So we go out ...
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... Now, residential bathrooms with light switches OUTSIDE the bathroom. Epic fail. Now that just screams all sorts of pranks to me. Lucky I've never had to live with roommates in a residence with this awful fluke of civil engineering.
After chit chatting up Kitty's bf's mother for a few hours, mostly ranting about how amazing her son is, me and Kitty hit the road again. I will have to make comment that it was a beautiful home, reminding me of the glories of white upper middle class america, clad in Laura Ashley-esque floral print decor. Our conversations about worldwide traveler to Caribbean and europe was rivetting. I must say it is refreshing talking with other seasoned travelers, as I usually find it rare to find someone with an impressive and extensive stamp booklet known as a well worn passport.
For most of virginia and north carolina, me and Kitty fiddled with my Flip Mino to video log our trip, taking about 2 hrs of footage via Flip Mino and about 2 via propping my laptop on the dashboard and running video surveillance of our car antics via the Viao cam. Naturally, expect some silly videos to surface in a week or two. We managed to attempt to ghetto rig a holster on the dashboard for the Flip using a plastic case and some duct tape.
We made a miscellaneous stop at a Waffle House for grub. Now for most of you this sounds absurd, but understand that Long Island is devoid of these commonplace establishments. In leui of these, we have over priced diners that gleam in reflective silver all over our major roads. Sticking out like a sore thumb we ordered some sammiches and hash browns from our lovely waitress Yolanda I am thoroughly convinced that dear old southern yolanda was high as a kite, dancing to the eclectic selection of music picked out by Kitty for a dollar. 6 songs for a dollar, whatt. Our order came somewhat retarded, but that was easily overlooked and glazed over in leui of the comic remarks by our little ginger kid chef. "Shit happens" says the boy with flaming red hair and an intriguing large neck tattoo.
We tackily attempted to take a picture of me jumping in the air in front of the Waffle House sign, but failed as neither of us could time it correctly. Instead we got awkward landing pics of me, one including my flip flops flying off me backwards towards the windows and eating patrons laughing at us over their dollar coffees.
Fast forward to South of the Border between the carolinas, as VA and NC is well document in silly embarrassing videos of our conversations, road rage and off key singing and antics. We get out for a much need pee and stretch break at a wonderful little piece of heaven known as South of the Border. Under the cheap yellow paint and mexican themed neon signs, lighting the night sky, we found a creepily deserted array of miscellaneous store fronts and gas stations littered with awful sculptures of what is theorized to be animals with angry expressions painted in odd colors.
We stopped in "el drug store", as the tacky neon sign wasting x amount of dollars in electricity deemed. We walked through the deserted store past an elderly black woman in a sad little green apron to what we thought was the bathroom. However, we find the door not budging after a few attempts. As kitty tries to get the attention of aforementioned black woman for help, I was convinced the door was just stuck and began charging the door to no avail. The alternative suggested by grandma el drug store was to use the mens bathroom, insisting fervently that we bolt the door behind us. Hesitantly and half in disbelief, yet with urgency of impending urination, we entered the musty, grimey sketchy bathroom. There were exactly 2 stalls, one for each of us. We nervously laughed as we pushed open the stalls in disgust and I commented with fake disappointment that were no glory holes. After peeing, my natural instinct was too wash my hands, as most normal people do, and kitty goes "my vagina is much cleaner than those sinks". With my hands already lathered I turned over shoulder to look at the hand dryer, which was meant for increasing sanitary purposes. Instead the hand dryer looks crusted over with gunk and the filth of god knows how many trucker hands. We left the place laughing, most likely to help ease the disgust of what we had just encountered.
Outside, we retrieved my cameras and began taking silly pictures with the awful sculptures. While video logging and talking to the video camera, a jeep cherokee with a creep mcnasty back dude tries to drive by holler at us, a la Scrub style as great philosophers TLC theorized. I comment to the camera about how I "ain't trying to holla at them niggaz". We continued on our merry way poking fun at all the classy attractions at south of the border. We begin to realize that same jeep has circled around 3 time for us, and we duck into a fireworks store with a friendly staff that was intrigued by our video logging. We ended up purchasing some over sized morning glories for no reason and the cashier guy offered to walk us out due to our creep mcnasty stalkers.
They appeared to have been gone and away, so we resumed our road trip with some newly found carbonated and overly caffeinated beverages and a pack of Orbit Splash gum.
Now we are tweaked on sugar and caffeine on the road in South Carolina, speeding towards georgia and our final destination to a soundtrack of a random mix of music.
Now my hands hurt from typing on my bb so much. Back to my Monster energy drink and focusing on the road ahead.
Ivy out.
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In the grand fashion of pretty much everyone I know, kitty and I were all sorts of late hitting the road. What was anticipated to be a Monday afternoon departure pushed itself back to about a 9 or 10pm departure, as both me and kitty are lazy. This worked out to my advantage because I was asleep til 230 pm with nothing but a pair of socks in the suitcase.
Now, given this generous extension of time to pack and prepare, naturally I bullshitted the day away. Surprisingly an old friend from many moons ago texted me to hang out. Jackpot. Let's continue to BS. Once again the anticipated half hour catch up session over stoges turns into "wanna take a ride" and a whirlwind adventure all over Long Island. Idk something about a pomeranian, chicken, devil children and 1930s self help audio books. Ultimately I find myself indisposed at 830 at night in a playground.
I was more than happy to have an excuse to peace, as there are only so many white trash stories I can stand to waste my brain away from the mouth of a girl in pink hair and too short blunt bangs with an awful Long Island accent. Didn't know your cousin knocking up a 15 year old was something to brag about. If only my family had such devoid morals and drug addiction under our rep. One could only hope to be so trashy. Oh what, you're 22 and got punked by your "actually 36 not 23 year old boyfriend"? Excuse me for making the socially unacceptable decision to only date educated, good looking men with careers. Your glaring judging stare past those crooked greasy bangs go so appreciated. Also didn't know I was supposed to have kids by 22? I gave birth to a bachelors degree. Does that count? A www phooey.
I semi rushed home to frantically pack, which is more akin to a bored office temp trying for 3 pointers in the garbage, except with Express and Ambercrombie. As I threw a balled up bathing suit into my wittle wuggage, a series of texts come in saying kitty wouldn't be here til midnight. Awesome. Let's waste some time. I recruited a friend to come sit on my floor and glare at me judgingly so I might continue to pack like a normal person. However, I seem to possess a certain power to distract myself from tasks at hand but quite virulently anyone around me. Yes, of course needless to say, we engaged in the enthralling activity of ... Watching Run's House. I know I know, impressive.
So around midnight I throw myself in the shower, peeling myself away from what I somehow didn't realize was the THIRD showing in a row of the episode where everyone is jockin Jo Jo for getting pinched for marijupot. With blindingly impeccable timing, Kitty shows up just as I'm done getting dressed and after some bull shitting over her requested lumpia and my mediocre half a rice ball,
We FINally hit the road after smushing my wittle wuggage into the trunk of Kitty's jeep, with musical score by Ivy, humming the Tetris theme. I think I stole that from the Simpsons, tbh.
Now about road trip attire. Sweats, check. Comfy tank top(s) check. Optional scarf and fugly hat? Oh dear god check. Sweat shirt that has a 20 percent chance of being worn, 100 percent chance of being superfluous, check a roonie. Hey, who is gonna see me but trashy truck drivers and hicks who are so broke they work at a rest stop, or other travelers who are of comparable if not worse embarrassing attire.
It took exactly 20 minutes until we were singing like idiots to Backstreet Boys on the Belt Parkway. We came to the self justifying conclusion that leaving at 1am was advantageous for circumventing NY and DC traffic. Secretly, I feel it gave us an excuse to sing and car-aoke to 90's fad music with significantly less judging New York and Jersey drivers.
We pause the singing for .02 seconds to flame the feeble "don't kill yourself" led sign before the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Also to quote the skit in Waynes World ... "I'm in Del ... A where?". But honestly if I hauled my suicidal butt out to a bridge on i95, I doubt a flashing sign that says "you have a lot to live for" would change my mind. Especially since that sign immediately changes to "construction delays ahead" at will. And, if you're choice of suicide spot is DMB, you live in either the rivetting state of Delaware or South Jersey, in which case... Yea I'd kill myself too. Don't blame ya champ.
Now I wake up in Bethesda, MD, in a house of too much Laura Ashley, typing on my bb in bed while kitty waits for me to shower and leave. Yes its 1230pm and I am useless with cramped fingers.
Also, attaching these pics I realize ... I need to clean out my bb pictures. Mad scrolling.
And back to the road!
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Im not gonna waste my 30 seconds typing that clearly i intend to start posting again, because that is a) unnecessary and b) blatantly obvious by the blocks of texts to follow.
After a quasi eventful night out barhopping for R's birthday, I woke up engulfed in a sea of down and egyptian cotton. The first thing that runs through my head was "... my bed... SUCCESS." .... second thing was ".... what happened ..." and third "... why is my sunday morning ritual always waking up disoriented reaking of tequila"
The debauchery of last night we shall attribute to our great friends Sam Adams and Patron Silver. As nomy as that combination is for a drunken good time in the odd misting rain that overtook the LI South Shore last night, about a handful of shots and countless beers into the night, me and R get asked by devilishly goodlooking stand up comedian friend, J, the golden question - "So who's driving?" We like to call this a moment of clarity.
As I unintentionally slam my empty pint glass on the bar top, my usual "hell to the no" response begins to leave my mouth in the usual Saturday night slurred fashion. So seductive that drunk girl charm, i know. I quickly follow that up with "fuck my life", a phrase I have been using for years that has now gotten so popular because of some stupid website with falsified accounts of schadenfreude.
As FML is said, i get a set of keys thrown at me after a series of ridiculous schemes to get home are contemplated by a group of us. Somewhat of a drunk driving counsel meeting in the middle of the bar. How responsible. Each scheme involved some combination of cabs, car switching, car leaving, and morning after regretable decisions. Somehow, R getting a cab home and drunk girl driving herself alone home was the winning plan.
For about a half hour i was confident this plan of action would be able to be implemented smoothly. At the next bar, everyone plunders through the crowd for a spot at the bar, vying for the attention of the overwhelmed bartender. Being the sober one at the bar, holding the keys to an expensive car that is not yours ... well i dont need to tell you thats a shitty situation. I think i lasted about 15 minutes before secretly coming up with my contingency plan, which included texting various friends to come pick me up and my sister and brother. For a little extra pity, the "mass text that was made to seem not so mass texted" had a little schpeil at the end including the words "arrested" and "telephone pole".
Fast forward about 5 minutes and the "when and where" responses came flooding in just as i was about done paying for another round of shots and beers. Fast forward past the part where R, Good Looking Comedian Guy and Good Looking Marketing Guy scheme to embarass my Knight in Shining Sports Car that was coming to swoop me. Well maybe not fast forward. A discrete plea to R to not hate on Nice Car Italian Boy backfires as he passes the torch to Comedian and Marketing Guys and miscellaneous Guido.
After this little debauchle, I see a moment for an Irish Exit when some miscellaneous event diverts the attention of the guys elsewhere. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar, an Irish Exit is one where you wander off and away from your friends, out of the bar and home without a word to anyone. I made my little way through the beer garden back bar to the front bar and restaurant. The crowd was just a blur of Lacoste and Polo on drunken upper middle class WASPy South Shore twenty-somethings. Emerging at the entrace of the bar, i hop into my sports car awaiting and we drive off into the night.
That is my Irish Exit, and my scheme home. Thankfully, my continued alcoholism somehow saved me from my false confidence that i might be able to drive myself home. The uncomfortableness that i experienced standing at that bar with no drink pretty much saved me. By the time of my Irish Exit, the shots had kicked in and i was all sorts of slurring. My Knight in Shining Sports Car was thoroughly entertained by my drunkenness.
I will not lie, writing this post was a good way for me to recap the hazy memories of last night in a quasi poetic way.
i pride myself very much on my ability to multitask and handle a work load significantly larger than what most people encounter on their day to day. i hate to ever have to admit this, but its come to the breaking point where i just cant handle it anymore. bouncing between work and school, work and school, living my life train to train and running on about 3 to 5 hours of sleep every night, if that. its really taking a toll.
my room at the house has become a glorified closet, my apartment on campus is just a glorified locker. if i had a car, it would probably be listed as my primary residence. it has gotten to the point of ridiculousness where my laundry hadnt been done in about a month and a half, and i hadnt slept in my own bed in about a week.i wouldnt even call it sleeping because its more likened to an extended nap.
this schedule and day to day is slowly eating away whatever sanity i have left, leaving something bitter, exhausted and raw. somethings gotta give. but none of it i wanna give up. i dont wanna give up working, even if its reducing from 45 hours a week down to 35. i dont want to give up school because i have 2 classes left and may is quite close at hand. i sure as hell wont give up my social calendar, as im convinced its the only thing keeping me from slipping into a suicidal caliber depression.
i feel that even just having everything pushed back about an hour would increase the quality of my day just that much more. if work started at 9 instead of 8, and the train to campus was at 7 instead of 6 ... that petty hour really isnt that petty. thats sanity.
balancing the energy expenditure between work, school, studying, gym, and being a partier is cirque de soleil caliber. and somethings gotta give. i sit here now staring at the blinking cursor on the screen with blood shot eyes and drooping eyelids. and as my heavy eyelids approach the threshold of contact with my puffy eye bags, i bring this quasi self pitying rant to a close.
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