Year in Review: 2006
It’s been done, I know, but I’m not feeling particularly imaginative lately, and my online time is limited with this shoddy internet connection. Enjoy!
January I had high hopes for ’06, but the 30th of this month shattered that. I learned that living with regret sucks. A lot.
February Round two in the hellish year: Grandma’s death. Round three came from some spineless “friends.” This month sucked.
March I don’t remember much from this month. Depression, anger, ignoring the vast majority of things relating to school, insomnia. Oh, and I left my teenage years.
April Lots of reading. I was at Barnes and Noble once a week and devouring everything—everything but the British lit I was supposed to be reading for my survey course.
May Kicking ass on a huge class project, doing much better in my classes than expected, moving back to Small Town.
June – August mush together in my brain. I spent a lot of time online and started the Old Blog to help myself deal with my grief. It sort of worked and sort of brought me here. Moved into my apartment in College Town. Late August began the Gilmore obsession.
September Semester begins flying by. My entire life is reading for classes.
October A movie night with K—fruitless. Interest in school begins to wane, but I guilt myself into being scholarly. An uneventful Halloween.
November The blog is in full swing. I hate autumn in Missouri. First major holiday without Grandma.
December K confusion and over-analysis. The semester is finally over. I get sick for the first time in two years. Being in Small Town combined with excessive viewing of Gilmore Girls results in me analyzing boy trouble from nearly four years ago.
Here’s hoping 2007 is less sucky than ’06. and now there’s nothing left to say.
Oh, except happy fucking new year.
Labels: lists, updates
Epiphanies are Scary
I’ve said it before, but being home makes my brain go non-stop. Consider that a warning.
I spent part of Tuesday afternoon driving around Small Town’s back roads, listening to
Christina and wasting the ridiculously expensive gas.
I drove past
Project's house because I’m nosy and wanted to know if he came home for Christmas. The Mustang wasn’t behind the house, so I immediately wondered if he spent Christmas with that girl. The
one that he was dating the last time I talked to him (in July). The one that he said he had considered marrying. Yeah, that girl.
This made my thoughts jump, irrationally, to K. K and I have a
really weird relationship—if you can even call it that—making the connection between he and Project, my ex-fuck buddy and catalyst for rebellion, extremely weird. I forced the connection out of my consciousness.
I then inadvertently drove down a gravel road where I once stopped my car and jumped
Iris in the passenger seat. I drove faster when I realized where I was, beating the hell out of my poor Mercury in my haste to retreat from the memories.
Before you read the rest of this post, remember that I warned you about my brain when I’m at home—and remember that you know I’m a crazy, obsessive freak.
When I got back to my house, I started watching season two of Gilmore Girls. Poor Rory and the Dean and Jess drama. Suddenly, it was scarily clear: I was Rory Gilmore, Project was Jess, and Iris was Dean. I pushed away “Mr. Perfect” in favor of the “bad boy,” and, in the process, massively screwed myself over.
It was then that I realized that my insanity has reached such a level that someone should commit me.
Or maybe I shouldn’t watch fourteen episodes of Gilmore Girls in two days.
Scratch that. I love those girls, I’ll watch whatever I want.
Maybe they’ll put a DVD player in my padded room.
Labels: boys, my insanity, television
Lists: Because My Muse Went Missing
Presents I Like A Lot
my new coffeemaker
Gilmore Girls seasons two and three on DVD
Christina Aguilera’s Back to Basics
the bookshelf
Presents I Didn’t Expect
a DVD player with 5.1 surround sound
an area rug
a set of champagne glasses (never mind that no one in my family drinks champagne)
a super-soft pink robe
Things I Wish I Had Patience For
keeping my nails perfectly manicured
working out
people who talk stupid topics to death
wearing heels at all times
Made-Up Words I Enjoy
snarcastic (snarky + sarcastic—thank you, Lorelai Gilmore)
snicklefritz (definition: grumpy jerkface)
blomment (Scrib or Tiff, I can’t remember, but I love it)
The Best Quote I Heard Today
"Coffee is a must. Keeps you perky."
A belated merry Christmas to everyone!
Labels: lists
Missing in Action, You Say?
Indeed, missing in action. While I wouldn't exactly call it being sick, I've felt like shit for the last few days. I'm going to blame it on Bradshaw.
Right before I left College Town for home, she came down with a flu and a head cold that she got from two of her roommates. Since I typically have a fantastic immune system (to go with my iron stomach and nearly un-bruise-able* skin), I didn't worry about it. I should have.
Tuesday, everything I ate made me just a little bit nauseous. Not enough to make me stop eating, but enough to make me think about it. When I got home from work that night it was worse, so I went to bed early for me.
Wednesday, I woke up. I wandered through the house for an hour. I took a two-hour nap. I spent my day lying on the couch, watching Gilmore Girls DVDs and wondering at the fact that I had absolutely no appetite. Took an hour nap. Greeted the parents when they returned from last-minute Christmas shopping. Ate chicken soup. Took a three hour nap. Watched TV. Went to bed.
I woke up yesterday and thought that I felt fine. It was my parents' anniversary, so my mom made up a story that led to my dad not working and them eating dinner in a city far bigger than Small Town. That left Mickey and I in charge of the restaurant, nothing we can't handle.
Until Nic over-exerts herself and almost passes the fuck out.
Twice.
That's right, once I got to work and starting moving around, I realized just how shitty I still felt. My back hurt, I still had absolutely no desire to even look at food (a hazard when working at a restaurant), I was weak, and the more over-heated I got, the dizzier I got. After the second time I almost passed out, I went to sit in the back and didn't do another single thing the rest of the night but whine about how shitty I felt. I came home, forced myself to eat something (fighting nausea with every bite), and then felt fine.
Well, fuck.
So now, as I type this, I feel fine. I'm going to try to work tonight, although the fact that I still have no appetite doesn't bode well for the evening.
Again: Fuck.
*That's right, I made up a word. Deal with it.
Labels: updates, work
Proof That Nic is an Obsessive, Over-Analytical Freak
Let me preface this by reminding you that I overanalyze things a lot. A lot.
I finally burned some of the music that’s been sitting in my computer forever the other day, including Something Corporate’s
Leaving Through the Window. I was listening to the song
“Drunk Girl” and was suddenly struck with a thought: Is this how K felt
that Friday Night when I called him?
I’m fully aware that I would not have gone home with just anyone. In fact, I’ve never left a party with someone I didn’t know pretty well and I’m almost certain that I never will. I texted him while I was just tipsy, and while I was certainly drunk when I went to his apartment, that wasn’t why I went. But does he know that?
I mentioned that the boy had no initiative because he never even tried to kiss me, and I’ve been sort of torn about that ever since. Was he being a good guy and not taking advantage of a drunk girl on his couch? Or was he just to afraid to make a move? Past events lead me to believe that he was afraid, but, yet again, maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Was it wrong of me to call someone while I was drinking? Was it wrong of me to go home with him? I went home with him because he’s a good guy and I think there’s potential there—but does he know that?
Who else thinks this post makes me sound like an obsessive freak? I certainly do
Labels: my insanity, television
Gossip
First, my apologies for not updating! This is the longest stretch I've gone since I started the blog! Sad. Being at home means slower internet and less motivation to do anything.
I’ve been back in Small Town for five days, and I’m already inside my own head about a lot of things. Being around here makes me miss Iris and I have no idea what to do with all my time without being able to go hang out with Grandma. In any case, I’d rather not think about that right now. Instead, I shall bitch a little and tell you a story (which may or may not be interesting).
My friend Mickey and I work together, and she’s always complaining about the small town gossip mongers. She’s currently going through a divorce, so the gossip is at a high—but she certainly doesn’t help matters by telling everyone who comes in what’s going on in her life with no regard for whom else may be listening. She’s been telling me how much she wishes she could leave Small Town behind, but she can’t because of her soon-to-be ex and her son. Finally, I got tired of the broken record routine.
“Mickey, I don’t think you get it,” I finally said. “It doesn’t matter where you are, you will always been in a community, and you will always have to deal with gossip.”
“But if I go somewhere else, no one knows my past.”
I laughed. “You would have to keep your mouth shut for that to work.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay, fine, but seriously—it doesn’t matter where you go, there will always be gossip. You could move to New York and you would still be a part of a small community—at work, in your apartment building, being a mom at [son’s] school—it’s impossible to escape the gossip.”
“Whatever, it’s because we live in Small Town.”
I don’t back down from arguments very often*, but this time I walked away. I didn’t see the sense in bashing both of our heads against the wall trying to convince her of something that I know for a fact is true—and I know because I’ve been there.
I’ve said before that College Town isn’t far from Small Town, and there are lots of people from my hometown in the city I live in (most of the time) now. Despite that, when I went to school, I became part of an entirely new community with a new group of friends. I lived in a dorm, on a floor of 65 girls. Our suite of four was known as the Loud One,” and along with some friends down the hall we were The Party Girls.” We had a reputation as a group, and we each had our own individual reputations that, occasionally, people confused. The Slutty One, The One With the Shopping Problem, The Lazy One, The One Who Dances, and myself and another girl were, together, the Fun Ones—all names we had earned by mid-September of my freshman year (three had head starts as sophomores though). We tended to go out as a group, be loud on weeknights in our rooms, go back and forth between suites in towels and bathrobes, have verbal catfights, and have lots of fun too. We were well-known and stories about us were all over campus, especially in our own dorm. For a school as big as ours, it was pretty impressive to have such a reputation, even as a group, and we were pretty proud of ourselves. Still, it wasn’t long before things began to sour.
The Lazy One and I were roommates, and her irresponsibility irritated me to no end. The One With the Shopping Problem couldn’t stand her roommate, The Slutty One, and her habit of bringing home random boys. The One Who Dances was a huge drama queen and liked to cry about things that were her own fault (like sleeping with the boy she brought home and got naked with). My fellow Fun One was irritated with The Slutty One’s constant need to win every argument, and I was sick of listening to The One With the Shopping Problem bitch about The Lazy One’s inability to clean out the sink. Then girls on our floor and people in the rest of the building (the very large building) started confusing who did what. Someone heard a rumor that I brought home a random boy (like The Slutty One). Someone heard a rumor that The One Who Dances had maxed out her father’s credit card (that was The One With the Shopping Problem). Someone told me that The Lazy One had yelled at her roommate for sleeping through her 3 pm class (they had the story backwards—I yelled at her for it). These rumors caused many of the aforementioned verbal catfights.
Typing that out almost confuses me, and I lived it—I can’t imagine anyone else trying to keep it straight. Things chilled the next year when half of them moved off campus and I kept my in-dorm antics more quiet. From time to time though, I would still hear someone telling stories in the elevator about a group of girls who lived in the House the year before. I would just smile and listen until I got to my floor, keeping my own part of their story to myself.
As for Mickey—it won’t matter where she goes, she’ll still have to deal with gossip and all the rest of the bullshit that comes with life.**
*I hate to lose. I will argue until I am blue in the face. This is because I am usually right.
**Unless you’re a hermit, which I’ve considered from time to time. Unfortunately, I like to talk too much to avoid all human contact.
Labels: everyday musings
Confessions of a Worrywart
I’m going to tell you a little secret: I worry far more than I let on. It’s the worst when I’m lying in bed at night, trying to fall asleep, and all I can think about is whether or not my dad sent the check to hold my classes for next semester, whether I really locked the door*, if I’ll wake up when my alarm goes off, and what I’m going to do if my mom doesn’t check her email in time for me to order my dad’s gift online. I let things gnaw and eat at me, and I do it all in silence. I present myself to others as being carefree and supremely unconcerned about the things going on in the world, but deep down inside, I’m a huge worrywart.
I’ve mentioned before that
I’m an insomniac, and that’s unfortunate since I don’t give myself much time to sleep to begin with. My last serious bout of insomnia was about a month ago. My final payment of the semester was due on November 15th, and late that afternoon I received an email telling me that my payment hadn’t been sent. If my payment wasn’t received by 4 PM that day (it was after 5), I would be dropped from the classes I had registered for next semester. I called my dad frantically, because he was supposed to have it paid. His response: “It’s the fifteenth?”
I almost had a conniption. And what makes this even worse was that his birthday was the next day—like he really didn’t know the date!
That night I was so concerned about getting up and getting to campus early to give them a check, and so intensely angry at my father for forgetting, that I could not fall asleep to save my life. I got in bed around three and I distinctly remember seeing the clock at 5:36. This was after I had gotten up, wandered around my apartment, played a mindless online game, given myself a headache, and tossed and turned for longer than I ever care to.
All of this can be traced back to, in some ways,
Ms. Sizzle. She posted her horoscope and commented on its accuracy, and while mine are usually terribly inaccurate, I still felt compelled to go read it. I am a reader of the ho’scopes**, and occasionally they are applicable to me. Today’s said:
Instead of focusing on all the things you need to do and the people you need to see today, keep your eyes on the end of the day, when you will have the time you need to connect with someone special (if you want to). Too many details can distract you from what really matters. If you simplify your life, you can dramatically reduce your stress level. This isn't a case of burying your head in the sand -- it's a case of simply choosing not to worry.
First of all, who is this “special person” that they speak of? Liars. I digress.
It’s all semantics when you think about it. Ignoring the worries would require, for me, burying my head—it couldn’t be accomplished any other way. At the same time, would it really be so terrible if I could learn to let go? Maybe that will be my tacky, quickly ignored new year’s resolution.
*This is a ridiculous thing to think about since I lock the door each and every time I enter the apartment. It’s always locked, so why do I worry when I’m in bed? Because I’m in bed and my brain doesn’t know how to shut the hell up, that’s why.
**A term coined by the lovely Ms. O and me.Labels: my insanity
One Down, Three to Go
I think today was a good way to start the week. I got to sleep in a bit, which is always good and earns the alarm clock fewer “fuck you” thoughts than usual. I had an interesting call from Bradshaw, made an appointment for a check-up, and drank two cups of coffee. I had my mythology final this morning, but I wasn’t worried about it—I like mythology and it isn’t a difficult subject. I took the final in thirty minutes, got back my
etiology (which she loved), and left campus.
I went to the shoe store to buy my dad’s fancy socks, then Bradshaw called again. “What are you doing?”
“Buying socks for my dad.”
“You really are a loser.”
This is why I love her.
We went to sell books back, which was both amazing and extremely disappointing. My YA lit professor, who I hate, has dropped half of her books, making about $100 in young adult novels completely worthless to me. On the plus side, I got $70 from other texts. We took our textbook money and got lunch at Jimmy John’s, where we ogled Hot Delivery Boy and picked the excess sprouts from our sandwiches.
After lunch, I went to finish my Christmas shopping. I had to find something for my Secret Santa for work back home, a woman my mom’s age who loves Elvis. I went to one of the stores that carries nothing but tacky decorating stuff and found a tin lunch pail with the King himself all over it. I went to Wicks ‘n’ Sticks to get a couple of candles to put inside (
Yankee Candle’s Christmas Cookie), and I might have snagged one for myself (
Jack Frost, my new favorite candle scent).
A final stop at the candy store to get a bag of banana Runts for Mickey’s three-year-old and I was off. I’ve spent the rest of my afternoon procrastinating instead of writing my 6-8 page critical essay.
So one final down, one paper to write, one presentation, and three tests to go. Let’s fast-forward through Tuesday and Wednesday. Any takers?
Labels: Bradshaw, holidays
I Told You So
Today proved that my previous assertion that
my life is boring was indeed true. I haven’t left my apartment today simply because I haven’t wanted to. I have watched two of four discs of my new Project Runway DVDs. I took a nap. I ate some chili. I browsed some blogs. I watched some Food Network. I have every intention of watching more Project Runway or perhaps watching Love Actually for the fifteenth time this month before I go to bed.
I told you so.
Dead Day and Its Eve
First, a quick explanation for those who don’t know what Dead Day is. The last Friday before finals is always a study day—Dead Day. No classes, no tests, and no reason to get up before noon. This makes that Thursday night the biggest party night of the semester, meaning that the cops are out in droves looking for belligerent drunks and minors in possession.
Bradshaw and I weren’t eager to deal with Dead Day Eve pub crawl crows, and me being underage makes attending house parties stupid. We decided that a movie night with Tall Girl* complete with cocktails would be more fun and more safe.
We had a crazy night anyways, let me tell you. We each had one
Wild Thing** while watching
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. We fell asleep before the movie was over and all slept till noon on Friday. Crazy, right?
Bradshaw has gone strangely domestic in the last week, so she invited over a few people and made homemade waffles (with homemade syrup, naturally). Good food, good company—Dead Day was shaping up quite well.
We had been planning to go see
The Holiday since we saw the previews, and we made it extra special by opening our gifts to each other before we went. I gave her the
South Park movie to replace her broken VHS and she gave me
Project Runway 2 on DVD. We both did little happy dances, then went to the movie.
The Holiday has just joined my list of favorites and will be purchased on the day of the DVD release. I may be cynical and ambivalent, but I’m also a hopeless romantic. This was less cliché than most romantic comedies. Kate Winslet was beautiful, Cameron Diaz was beautiful and funny, Jude Law was predictably sexy, and Jack Black was unpredictably refreshing and actually not painfully stupid. There was a big surprise, a sweet subplot, and lots of clever dialogue.
I think I’m in love.
Sitting too close to the screen in the crowded theater gave me a headache, so I put in Project Runway when I got home and accidentally fell asleep on my couch.
One paper, a presentation, and four tests before my semester is over and I can get into the Christmas spirit even more if that’s possible.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to watch more Project Runway and wish that
Daniel Vosovic was straight.
*I reserve the right to change her extremely boring pseudonym when I get a better idea. You have been warned.
**It’s basically a cosmo with tequila instead of vodka—which is good, because I find vodka to be evil. It’s also good because it is pink. I believe this is my new favorite alcoholic beverage.Labels: everyday musings
Sidenote
I've been getting a few offhand comments that make me wonder if anyone clicks the links that I put on here. Clicking those links will tell you more about the topics! That means, you can learn what
beer pong is, or what I mean when I talk about
graphic novels. I'm not trying to talk to you like you're stupid, just clarifying!
In other news, I'm the coolest person ever for falling asleep while watching
Hercules last night. Seriously, the coolest person ever.
Lists: Because I’m Lazy
Things I’ve Done in the Last Twelve HoursFinished a final project for an education technology class
Been educated quick and dirty style in
graphic novelsCleaned the last of the ice off my car (finally)
Wished my eyes were lasers—the better to destroy the alarm clock
Things I Need to Do in the Next Twelve HoursWrite an
etiological myth*
Watch Gilmore Girls**
Write a proposal for a paper
Do dishes, vacuum, scrub the bathroom—basically, clean my whole apartment
Wrap presents
Things I Want to Do InsteadNap
Watch more Gilmore Girls
Browse blogs
Nap more
*I already know what I’m writing, I just have to get it down. I’m doing the etiology for snow, which is going to be a gift to mortals from a yet unnamed goddess, daughter of Aphrodite and Zeus. I’m pleased with it.
**Yes, this is indeed a need, not a want. I need my weekly dose of Gilmore.Labels: lists
Stuck
This morning was something of an adventure. I got up, got dressed, broke enough ice off my windshield to see, and then drove to campus. There was no parking in any of the lots, so I ventured to the parking garage. There were no spaces inside the garage, so I drove to the top. The top of the garage hadn’t been plowed—they hadn’t even pretended to plow it. Whatever, I think, my car is front-wheel drive, it’ll be fine. I pulled into a spot on the ramp, put the car in park, and immediately realized that I was going to be stuck when I left class in two hours. I backed out in order to find a more appropriate parking space.
I got stuck.
I’ve done a bit of driving on snow, but Missouri isn’t typically much of a winter wonderland, so I wouldn’t call myself experienced. I do, however, know the basics. I put the car in drive—tapped the gas—car rocked, but didn’t move. I put the car in reverse—tapped the gas—car rocked, but still didn’t move. I put the car in drive—tapped the gas—mashed the gas—the car refused to move. Grumbled. Got out, kicked the snow away from both front tires (in backless shoes, mind you). Got in. I put the car in reverse—tapped the gas—tires spun. I put the car in reverse—tapped the gas—it moved a little, then got stuck again. I swore loudly. Got out, kicked away more snow, watched people around me do many of the same things. Got in. Put the car in drive—tapped the gas—tires gripped. I pushed the gas harder.
Finally. I drove up the ramp, tried to turn right to park near the stairs and was almost hit by someone else trying to un-stick their car. I turned left and drove through seriously rutted snow all the way around to park near the doors. I pulled through a space so that I wouldn’t have to back out later. That took long enough, right? There was snow in my shoes, my jeans were wet, and I was annoyed
Despite all of that, I still
love snow.
After class, far more people were stuck, forcing me to drive the long way around to the ramp again, but I made it out of the garage unscathed. As I drove down the ice-covered side street that leads to my apartment building, I noticed someone walking down the sidewalk. I recognized her as a girl who lives upstairs. I can honestly say that I really know none of my neighbors (with the exception of the older lady who lives next door who happened to be in my short story class spring of my freshman year), so I’ve never spoken to this girl. I was about two blocks from the building, and I suddenly felt like I should stop and offer her a ride—but I didn’t. It just felt weird, because I couldn’t tell you her name if both of our lives depended on it, and isn’t that sort of sad? And wouldn’t it have been strange if I had told her to get in my car. Wouldn’t I have declined if our positions had been reversed?
At the same time, wouldn’t it have been the right thing to do, or at least the considerate thing?
Labels: everyday musings
Saturday Night*
Someone needs to smack me the next time I
call my life boring. Inevitably, this leads to excitement and drama. On the plus side, none of the drama of the last two days has been mine.
Like I said in
yesterday’s post, I basically spent the day watching movies, and around four I finally got tired enough to go to bed. Thirty minutes later, I was scared out of sleep by the ringing of my phone next to my head. Somehow I registered that it was Bradshaw and I answered.
“What?”
“Are you awake?” she asked.
“Now I am.”
“I need to talk to you. Can I come over?”
I was still so confused. “Why?”
“Because I just had sex with [engaged boy].”
What the fuck? “Yeah, come on over.”
I climbed out of the warm, comfy bed and immediately began shivering. I dressed and went to sit on my couch, wrapped in a quilt, to wait.
She stumbled in, clearly intoxicated, sat on the couch, and put her head in her hands wordlessly.
I watched her for a moment. “Spill.”
Bradshaw and Engaged Boy have known each other since their freshman year. They're both biology majors, so they’ve had at least one lab together every semester, and she’s always had a thing for him. And, apparently, he has too. Here’s the short version of last night’s events: EB called Bradshaw and tells her to come to the bar he was at. She did, and he proceeded to buy her multiple drinks and get her drunk. The bar closed, so they went back to someone’s house to continue the evening. One of EB’s friends pushed the pair of them into an empty room and...there you have it. It wasn’t until after the fact that his engagement popped back into her head, at which point she looked at him and said, “You are getting married in MAY!”
We discussed the nuances of the situation and whether or not she should feel bad.
Finally, she looked at me and ask if she could crash on my couch. I said of course and then went back to my comfy, comfy bed, considering the drama that always happens when boys and alcohol are mixed.
I just hope that next weekend is less eventful.
*Technically this should be called Sunday Morning, but it’s not morning until I’ve slept all night, at least as far as I’m concerned.Labels: Bradshaw
Friday Night
Thursday, I called my life boring. Friday, my life proved me wrong.
After over nine inches of frozen precipitation fell (snow and sleet over ice), I decided to spend my day cleaning and lounging around my apartment. A friend of Bradshaw’s was having a belated twenty-first birthday party that we’d been planning to go to, and a little bit of snow and ice certainly wasn’t going to stop us.
I had two drinks (tequila and orange juice) while I was getting ready, took a shot, and then mixed an extra strong drink in a bottle for transport. After putting on a pair of running shoes for walking in the snow, I put the bottle in the
pink purse along with the red heels, pulled my gray pea coat over my jeans and black sweater, and headed out the front door.
My final destination was only about two blocks away, so I intended to walk. I had just stepped outside when Dread, who lives across the street, called and offered to walk with me. As we walked, he laughed at me walking tipsily through the ice and snow.
When we arrived it was still early, so there weren’t many people around. I drank most of my liquor very quickly while watching a rousing game of liquor pong.* I decided that I wanted to
text message someone (a sure sign that I was rapidly approaching drunkenness) and suggested
Project. Bradshaw threatened to steal my phone if I did, so I texted
K instead. He didn’t respond, so we commenced talking trash about him while we drank. Before I could make myself sick, I gave my drink to Dread to hide, which he did gladly. I chatted with friends, autographed someone’s arm, and avoided a boy who was following me around. I eventually found my drink and finished it, watched two of my friends disappear in a bedroom together and both come out with scratch marks on their backs, and at one point took a shot of rum.
It was a fun evening, but nothing really remarkable happened. Since Dread was my big, scary escort, I left when he did, earning even more laughs for slipping on the ice while drunk than I did while tipsy. He walked me to my building, and not two minutes after I walked inside I realized I had a text message. K had finally responded. I wasn’t interested in texting back and forth—because I was too drunk to play coy—so I just called him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Lying on my bed being drunk.” Fuck subtlety, right?
“Well, you should come over.”
I scoffed. “Even if I did feel like digging my car out of the snow—which I don’t—I cannot drive. I am drunk.”
“I could come and get you,” he offered.
“Are you serious?”
We went back and forth for a bit, then I finally agreed.
Once we got to his apartment, he put in some movie and we both changed and laid down. We didn’t pay any attention to it, but get your mind out of the gutter—nothing happened. I talk a lot when I sober, but when I’m drunk I stop caring if it’s annoying or if I’m interrupting something. I talked through the entire movie.
I’ll be honest, I enjoy aggressive boys, or at least boys with the initiative to do what they want. K has no initiative. Nothing happened. We slept, we woke up, he brought me home on the surprisingly still-icy roads.
When I got home I had tangled hair, an extreme craving for a huge glass of water, and four new numbers on my phone—one of which I have no recollection of saving. I spent today napping and watching Gilmore Girls and movies on TV. No matter what the final outcome, it was still a hell of a night.
*Liquor pong is just like beer pong, but the cups are filled with mixed drinks instead of beer. While I’m sure it’s been played other places, this apartment is rather infamous for it.Labels: alcohol, flirting
