The Golden Age.

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don’t let anger ruin your life

^ Another search term that someone used that landed them on my blog. Clearly they came to the wrong place. If anger didn’t consume my life, I would have very little to talk about. You’re welcome.

Drove by (okay, through) McDonald’s today. Looks like the McRib is back. When are they going to stop crying wolf about the McRib? Every time it comes out, it’s “out for a limited time ONLY!”  McDonald’s is to the McRib as Brett Favre is to football. Either retire it or don’t, McFavre.

We only have 3 more days to play McDonald’s Monopoly, boys and girls. This means that I have a legitimate excuse to go overboard with large fries and medium Dr. Peppers this weekend other than “I’m fat” or “I deserve it.” My amigo Alison, myself, and my cross-country friend Mr. Kocourek decided to join forces to increase our odds of winning.

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I would like to win a million dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win fifty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win a car so I can sell it for twenty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win free McDonald’s french fries for the rest of my life. If that’s not possible, then this isn’t America.

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I am ghost-like. My tan is fading rapidly. I am beginning to resemble a person in hospice. All the colorful life draining out of my flesh, death slowly taking over. I need to start tanning. I am leery of sunless tanning lotion. A girl I know has been using it just on her face and neck, and she looks like a bronze goddess. The only problem is, I imagine that when she is not clothed, her tan head looks like a brown paper sack on a white ghost body. Then again, it’s not like I’m parading around in the nude for everyone to see my color progression. At least not on weekdays.

I recently dug through about a thousand old photo albums from my late high school/early college years. Boy are they something. I was fatter, drunker, and whiter, if you can believe it. I don’t understand how we all partied like we did back in those days. We were unstoppable binge drinking machines. Nothing could get us down. Not even a .34 blood alcohol content or the police.

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In those days we would start drinking at 2 pm, doing beer bongs in the shower while we got ready, and taking shots well into the night. Somewhere in the midst of blacking out and doing keg stands, we would rally a gang to go tearing through Taco Bell in a loud, drunken stupor, barfing all over their single stall bathroom and stealing an unnecessary amount of mild sauce packets. We would scream with disbelief when bar-close came around, complaining with excessive foul language that the night was still young, returning to our respective dorms/apartments and continue to throw booze down our pie holes, blaring DMX at an ungodly decibel until 3 or 4 in the morning when we finally decided to go to bed.

Now I have two drinks, I’m hammered, and I sneak away and go to bed. I even get hung over. How did this happen? Next thing you know, we’ll be applying for social security. Olds.

WELL, time to go. Goodbye everyone.

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“That’s the hot water, turn it off! TURN IT OFF!”

“I’m SORRY, I’m not used to using my foot as a HAND!”

TGIF.

Friday is always a bad day to publish a blog post. People are too busy destroying their bodies, minds, and spirits with…well, spirits. Not that I blame them. The right thing to do on a Friday night is to come home all pissed off from work, log onto Facebook, update your status to how drunk you’re about to get, grab a Coors Light, and step into the shower with said Coors Light while you shampoo your hair, blare rap songs about getting hammered, and then go get hammered yourself. What’s a Saturday morning without a pounding post-tequila headache, a missing cell phone, regret, and throw up on your shoes? Well that’s just not a Saturday at all.

I am ready to bludgeon multiple citizens of Jeannette and/or Latrobe, Pennsylvania to death. Can I get in trouble for saying this? I don’t think so. I think I am protected by several amendments. Well, maybe one amendment. Anyway, freedom of speech, blah blah blah. Seriously. People here need to be punished. They all share the same mentality that they deserve everything for nothing. They’re all victims. The world owes them something because they work so hard at being lazy, jobless, bottom-feeding parasites. I was red with rage today. Dealing with these people is going to drive me to drink myself to death, and turn grey in the process.

Helping people with insurance claims here in western PA is like trying to help an injured, famished animal. All I’m trying to do is wrap your bleeding wound and feed you some Apple Jacks, raccoon! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO BITE ME?! DON’T YOU KNOW I’M ON YOUR SIDE?!?!?

People don’t get it.

I am 100% certain that I will be slapping one or more people across the face before I leave this state. I am also delivering some very brutally honest, mean, “you suck so bad” letters when I depart. There are so many people here that need to be told how miserable, ugly, incompetent, disagreeable, and ignorant they are. I am first in line to do so. I’ve already written one. It begins like this:

Dear Toucan Sam,

It’s a nose joke. This woman’s nose is the size of the Great Pyramid of Giza. You could build a gazebo on it. You could install an in-ground pool on her nose. They could move the Iowa State Fair campgrounds to her shnoz. It’s that big.

I can’t wait to deliver it. I am rubbing my palms together with anticipation, snickering all the while. I hope she cries and is too embarrassed to ever show her nose I mean face in public ever again. Perhaps she’ll cut it off. I’ll have to send a follow-up letter to find out what she decided to do.

I’ve really been sucking down the Dr. Pepper today. In the store, I noticed they sold 8-packs of these miniature cans of Dr. Pepper, so I bought them thinking that it would be a good way to satisfy my insatiable craving for DP without drinking a pony keg of it at a time. That didn’t work. Instead I just drink like 3 miniature cans instead of one regular one. It’s too delicious. I have no regrets.

If you need me, I’ll be in a soda-induced coma. Goodbye for now.

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“At my grandfather’s funeral and I just sharted bad.”

Crackberry.

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

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

Hit Me Baby, One More Time.

This weekend was a pleasant one, although Friday morning started off on an unpleasant note. After inducing some serious drunkenness with Kehly, Amy, and Marcus the night before, I awoke for my 10:30 class announcing how great I felt for how much I had drank hours earlier. Moments later, I say, “Wow. I feel like I could puke right now. Maybe I will.”

And then I did.

Twice.

After that, I went to class where I became very uncomfortable in the heat of the room and began squirming feverishly. My limbs and hands began to shake uncontrollably and I became extremely overheated and began to sweat. The world started to spin, and I startled the class and my oriental TA by announcing that I had to go to the rest room where I proceeded to dash in a panicky manner down the hall to die. It was a rough day for my anatomy. The end.

Laurel Jason Freemyer and her lovely sister Glenna visited the good ol’ 52242 this weekend. We started the night off right with some Skyy drinks, and finished it with two 6-packs of Bud Ice, 8 Coors Lights, and a 40. It was a fine drunkening. A mighty fine drunkening. At approximately 3:00 a.m., we decided that Pita Pit sounded like a fine idea, so we went on a White Castle-type excursion to get it. It was intense.

We started the voyage on foot in the dead of the night; Kehly began to scamper on ahead and actually ran for a good 60 seconds or so (amazing) while I saved worms from the sidewalk and Laurel spectated. We forged on the 15 blocks or so until we finally reached our destination. At some point, my bubbly conversation with the employees of Pita Pit led to the fact that we had walked from the dorms to get there. The girl goes, “Oh really? What dorms?”
“Mayflower,” I reply. She stares at me and goes, “…oh my god. You do realize we deliver…right?” hahaha. Yes we did. Anyway,

I got a Crave Bacon, and crave it I did. We chose to sit outside since the weather was so pleasant. A young black man stopped to gather taxi cab numbers from us for a moment; then another black man joined me in quoting Wedding Crashers without my asking, which was fun. Toward the end of our meal, however, the night took a dangerous turn and went awry.

I large chunk of chicken drops into my lap. I assume it came from Laurel’s gaping mouth, until Kehly says, “Becca, I think someone just threw something at you!” I laugh at her ridiculous proposal, and continue to consume my delicious treat. Moments later, what appears to be a ceramic dish or a large log smashes in front of us, mere feet from where we are sitting. Some delinquints of some sort who apparently don’t have mothers were hurling large objects at us from on top of Joe’s Place.

We quickly get up and scurry away from where we’re sitting. I turn around and see the two killers on top of the roof, so I take out my phone, pretend to dial 911 and announce VERY loudly that there were two hooligans on top of Joe’s Place who were attempting to end peoples’ lives by rocking their world with unidentified debris. They got scared and fled the scene. I win.

The night neared an end as Kehly, Laurel and I traveled BACK to Mayflower, where as we were entering the building, someone threw a banana at us from a few floors up.

Unbelievable.

Were we wearing signs on our backs? Apparently we had large targets painted on our shirts, inviting people to try their hand at attempted murder by force of impact.

Assholes.

This is really long.

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“Ya gotta giiiirlfriend? WELL YA DO NAYA!!!”