Ice ice baby.

Last night I once again had a night out with my ladies. As Jake is in Chicago, I needed to have some of my own fun. While at a bar, there was a gentleman sitting at the bar by himself (I use the word gentleman VERY loosely). As my dear friend Mary Magdalene waltzed up to the bar this character pulled a fast one on her. She was iced.

For those of you who don’t know what being “iced” is I will tell you (this is primarily for my mother and her comrades). On a perfectly lovely evening you may be imbibing with your friends. Then, suddenly, before you know what has hit you there it is: Smirnoff Ice. Gag. Once you have been presented with this jewel you must get on one knee and chug it. Oftentimes, this leads to gagging or vomiting.

So there she was, a simple former-president-of-a-sorority girl just trying to get a $1.50 Coors Light. It was too much for her. She calmly walked away. Then we scolded her. “You can never turn down an ice!” we said. If only we knew what was to come…

As I think I am Daddy Warbucks, I decided to get my ladies some shots. They weren’t feeling the bar scene and I needed to, in the words of Lil Wayne, get their swag on full attack. As I walked up to the bar (thinking I looked really cute because a boy was staring at me) I was iced. I squealed. I jumped. I ran. “NOOO!!” I said. Then, I hid.

I broke my own rule. What was I to do? I couldn’t handle it. In all actuality, I did this man a favor. I would have vomited all over his face and he may have been slightly perturbed. He should have thanked me.

I saw the kindle owner last night. He strutted in the bar like a prize-winning horse. To make things worse, whenever he reads aloud in class, he reads with a semi-British accent. Can I just tell you how annoying that is? NEWSFLASH: You are not actually Gloucester and this is not an actual production of "King Lear." Move on.

June said that I explained the spotting of this character as if he were a drug addict. “He’s the guy,” I said, “the one… with the Kindle.” All of my lady friends admitted that he did look like a doucher. I win.

As I am not out trolling for man meat when out, I find myself people watching the folks in the bar. This is a commonly used phrase and one that I use often. However, after I spent quite some time people watching I thought about perhaps giving it a different name: creeping. Isn’t that what we’re really doing? Reading the mouths of others as they have conversations with their exes? That’s what I’m doing. Admit it, it’s fun.

I am a creeper by nature and I use facebook to my full advantage to indulge in this dreadful habit. However, by the minute it seems as if people are deleting their facebooks. This puts quite a damper on my fun. Jake deleted his some time ago, which really annoys me. He thinks he’s too cool for school. What am I going to do when facebook phases out?! How will I indulge? I feel like an alcoholic with a dwindling supply of vodka.

Last night I saw a girl from my past. She is a raging ginger in every sense of the word. She hates me because I am dating Jake. This has never made sense to me. Why hate the girl that is dating your ex-lover rather than the dude himself? This is a moral question far beyond my means of comprehension. This is a true-life story of our encounter many moons ago:

It was the first formal event Jake and I went to together. We were pregaming at one of his friend’s houses. This random girl shows up and offers to give us a ride to the bar. Fine by me. Then I realize that they used to be involved. I was feeling a buzz and loving life when all six of us got in her tiny car. I had to sit on Jake’s lap because there wasn’t enough room. Since I am so tall I had to bend my neck to fit comfortably, I decided it would be a “good” idea to roll down the window and stick my head out, for the sake of comfort. Ginger says, “I don’t think so,” and literally rolls up the window on my head. Being the deft lady that I am, I nearly made it out with both of my ears. I did, however, lose a few strands of my golden locks.

On that note, adieu.

Kindle the swindle.

My apologies for the grumpy post. I was going on only a bowl of cereal (in 12 hours, and that is NOTHING for me), 3 hours of sleep, a pot of coffee, and two midterms. I had discovered some comments that were less than complimentary and they chafed my ego, to say the least.

I would, however, like to thank those that massaged my bruised ego and sent me compliments. You guys are the best! Cupcakes for everyone!

I would like to answer a question that many people are asking me about my previous post. In response to an anonymous poster saying “nothing as interesting as a wealthy white girl’s life” I explained that I am neither wealthy nor white. I admit, this was a clever ruse. Although I am not wealthy (who IS wealthy at the age of 21? Not this girl), I am what some people would call “white.” “White” is SO boring. When I was little I called myself “golden.” So suck on that.

There is something that I have been itching to write about that has been heavy on my heart. Something that is just too much for me. Today, whilst watching The View (I only watched it because my obsession, Bethenny Frankel, was on co-hosting) they spoke about this thing that has turned my world upside down and shattered my life, emotionally. The Kindle.

I can’t do it. I just can’t. There are several reasons for my insistence upon rejecting this piece of “technology.” Here goes:
1. You can’t smell the book. This may be weird and creepy to some but the smell of new books, library books, books from my home, books from my elementary school, and books from my favorite bookstore have always been comforting to me. Like mashed potatoes. Or pinot grigio.

2. You can’t turn the pages! What a beautiful sound. To live without it is like a day without a good glass of wine: theft. The digital sound doesn’t count. Ew.

3. The feel of the paper and the words on the paper. You may say you can’t feel the bumps that are raised on the pages, but I can. Touching a screen just isn’t the same, obviously. It’s my version of Braille.

4. They steal author’s work! I had a teacher whose work was stolen, plain and simple, by Amazon. As a writer, this is all we’ve got! Nothing else. I’m counting on you folks to pay my grocery bill (actually that would be my parents at the current moment but next year I will) and how am I supposed to be able to do that when I have the imminent fear of my work being stolen? Unfortunately, my work isn’t good enough to be stolen right now, but you get the idea.

5. You have no relationship with the book you’re reading. As a reader and a writer, I like to love my books. I treat them with the kindness and respect their author has treated them. I know I have truly loved a book when it does not close fully when it is sitting on my desk. Each page is a masterpiece. As a writer, I understand the work that has gone into their book and I oftentimes feel a relationship with the author. I can empathize with them. That sounded kind of sexual. Whatever, I like books okay?

6. You look like a douche holding one. There is a guy in my class who has one of these things. He not only looks like a loser, he looks like he is too persnickety to use anything that isn’t technically installed. Gross, bye. Go back to Best Buy. How much do you want to bet he works at Geek Squad?

In short, don’t buy it. It’s just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! I can’t say it enough. I’m concerned that children’s books are going to take this route. Then what do I do with my career? Oye. I’m getting a little worked up. I need to cool it down, where is my wine?

After careful and thoughtful consideration, I have decided that if I am ever to actually have something published and develop some figment of a career, my publicist will be June. As my roommate and BFFFL (best friend forever for life, duh) who better to make me sound better than I actually am? Although marketing is not her direct specialty, she has taken the reigns of telling everyone how funny I am all the time. She laughs at literally everything I say and when she introduces me to people she always says, “This is Anna. She is soooooooooo funny. Read her blog.” What could be better? Although sometimes I fear that I cannot live up to the expectations of others, one thing is always for sure, June will think I’m funny forever and always, in the words of Taylor Swift.

After writing only one sentence about pageantry in my previous post, I have decided to delve into this strange and complicated world. The only grand supreme thing I’ve ever had is a pizza. Why Mommy, why? Was I not pretty enough as a child? False. I did some amateur modeling in my time. It was for Dillard’s, but who’s counting?

I’m kind of stealing this “Why wasn’t I in pageants?” riff from Kathy Griffin (because she is the funniest B on the planet) but I don’t think she would mind. After a comment by my dear friend, Charlotte, I have decided it is time. Time to become grand supreme. I will be entering a pageant in the near future. In the mean time, I need to practice my cupcake hands, work on my faux tan, and get a flipper.