If you liked it then you should have put a drink on it.

Recently my life has been more greatly filled with drama and going out on the town than it usually is.  Usually, I am a plain old glazed, now I am a jelly filled delight.  In donutting terms.  Summer is filled with far fewer people than during the school year.  The small groups of people herd together and form strange alliances that are explored in the late hours of the night.

On Monday night, I found myself, once again, going out with all my single ladies.  Not being a single lady myself, I have found myself occupying my free time through a variety of pointless pastimes.  One of the most successful, I have found, is going out.  Now let me explain to you what going out is like in this town.  As one of my friends, Marilyn, so beautifully put it, most people go out to have a drink or listen to some good music.  Here, we don’t do that.  We go out and drink heavily until we are forced to leave the bar that we so gracefully inhabit.  This may sound borderline alcoholic binge drinking behavior and perhaps it is.  At least it isn’t every night.  That’s what freshman year was for.  We are responsible for keeping the economy up here.  I do what I can.

On this very special Monday night I found myself in an old favorite bar that wisely markets $2 pitchers of beer on Monday nights.  Genius, I know.  When we were forced to leave we walked to one of my friend’s place of residence.  (My house is too far away to walk.)  I decided I was hungry, which I have been continuously ever since my stomach virus.  Will I ever be full again?  This is quite the opposite of what Scarlett O’Hara declared so many years ago.  By and by, I was hungry.  As you might remember, a nocturnal creature encountered me a few nights prior to this.  I decided to use this information to my advantage, as any weathered businesswoman would.  I called Dominos Pizza.  I told them I had information they might find “interesting.”  I explained that I would keep the information on the vermin entering their whereabouts from the “press” if they would give me a free pizza.  A fair deal, right? Wrong.  I spoke to the manager and he said I could tell the press.  I wasn’t getting a free pizza.  Close but no cigar, as my Dad always says.  Such a wise old elf.

Why did I think this would be a smart approach?  Obviously I was trying to save some money.  Before hanging up I told the manager, “You’re mean,” and hung up.  I ended up getting McDonalds.  They were much more friendly.

My dear friend and roommate, June, has warned me that I am going to alienate each and every pizza company here.  I believe this is a false statement.  There could be no such day.  I keep the pizza business going in this town.  They couldn’t live without me… at least I hope not.

I have recently entered the category of being morbidly obese because I have been eating my feelings since I have no boyfriend around these parts.  To curb this weight gain that is ominously approaching I have been exercising quite frequently.  Today I did kickboxing.  At first, I thought I was going to trip on my own toes and knock out my very expensive teeth (5 years of orthodontia adds up), as my Mother so kindly reminded me before this adventure.  However, once I got the hang of it I was going like Kirstie Alley to McDonalds-which is what I was going to be if I didn’t engage myself in this exercise torture.  Surprisingly, I found it to be successful on several different levels.  I burned several hundred calories which is always torturous but then allows you to eat even more-Yippee!  But it also allowed me to air punch all my frustration.  It was beautiful.  I even made a few grunts as the leader suggested.  I’m a follower.  My grunts were ladylike though, not to worry.  Not Serena Williams, more like how Ryan Seacrest would squeal or rather, squall. 

I feel as if my muscles will turn to rock tomorrow.  At the very least, I hope to feel a burn in the chicken fat area of my arms.  These Oprah arms have got to go.

Until next time my fair-weather friends.  Parting is such sweet sorrow.    

Tom and Jerry: Dominos Edition.

This morning I woke to ask myself several questions: where am I, where are my pants, and why does my hair smell of pizza?

These questions were quickly answered. I was at my friend Samantha’s house in her spare bedroom. I had stayed there after hours. My pants were on the floor. I took them off to sleep comfortably. My hair smelled like pizza because I ate an ENTIRE cheese pizza from Dominos. Dreams really do come true.

The most interesting tidbit from my night was how I acquired that juicy, saucy, cheesy morsel of deliciousness. I was hungry after I went to the bar- why wouldn’t I be? I called Papa John’s and they answered, “Papa Johns, we’re closed.” That really rubs me the wrong way. Don’t answer to a starving partially drunk girl and then taunt and tease her with what she cannot have. I even tried to get a pizza by telling her I was pregnant (which I am not) but she hung up on me. How RUDE. On I went to Dominos. After picking up my pizza I opened the door to walk out. In strolled a tiny little friend, one that was not welcome in those parts. A mouse. He walked in, sniffed the air, and then swiftly exited. A fine performance if I may. I watched these moments transpire before my eyes and after about 5 seconds screamed bloody murder. What’s a girl to do?

In other news, I got a twitter. I’m not entirely sure how to work it properly but I’m getting there. Possibly the most exciting moment of my day has been that Sara Shepard, author of Pretty Little Liars now follows me on twitter. What a life I’m living. When I received the notification for this splendid news I was nothing short of jubilant. Perhaps she will dance her way across the highways of the World Wide Web and stumble upon my little ole blog (said in a Scarlett O’Hara type voice, obviously).

When I woke up this morning I was instantly worried about the kittens; Emily Dickinson and Jane Austen AKA Emmie and Jane. I came home and called my parents. When I later spoke to my mom she said she had been worried I had been slipped a “Mickey” since I was up so early.

A Mickey? What is a Mickey? Mickey mouse? Donald Duck?

Apparently this strange vocabulary means what we call a roofie. The cultural differences between our generations are astounding.

I felt so gross after sweating my balls off in a bar last night for three hours that I bathed myself thrice today. A bath this morning to wash off the stale sweat, gross I know, but I don’t sugarcoat. A shower this afternoon to reinvigorate my hair that looked like, as my mother would say, “a cat sucked it.” This is actually a viable possibility now that I have two kittens. However, this was not the case today. I believe the copious amount of sweat my body released super soaked my hair and, in turn, my hair retaliated, as it often does. My third bathing experience was an hour ago, to try out my new bubble bath. It was lovely.

I have had a hankering, if you will, to bake a cake. It was at first a small bubble that entered my brain and now has consumed my thoughts. Maybe Bree van de Camp got inside my head while Desperate Housewives was on during my nap today. Or perhaps it is because my boyfriend, Jake, is living far off in a distant land… two and a half hours away. Maybe my brain is playing tricks on me (as it often does, especially during tests) and wants me to take this as an opportunity to brush up on my domestic skills. I’m fairly domestic in the cooking side of things- I have several specialties- but I do need to brush up on my baking. It’s much too mathy and scientific for my brain to understand it. Any suggestions for recipes I should try? I want to blow his socks off next time I cook for him. Who knows when that will be…

I couldn’t go out tonight. My liver needed a break. I will be going home next weekend, which will provide plenty of stories, I am sure.

Keep it Real.