I’m starting to get really pissed off at my Blackberry. It has tourettes. Every time an alert goes off for an incoming text message, picture message, or email, it picks a new ringer instead of sticking with the default I have chosen. This isn’t Burger King, Blacky. You can’t have things your way. I’ve been referring to my piece of shit phone as a Whackberry to degrade it a little bit and try to make it feel bad. You know, shame it into working better. Trent constantly reminds me that iPhones always have been and always will be better than Blackberries. I agree with this statement, except there’s a problem with this tug-of-war equation:
iPhone > Blackberry, but Verizon > AT&T.
I don’t make the rules, Trent. I don’t.
Other things my phone has been doing recently is sporadically locking and unlocking itself as I text. This is very frustrating. The zoom on my camera goes on vacation every other week or so, too. It just refuses to work. Then it gets off its period and decides to do as I tell it. The internet is usually slower than the coming of Justin Bieber’s puberty. I dropped it 45 times at the College World Series as I guzzled sangria and danced around a black girl named Monica’s driveway to Shaggy. I don’t know if that hurt or helped. Sigh. AT&T and Verizon need to get it on and have a baby, and that baby will be my new smart phone and cellular service. Someone bust out the pheromones and get these two on a romantic date. Call ahead to Radio Shack and tell them to set the mood with some ambient lighting and jazz.
I just murdered a disgusting centipede the size of a corn snake on my bedroom floor. I get really angry when mortifying creatures like that appear in my room, like how the fack did they get in here? I feel like my second story bedroom is far enough away from nature to avoid these sort of intrusions.
I’ve drank more in the past ten days than I have collectively in the past two whole years. This is not an exaggeration. There was the wedding (which was a four day-long celebration/booze fest that never seemed to end), sangria party at Cassie’s (sangria has made up 40% of my diet lately), then tailgating for the CWS. Kelli, Cassie, Katie, Kehly, Bailey, Dane and I all met up in South Omaha near Rosenblatt Stadium to get our buzz on before not going to the baseball game. Parking is a living hell, so we opted to find a civilian offering their yards and driveways as parking spots for a small fee. On the corner of 9th & D, we see a large black woman, whose name is Monica, sitting in a folding chair at the end of the driveway with two little toddler-aged girls holding a sign that said “Parking – $20.” We decide this spot is a good a spot as any and pull Katie’s Cobalt into the lady’s garage, pop the trunk, and start the boozing.
Bailey and I immediately have to pee and make a voyage to the nearest port-o-potty. I get a text message from Kelli Beyer. “Monica is under house arrest. She is wearing an ankle bracelet monitor.” Haha. Sure enough, when we return, I’m scoping out her ankles. There it is, black, unmoving, and blinking. I wander up and offer Monica a nice glass of sangria, but she declines, admitting that, “I’m being monitored right now because of underage drinking,” as she pointed to her ankle bracelet.
“Underage?” I ask, puzzled. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” she says.
I thought Monica was like 25. I don’t get black people. I never know what’s going on with them. On top of this confusion, I went into her house to use her bathroom, and discovered two full gallons of milk just sitting on the counter, as if it were normal to do this with dairy products.
Speaking of dairy, Bob Saget is out of a job. There is no need for America’s Funniest Home Videos with YouTube these days. I’m not sure why it still exists. I can get all the entertainment I need watching “Jessica’s Daily Affirmation” and “Muffins” and “Hitler reacts to Kanye West at the VMAs”, sans commercials and endless duplicate videos of dogs catching frisbees and something going awry. Don’t need it. Sorry, Bob. Jobless Bob. Bobless Job. Done.
Well, I need to mentally prepare to pack for Pennsylvania, my next destination.
“Aren’t those the edible packing peanuts?”
“….No. Why would anyone want to eat them?”
“I don’t know, you just can.”