especially women): TOOLS. I'm not talking about the kind you buy at Sears, either.</span></b><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;">Ladies, we've all had the 'pleasure' of knowing
at least <i>one</i>; actually, consider yourself lucky if you don't have to
count any higher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chances are, you've
probably dated Mr. Craftsman - it's typically a brief, forgettable relationship
because let's face it, your bathroom sink had more personality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tend to hang out with these types of <s>men</s>
boys when we are bored and need a distraction; they don't need one because they
are already too fixated on themselves – usually in front of the mirror with a
phone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Soon enough, the unfortunate experience with this individual ends once the Red Flag Express runs you over with no warning (toot, toot!) Despite the time you feel was wasted, you're 200% relieved that you don't have to float upstream in a douche canoe anymore. Great success!</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, without further ado, I'm going to get down to the NITTY gritty here. Just when you think you've made the great escape from this loser, he pops up in your phone out of nowhere like a zit during puberty. You hear the 'bling' of your text tone, look down and see a message from Tim the Toolman chillin' on deck. You hesitantly slide your finger across the screen to not reveal a generic message, but an unsolicited PICTURE of his body part(s).</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Just this past weekend, I was hanging out with a friend of mine when she showed me a text she had just received (as seen below) with the following caption: 'what do you think of that?'</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What do I think? Personally, I'd rather lick the bottom of a trash can. Is this supposed be enticing? In this case, the only thing that was turned on was the light bulb in our heads reminding us even more of what an arrogant asshole you are. Stop thinking that women want to see your NON-REQUESTED muscles; if I feel like looking at some, I'll turn on 'The Notebook'. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sup, Ryan?</span></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-41278266719618743962014-02-17T17:44:00.000-08:002014-02-17T17:45:38.585-08:00Hey, you!<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">If Friday was Valentine's Day, then Saturday must have been 'take your side chick to dinner' day; the freaks were out in full force, in addition to my patience.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">This isn't just another weekend serving; this is a borderline suicide mission. I felt as if I need some extra preparation before hitting the floor - maybe a few deep breaths, some jumping jacks/high knees...a stun gun, perhaps?</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I always tend to scope out the guests before I walk over to greet the table; based off of one look, I can get a good feel for what I'm about to deal with. Call it a sixth sense, if you will, but usually I wish I could see dead people instead. I had just shown up for my 4:30 shift, and I'm pretty sure Third Eye Blind was coming out of the restaurant's speakers, softly asking me 'how's it gonna be?' Trust me, I already know. I mosey on over to the table with my forced, enthusiastic smile and place the drink coasters down, although all I really feel like doing is throwing them to each person like a Frisbee.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">So, with my winning discus routine comes my greeting: 'how's everyone doing this evening?' I don't get a 'hi', 'goodbye', or 'kiss my ass' but just 'what does the kettle chip appetizer taste like?' Mmm, Ketel One. I could go for a martini right about now. To give you a visual, the man who asked me about the chips is standing up, leaning against the table like he's Billy Ocean. I'm like 'honestly, Billy...I haven't tri-'</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm in the midst of telling this low life that I haven't tried the shitty dish he's so <em>kindly</em> inquired about when he puts his Hulk sized hand up in an exasperated, 'stop, in the name of love' pose, and says 'SO, you mean to tell me that you <em>work</em> here and haven't TRIED everything?' </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Clearly, he has learned a lot from his 3rd grade deductive reasoning lesson. What do you think this is? Do you honestly expect me to have dabbled with every food item on the menu? Like I'm that former fat ass Adam Richman, who toured the country eating 4lb pancakes and baby sized burritos.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Since I couldn't provide a personal kettle chip experience, Billy's 'date' proceeded to roll her eyes - so far back, I wondered if I'm going to need to call a priest for her exorcism. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">C'mon Billy, take the demon, get out of my restaurant...and into your car.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-35146450181391835782014-02-15T11:34:00.000-08:002014-02-15T11:40:26.818-08:00Quack aint whack<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unless you've been living under a rock, you're aware that the Olympics in Sochi are well underway. The net is buzzed with chatter today regarding <em>our </em>victory over Russia in men's hockey. There is said to be a rivalry between USA and the Russkies, and I'm pretty sure it originates from the following:</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sorry, Apollo...not even those flashy shorts could've saved you - the guy's a machine. I think it's safe to say that everyone is having a Springsteen moment today, 'cause we were boooorn in the USA! I could be completely wrong, but I feel America's love for hockey has increased exponentially over the last 20 years or so - thanks to Gordon Bombay and his amateur drunk driving.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I mean, look at this guy with his 'I'm cool, bitch!' expression. One hand on the wheel of his asshole sports car with a bottle to the face; this <em>is</em> Gordon Bombay, Attorney at Law. Caught under the influence, Gordon rises above the haters by leading a group of dumpster diving kids to a pee-wee hockey championship title.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Don't deny it, you wanted to be one of the Ducks (except Goldberg)...myself included. I think a lot of kids could identify with the characters; the idea of you and your rag tag friends coming together to be CHAMPIONS suddenly became a semi-realistic goal. Also, let's not forget the fact that 'The Mighty Ducks' is the only movie with Joshua Jackson that's worth seeing (we'll give him D2 too).</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">One of the ongoing conflicts throughout this movie focuses on Gordon's internal struggle with his past; he is haunted by the memory of missing a penalty shot in a pee-wee hockey game - 20 years prior! In the real world, this is normally something that takes maybe a week to forget, but it's Disney so you have to roll with it. What I couldn't get over was how after all those years, his former hockey coach seems to have been cryogenically frozen.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Did anyone else notice that? How is this guy still alive?? What's fun about watching these movies as an adult is that you <em>finally</em> get those jokes that went 'whoosh!' over your head. Think back to the scene when the gang is in chemistry class and the teacher, while holding up a 3D model of an atom asks 'and what about the blue balls?'</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The entire class giggles...</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yup.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-33085744992017125102014-02-10T11:35:00.000-08:002014-02-11T07:20:50.969-08:00On the rocks with no ice...<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>In the craziness of da restaurant bidness that is a Friday night, I committed the most unthinkable, heinous act. I broke a glass - in the icebox. OH MA GAH. As Forrest Gump once famously said, 'it happens'. Yes, indeedy. Plates break, glasses shatter - it's a common fallacy, people...but breaking a glass in the ICE?? Apparently, it's a food service crime that seems punishable by death.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Yarghhh, if we were all pirates, I would surely be walkin' the plank, mateys. I had been hustlin' and bustlin' for a large party's waters when <i>it</i> happened; there is no time to waste when you're trying to expedite 12 beverages and you know at any daunting moment another one of your tables will be sat. So naturally, my brain short-circuits for a second and the corner of the icebox and my glass in hand collide, resulting in a horrific explosion. I stare at the aftermath, wishing I had telekinetic powers to piece the glass back together. I even thought, 'hey, it's just a little bit of glass, what can it hurt - don't people eat this stuff on 'My Strange Addiction?' Kidding! Anyways, this sitch-e-ayshun is a 4-alarm emergency and it needs to be fixed on the double!</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The sound of breaking glass has the following effect: it paralyzes people. When it happens in a restaurant, employees turn into fucking Dick Tracy and keep asking 'WHO DUNNIT?!' In this scenario, some questions are better left unanswered. Whenever this happens, the ice needs to be drizzled with Grenadine and then drained, which makes the scene look unnecessarily grisly. Like, is there glass in there or a severed finger? Everyone walks by the contaminated ice, mourning the loss of it with mumbled, idiotic statements like 'party foul!' Um, <i>excuse</i> me? First of all, this aint no party and you haven't seen a 'foul' until you've seen someone vomit on an ice luge.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Eventually, the ice rose from the dead and my exile came to an end. So lesson learned, don't break the glass...but breaking the ice - that's a different story. </b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> </b></span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-1838483939351424372014-02-04T17:17:00.000-08:002014-02-06T09:06:29.317-08:00Waitress Wendy<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>It goes without saying that it's pretty damn hard trying to get up for work on a Monday - the suck level rises up several more notches when you remember you work not one, but two jobs that day. F-U-C-K! So, I lay in bed for about 15 minutes</b> <b>after the alarm sounds off for roll call, say 'FML' a few times...then it's up and at 'em!</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>About a year ago, I had a brief moment of insanity and decided that in addition to my full time job, I'd start serving tables a couple days a week - but I'll delve into all that at a later time.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>After spending 8 hours in an office, I'm ready to go home, throw on some sweatpants and park my ass on the couch with a glass of wine. Unfortunately, yesterday's post-work routine involved me putting on a chef coat and some sweet non-slip clogs. It's time to go feed the fancy, friendly folks of 'Napolis.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I rolled up to the restaurant feeling all warm and fuzzy thanks to my friend Pinot Grigio; you're probably asking yourself 'she drinks before work?' and the answer is YES (1 glass), because I'm going to need a little buzz if I'm going to be dealing with assholes for an additional 5 hours. The other servers are standing around the kitchen twiddling their thumbs because the place is dead - the entire country is still recovering from their Super Bowl induced heartburn. I'm standing at the kitchen computer clocking in when a fellow server/once a week manager who happened to be 'managing' last night approaches me and asks 'Jen, are you working tomorrow?' A question of this sort automatically leads me to believe that he will be<i> </i>asking me to work again tomorrow so I naturally reply 'no, I'll be tied up with my other job'. He responded 'well good, because those pants are unacceptable'.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> </b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>What?</i></span></span></span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;">I <i>completely </i>understand that every restaurant has uniform standards, but this petty, nitpicking bullshit pisses me off. I looked down to make sure there wasn't a hole in my crotch, looked up at him and asked 'because...?' He rambled off something that didn't form a complete sentence but I'm pretty sure he said the word 'pleats' 5 or 6 times. OK, noted - must get man pants with pleats. </span></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span></b></span></span><span style="color: #741b47;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">It's the pleats; it's actually an optical illusion</span></i></span></span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My pants aren't any tighter than any of the other pirate hookers here, so what is the big deal? How long were you staring at my ass to make that profound conclusion? He was clearly more embarrassed than I was; it was evident,</span></span></span></b><b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> when he started to profusely apologize like he had just kicked over my lemonade stand. I don't think some men know how hard it is for a woman to find a decent, fitting pair of trousers. I had ventured out to the mall a few hungover Saturdays ago before work, because I desperately needed to upgrade from the Steve Urkel flood watch style. However, I'm not going back to the 'Family Matters' route - I need to test the waters again.</span></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;">Did I do thaaat? Yes, I did - and I will again.</span></span></b></span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-70659129095402453662014-01-30T10:05:00.000-08:002014-02-04T14:49:38.700-08:00Dude, where's your car?<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you're like me and pay attention to detail, you may be wondering what my URL name 'jennjoose' means. I was originally trying to pay homage to my boy Snoop and use 'jennjuice' but since everyone and their mom's cat is blogging, any name that's relatively creative is already in use - this left me no choice but to spell juice like the fucktard that came up with the bright idea as seen below.</span></span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikT4VofifLxXLLPTsT08Uy22z7yl_-jKlbx1HLaPmV6DJqkA-CYPZVCH2WTm-B5oO8Q8um6QqQyN2sTL3w0g5OPj9FPKIZG2rGH2A-8Ye0M0YLnXZF_ouaLKgqVMhsjsHciK_2O8bSw2Gl/s1600/joose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikT4VofifLxXLLPTsT08Uy22z7yl_-jKlbx1HLaPmV6DJqkA-CYPZVCH2WTm-B5oO8Q8um6QqQyN2sTL3w0g5OPj9FPKIZG2rGH2A-8Ye0M0YLnXZF_ouaLKgqVMhsjsHciK_2O8bSw2Gl/s1600/joose.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Believe it or not, Joose and I go way back. The night I drank a can of this stuff can only be described as inexplicable - because I don't remember it. Joose is described as a premium malt beverage with a 9.9% alcohol content; by the way, anything that costs $2.99 should never be labeled as premium.<i> Ever.</i> The can is adorned with skulls and roses which really makes you wonder if you just purchased 23 ounces of Ed Hardy's urine. Didn't we grow up learning not to ingest products that have skulls on them? That usually indicates it's poison and that no human should come even close to consuming it. There was something </span></span></b></span><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>alluring about it though, gleaming in the cold case like one of Indiana Jones' stolen artifacts. When I grabbed it, I was surprised when a rolling boulder didn't crash through the wall and flatten me.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I wasn't sure what to expect when I popped the tab. If it tasted as obnoxious as the can looked then it would definitely be like nothing I've ever had. I was right. I think I've finally figured out what antifreeze may taste like</b></span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> when combined with caffeine, guanine, and household cleaning products. Making a conscious decision to drink this crap is like taking that hobgoblin you met at the bar home; you knew it was a horrible idea but did it anyway because you were feelin' crunktastic and knew it'd be a good story. Because no good story ever started with a salad, right?</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Before Joose</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After Joose</span></span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Are there any questions?</span></b></span></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></i></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-50878673310245513382014-01-29T11:46:00.001-08:002014-01-29T12:05:09.854-08:00The Intruder<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I'm not afraid to admit that I hate staying alone in <i>any</i> type of house overnight. I don't know what it is, but I've probably watched one too many horror movies. I mean, the scenarios are fairly realistic: an innocent girl sitting in the living room typing on a computer when suddenly...wait, what? Actually, there is a curtain-less glass door directly behind the couch I'm sitting on which means Michael Meyers IS out there in the woods, staring at me. Too bad I'm not babysitting, dipshit. </b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>What's interesting is that the nights spent alone at my house in Baltimore weren't nearly as scary; the drunks stumbling home from the bar and pissing on my stoop was oddly comforting. The presence of animals always help too; there was a small mouse that came and went as it pleased; on the days I didn't see it, I just figured it was upstairs in the attic singing with the other mice while sewing me a dress for the ball.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Back in Frostburg, I lived with 3 other people. The layout was fairly simple: 2 bedrooms and a bath at each end. As long as 1 other person was home, I felt secure. One night, while everyone had gone home for the weekend, I was left to my own devices. It was a rare occasion that I decided not to go out. It was around 3:30 am (prime time for a rape/murder) when I woke up to the loud, heart-stopping crash. Let's forget the notion that I was in the middle of a deep, dreamless, sober sleep - the best kind, really. I was faced with the horrifying reality that <i>someone</i> had broken into my apartment. I was paralyzed with fear and didn't make any moves for a few minutes. I looked around my bedroom for possible weapon choices - 'Hawaiian' scented Febreze? Awesome, I'll just blow him away with a spritz of orchid & pineapple.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I hear a muffled noise coming back from the other end of the apartment. I run back to my bed and start texting a couple of friends who I know are still awake at this ungodly hour - because texting/calling anyone who isn't emergency personnel with <i>surely</i> save my life. I should've just called Dateline - because it was OBVIOUS I would be featured on the next episode. One of my friends, in their drunken, uninhibited confidence was like 'go cechk tha hsit out'. Isn't that what always happens in the movies? Follow the sketchy noise and and you're toast...ok, let's give this a shot.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I slowly open my door and try to look with one eyeball and naturally, I can't see doo doo because it's pitch black Vin Diesel style. With the door ajar, I can hear water in the bathtub running at full force. At this point, I'm seriously pinching myself to wake up because there is no way that what is happening right now is real life. Whoever was in my apartment was in the bathroom - running water to later drown me in it. As I'm carefully top toeing down the hallway, I'm reaching for every light in my path. I get to the bathroom - no movement, but the water is still rushing and it's <i>deafening</i>. I've never been to Niagara Falls but that is what I imagined it to sound like.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I turn the bathroom light switch on - the room brightens and the terror that lasted for 20 minutes is quickly absolved. It turns out there was no bathing rapist after all. In the tub were the casualties of 5 shampoo bottles that had fallen from the shower caddy. Miraculously, during the plummet, the bottles turned the faucet on. I know, I know...all that excitement for nothing. I'll admit that a small part of me was disappointed, along with Lester Holt & Keith Morrison. </b></span></span></span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-59176212213840688762014-01-27T10:47:00.000-08:002014-01-31T07:14:52.295-08:00Talk is cheap & so are you...<b><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This past weekend </span></span></span><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">while out to dinner with a big group</span></span></span><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, I got to thinking about money. You know, it's the one thing you get a couple times a month and then suddenly it disappears like a cruel magic trick</span></span></span>, <span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">except this time it's not an illusion. Hey David Copperfield, thanks for the false hope</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;">!</span></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;">I think it's pretty safe to say that everyone knows at least one person in their social realm who is labeled as a certified <i>cheap ass</i>. Before we start pointing fingers, let's not confuse cheap with frugal; since the economy went down like the Titanic, most people want to save a buck here and there - myself included. Here is what typically happens when you dine out with a cheap person: they wash down an 8oz Filet with 4 Long Islands and guess what? They somehow forgot that their fancy piece of meat and top shelf brain eraser would require tax and tip</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;">?? </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hmm.</span></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>When my friends and I go out, we take turns buying rounds because friends don't let friends drink on their dime for nothin', right? OR maybe, it's just easier that way; I don't know about anybody else, but I don't have patience for 2nd grade division when I'm trying to pay and the line behind me is 3 assholes deep. In all seriousness though, I like to be generous (yet mindful) with my money; in these types of situations, a little goes a long way. It's important to remember that being cheap isn't necessarily about money, it's about actions. Aside from currency, generosity comes in many, <i>many </i>forms. </b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A few months ago, I ran into an old friend from college. I hadn't seen him in 5 years, and presumed him to be to be dead...which is the only logical conclusion we come to when people remove themselves from the Facebook scene (c'mon, you know it's true) What I remember about him most, aside from the fact that he coined the term 'Frostburg Bitties', which describes a woman whose 'boobs got fat' from drinking beer - was that he stole bottles of liquor from behind the bar. So, the point I'm getting at is he was a cheap SOB - and sleazy.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Sleaze-E lived down the hall from me in college, so he was included in many pre-game sessions and post bar pizza pig-outs. The thing is, he was conveniently around when someone was buying a round of shots; when it was his turn to do the same, he'd mysteriously disappear for hours, like the sauce had turned him into a phantom. When it's time to go grab some grub, he's back like Poltergeist II, but wouldn't ya know his $$$ is still lost somewhere in the ghostly abyss.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Moving forward to present day, I run into him outside one of the many lame ass bars in Annapolis. We do the whole 'OMG, haven't seen you in forever' song and dance and on we go inside. The funny thing about time is that you think it changes most people for the better, but don't worry, we're getting to that. We're standing at the bar and he asks me what I'm drinking, and I said 'I'm good with beer'. I don't believe my eyes when I see him order TWO beers (he must have won the lottery) but what was even more hilariously shocking was when he proceeded to take a sip out of both bottles. Ladies and gentlemen, that's correct - he was DOUBLE FISTING. Double fisting booze is acceptable when you're either 21, a douche, or holding a drink for a friend in the bathroom. In rare cases, like at an extremely crowded sporting event or concert...I'd give DF the green light, because time wasted waiting is a waste of time, or something like that.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i> Look Ma, two hands!</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>While he's standing there, holding his beers like trophies, I was expecting him to belch like Barney Gumble. Instead he turned to me, asking if I ran marathons 'cause you have a nice body'. After I threw up in my mouth, I knew it was time to round up the crew and leave the freak show that is Sleaze-E. For several weeks, he messaged me asking if I wanted to come over and play wiffle ball, but my gut was telling me his version didn't involve a plastic bat and hollow ball. Thankfully, he soon fell into oblivion again just like he did after graduation.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A couple of days before Christmas, I was sitting on a bench outside of the movie theater waiting for a friend when I suddenly feel eyes on me. I look up and I'm 90% sure it's him. You know that feeling when you're near positive it's the person you think it is and the other 10% is you hoping it's not? Yup - that happened. He walks up slowly and is all like 'OH, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone I knew'. My internal response to that statement was 'what the fuck?' In the last couple of months, I grew another head and replaced my face...so yeah, definitely <i>not </i>me. I decided to make this absurd situation even more awkward by saying 'um, you do know me'. With that said, his brief battle with amnesia ended and he made some idiotic remark about my hair looking different.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My mind was racing with various methods of escape when suddenly I was rescued - surprisingly by his date, who had just walked out of the bathroom. It was a quick little introduction and as I wondered if he had the decency to pay for her ticket, she gave him the 'who the hell is <i>that</i>' look, and I was all 'Big Gulps huh? Welp, see ya later!' I wanted to tell her to run for her life, but who knows, maybe she likes wiffle ball.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-19913703677971704222014-01-23T11:12:00.002-08:002014-01-24T07:24:55.573-08:00Thursday Throwback<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>In the surge of social media (and the end of my Frostburg days), Thursdays have gone from 'thirsty' to 'throwback'. With that said, I'm going to dedicate my Thursday posts to my historic and mostly insignificant tales that will <i>most</i> likely involve Thirsty Thursdays.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Once upon a time, in what seemed like a galaxy far, far away was Frostburg, where I was settling into my new life as a college student. I was free; 2.5 hours away from home with few responsibilities aside from homework, laundry, and feeding myself Ramen Noodles.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>So, I'll be kind and rewind and take it back to the mid-two thous - '06 to be exact. It was moving day and I was carrying a box of mixed CD's up to my 4th floor apartment. WE UP IN DA PENTHOUSE YO! I couldn't wait to charm the new roomies with my timeless, eclectic music collection...I mean, c'mon, we were in college and I felt if we were going to be reenacting 'Animal House', then it was only appropriate that the Ying-Yang Twins and Journey came along for the ride.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>With my box in tow, I meet 'Mike' in the hallway. Mike seemed friendly enough in his Wrangler jeans and baseball cap. So, good 'ole Mike asks me to go get ice cream the next day. Being the smart ass that I am known to be, I really wanted to say 'uh, sure let me go grab my poodle skirt and I'll meet you at the malt shop with Rizzo and the rest of the gang'. Instead, I smiled and said 'sure', because even though I wasn't attracted to this guy, he was NICE and with that, he's deserving of a chance.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>Oh, Michael Zucco!</i></span></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>While we're chatting over our DQ Blizzards - by chatting I mean he's talking my ear off and I'm spaced out thinking how I wish my dessert was a beer instead - Mike casually asks me when my birthday is. I don't miss a beat and spit out 'January 31st'. I resume my mental vacation, which is cut drastically short when I hear him say he can't wait to see what's in store for us and something in his eye was telling me he wasn't talking about the indigestion all this dairy would soon cause. There were plenty of hills around and I wanted to be running for them. Fast forward to 2 weeks later; let me stress it's a Tuesday night in mid-September, Ice Cream Mike strolls down the hallway and knocks on my door. He pulls a *drum-roll please* bottle of Hypnotiq from behind his back and says 'Happy Early Birthday!' (um, what?) I say, 'thanks!' take the bottle, shut the door, and leave the party patrol outside.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Looking back, I know how rude that was of me - Mike was just <i>trying</i> to be nice, and I didn't even invite him in for some blue drank. Where was Fiddy Cent? It was clear we were gonna party even though it's not ma birfday. What can I say? I was a selfish 20 year old that was just given a rare gift - free booze - forget that I didn't like him or had shitty taste in alcohol - it didn't cost nothin', except maybe a broken heart. Ah, yes...immaturity at it's finest. I wanted to run outside into the hallway and invite all my neighbors over for SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS! - with Lil Jon and EVERYBOOOOODY except Mike, who's ear was probably pressed against my door.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Goose got me loose!</span></i></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>A few nights later, Mike was back at my door, bottle-less but drunk. My roommate, Lindsay opened the door and was greeted with his wet, blotchy, snotty face. Mike was inconsolable; in between his sobs he demanded to see me. Little did he know, I was a few floors down ripping shots of Jager with some new friends who didn't buy me early birthday gifts. Down on his knees in the frame of his doorway, Mike stood up, tears still flowing out of his swollen eyes. Without any hesitation, Lindsay lightly pushed Mike out of the threshold and he stumbled backwards into the wall. After she shut the door, she continued to watch him through the creep peep; Mike was still leaning against the wall until he slowly slid down, leaving a trail of black dye from his shirt.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Poor Mike. I'm not sure what became of him after that night - it's like he disappeared into thin air, if not into the wall. They say there's someone for everyone and I'm hoping Mike eventually found his very own Dairy Queen. </b></span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5435438261238825808.post-6022407982830439552014-01-22T10:50:00.001-08:002014-02-11T18:46:56.113-08:00Snow much fun?<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>Hello to all my lovely followers (stalkers) out there - although it's a fair assumption I won't have any for a good while AND this isn't Twitter...so I guess I'm SOL @ this point. </b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>Anyways, I've always gone back and forth like a ping pong ball on the idea of me blogging; my biggest concern was that I have nothing of substance to really put out there for your viewing pleasure. I'm not an expert cook, fitness guru, master photographer or any of that other important nonsense. If you need a tutorial for the perfect 'smoky eye' - sorry, you'll have to take your cyber travels elsewhere. I DO know that I enjoy writing, so I guess that counts for something, right?</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>So, in typical Maryland fashion, as we were blanketed with (maybe) 6 inches of snow, the ENTIRE state goes into shock and everything shuts down like a Chick-Fil-A on Sunday. Now, I'm all for a hall pass from work, but LAWDY are 'snow days' B-O-R-I-N-G, especially now that I'm into my late 20's. Snow day boozing can only take you so far, and it sure as hell isn't out the front door unless you live downtown where all the fun happens...TO THE BAR, BATMAN! As I sat on my couch (my ass probably forming a permanent groove) reading, I started to think about Jack Torrance from 'The Shining' and thought that it's no wonder he went off the deep end and started chasing everything in sight with an axe.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OpoVqM0xO28W4aiSfT_b4F6A8psDuVx3V_C5b5hgGq3Hp-gfaqTuGluN65VNOansPjJkJ1GHRZrYejmK5DQmqj2s_yeXNZhD4V0s4YRiB8F3IgYPeIrhv7wwTimuK4vCDsp7tmS7Jqqm/s1600/jack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OpoVqM0xO28W4aiSfT_b4F6A8psDuVx3V_C5b5hgGq3Hp-gfaqTuGluN65VNOansPjJkJ1GHRZrYejmK5DQmqj2s_yeXNZhD4V0s4YRiB8F3IgYPeIrhv7wwTimuK4vCDsp7tmS7Jqqm/s1600/jack.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b> </b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bottoms up Jack!</i></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>In the aftermath of my 24 hour bout with cabin fever, I can happily say that the roommates and myself survived - however, as a result of the snow plow, a sturdy fort of the white stuff had my car surrounded this morning. NO. WAY. OUT. (and by no way out I mean I was too lazy to walk back upstairs to grab the shovel that is conveniently in storage) I stood there for about 20 seconds, debating if I should go grab the shovel or just call it a loss and go back to bed (hey, what's another day off work?) I decided to TRY despite the harrowing circumstances; after several embarrassing attempts to dig myself out, I became a damsel in distress. As the wind bitch slapped me in the face and the snot ran from my nose, I wished that the snow shovel fairy would swoop down to give me a strong man...well wouldn't ya know it, I turn around and POOF! The man in the community who has introduced himself as 'Angel' (an angel, indeed) showed up like a knight with shining shovel - he also toted a buddy. Ideal!</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUOSScU_RR004uo3Npc8rz4G3pA1_3abZ3104uODXAWK89JhySDgQ5ZZnRlFEW4H7IMmWiQzTCSLahKtEwrEz8Eg3unkLpBEwZLLy4Z94Ktf5_OB6SPUyUfXKxYViyGs1G9Svec_qtrep/s1600/princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUOSScU_RR004uo3Npc8rz4G3pA1_3abZ3104uODXAWK89JhySDgQ5ZZnRlFEW4H7IMmWiQzTCSLahKtEwrEz8Eg3unkLpBEwZLLy4Z94Ktf5_OB6SPUyUfXKxYViyGs1G9Svec_qtrep/s1600/princess.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>OH, </i><i>Somebody??? Anybody!</i></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>A few scoops here and there and the ordeal was over. Afterwards, Angel and friend stood by their conquest (my car) like they had just gotten laid and lit up their Marlboros. When the cancer stick pow wow ended, Angel floated back upstairs to heaven that is the apartment a few doors down from mine.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>On a final note and all jokes aside, it's really a comfort to know there are some people out there willing to give a helping hand (or shovel) just. because.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b><br /></b></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934855142941927443noreply@blogger.com0