Polly Pocket.

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Welp, Monday was spent recuperating from the previous three days at the SnowBall Music Festival. I spent 72 consecutive hours destroying my body, mind and spirit with alcohol and elicit drugs. I couldn’t be happier. What an insane f-cking time. There were bananas and champagne and glow sticks everywhere. Got about 30 solid hours in the onesie, circa 1986 (eBay gem), pillaged roughly $180 of merchandise including Snowball shirts, Burton tees, and Burton beanies, danced like an asshole and burned 150,000 calories (all the more reason to continue my daily carb-loading routine).

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Top shows of the electronic music festival for me were:

• Ghostland Observatory
• DallasK
• Minnesota
• Bag Raiders
• Dada Life
• Bassnectar
• MiMOSA
• Boombox

Initially I mistyped “Boobmox” on Boombox. Everybody makes mistakes. Like I said, my brain is seizing. I’m lucky that my heart is still beating today. I cannot wait for next year.

I wish humans had built-in pockets. There are several things I like to always have on my person. Chapstick, tissues, my phone. I could really benefit from having the convenience of a built-in fanny pack. Basically I wish I were a marsupial.

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I can’t stop feasting on the enormous batch of breakfast burritos Trent made last week. These delicious tortillas are filled with zesty chorizo, fluffy eggs, a fiesta blend of Mexican cheese, a river of Cholula (clutch), onions, and roasted potatoes. Mmm. I’m not really sure how burritos can actually qualify as a “breakfast” food, but then again, when have Americans ever really followed the rules. I like how we slap the word “breakfast” in front of various non-breakfast items and consider it perfectly acceptable. Breakfast pizza, breakfast burritos, breakfast casserole. Just put the word “breakfast” in front of it, then it’s healthy!

We’re fat.

Speaking of fat, Christina Aguilera needs to stop wearing hats. What the f-ck was she wearing on her head this week, a Bedazzled vinyl record?

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Awful. What kind of drugs is she on, and why weren’t they available to me at the Snowball Music Festival this weekend? If it’s possible, she has gotten even more orange. I’m beginning to think it’s a biological thing, like she gets oranger with age, like a tangerine.

ANYway, time to go get more much needed REM. Adios, muchachos.

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“Whiskey. Rum. Mali. Coke. Shrooms. Jager. Weed. Beer. Vodka.”

“This text message thread would be a gold mine for the police department.”

¡Pura Vida!

Alright boys and girls.

…and whatever gender category people like Lady Gaga fall into.

I understand you’ve all been sweating profusely, having cardiac-arrest-inducing night terrors, and wretching in pain due to blog withdrawal, but don’t you worry, I’m back in the 66206 and ready to write your ears off again.

….of course when I say “ears” I mean “eyes.”

Anyway.

I have been making like Magellan, hop-scotching all over the western hemisphere for the past several weeks. Cabo San Lucas was a good time, although it would have been better if mi esposo futuro had been along for the trip (only moment of mushiness for the next month at least, don’t worry), but Costa Rica was a whole ‘nother animal, people. Let’s begin.

iTrip.

*~*OkAy, so here’s what 2 do…. put ur iPod on shuffle, and the first ten songs that pl@y are the soundtrack to your li—–Oh wait, I forgot I’m not a faggot with no life.

Study Party.

The one weekend that I should be focusing on studying, seeing as finals are this week, I drank more than I ever have before. Thursday, some of the theater gang came over, along with Marcus, Cole, and Cassie. After consuming quarts of vodka out of a cereal bowl, the group started heading out in different directions.

Take A Chill Pill.

I am intimidated by people who type aggressively. When I see a status or a wall post that looks something like “Dustin Roberts is YEAA F*CKIN RIGHT BITCHES I’M DRINKIN BUD LIGHT N F*CK DA PO MAN!!” I feel uncomfortable, like I’ve been reprimanded by an angry authoritative figure, or shouted at by a bum downtown. There is simply no need to type in all capital letters for any reason, unless you are truly trying to communicate that you are very, very excited about something, or flame-spitting angry. But please: don’t

Another night.

Is it frigidly cold in my apartment right now? Yes. Could my nipples cut glass currently? Yes again.

Yesterday I awoke from my deep slumber and ventured out into the kitchen to prepare myself a balanced breakfast. As I glanced out the window, I noticed a police car parked in front of my building. I took a closer look and realized it was a “Parole Officer” car. I’m living with criminals; criminals that need checking up on, periodically.

Feels good to know you’re surrounded by family.

Drunkl.

You know what I don’t want to happen? To be looking at somebody’s Facebook profile and have them come up behind me and see. Even though it’s not weird to be looking at someone’s page, if they see you looking at their page, it is. This is especially risky if you’re online at a public computer lab such as the library. If I want to creep on someone’s Facebook, I want to do it in the privacy of my own home, ya know?

I think it’d be funny to chain your bike to someone else’s bike and then leave.

Potato, PotAHbeer.

I don’t know why I chose to drink a Sprite Zero here. It’s what I mix all of my alcohol with. It tastes like straight up lighter fluid to me right now. A new replacement beverage is in order.

How did alcohol ever get invented? My curiosity is endless. Someone had to

Veishea ’08: Episode 1

Oh, Veishea. How you rape me so.

Chapter 1: Hit and Run
Cole, Squirrelly Steve, Kehly and I loaded up the family van early Friday afternoon, picked up enough booze to drown a Mongolian army, and began tearing through the streets of Iowa toward ISU. Kehly and Steve guzzled wine in the back seat the entire way, while Cole and I gushed over how much damage we were going to cause to ourselves and the city of Ames over the course of the proceeding 48 hours.

So we’re on the interstate, hauling ass in the left lane, when suddenly

Veishea ’08: Episode 2.

I awoke on Saturday morning muddier than a Jeep Wrangler and with more bruises than Kid Rock’s girlfriend. My shins felt as though I had been assaulted by a dwarf, and my knees were swollen as a chubby. I looked good. I looked real good. I stumbled out into the hall. Dane was slumbering in front of the bathroom door in the hallway. Zach was covered in post-it pads. Just outside the apartment door, I find my sopping wet, muddy ass jeans that would make a construction worker’s daily attire look like Versace, two disease-ridden tennis shoes and a pair of