A Christmas Miracle!

The way we were

Last night I decided to celebrate the upcoming birth of your Lord and Savior by getting mad zany with a couple of equally crazy bitches who enjoy drinking and all around bitchery just as much as yours truly.  After several vats of wine a fella approaches us and asks if could be so honored to buy us a shot (in honor of the Baby Jesus), to which we replied, “Fucking duh”.  Now the problem with accepting any form of alcohol from someone with a penis is that you’re then expected to talk to them afterward.  Café Darkness does not like this and fortunately for me, I was not the one stuck having to make conversation (yay!) and continued being awesome while my friend fell victim to his rambling. However, being the good friend I am, I promptly responded to the third jab to my leg (which in girl speak means stop fucking ignoring the fact I’m getting ear raped by this douche bag and help me) and saved her straight away.  That’s when a Christmas miracle happened and the most awesome exchange of 2010 occurred.

Me to Friend Who Needed Saving:  I can’t believe Kelly is going to be at the Christmas party later.

Friend (Not knowing WTF I was talking about but knowing to just roll with it): I know, right? Whatta bitch.

Me: I can’t stand her. Even though it was years ago I can’t stand the fact she hooked up with Dylan in the pool when I was studying abroad in Paris for the summer!

Him: What happened? Who hooked up? What?

Me: That bitch Kelly hooked up with MY boyfriend in a pool when I was in Paris. She was my best friend but now I hate her!

Him: Oh my god, how long ago did this happen?

Me: High school, but still, I lost my virginity to him at prom! It was kinda a big deal.

Him: Oh my god, that is terrible!

Me: I know, right? I was so upset about it I ended up not going to same college as everyone else for a semester but then was so lonely I transferred back but then eventually left the show because I was too much of a bitch in real life to tolerate.

Friend (Who is about to lose her shit):  Donna Martin graduates?

Me: Barely. But yes.

Him (Who is clearly the dumbest and drunkest person in Richmond): God man, that really sucks. I’m sorry to hear that.

Me: Then my parents moved to Japan and everyone randomly continued living in my old house which always confused me. Anyways, you ready to go to this party?

Friend: Yes.

Him: Ok, I’ll let you ladies go ahead and go to your party, but I feel for you. Breakups are hard. Even from high school.


Texts From This Morning


Friend: Hello. I am still drunk.

Me: 4Loko is donezo.

Friend: What?

Me: They’re removing the caffeine.

Friend: What the fuck?

Friend: No.

Me: They just announced it.

Friend: Oh.

Friend: Wow.

Friend: I hate everything.

Me: Right?

Friend: Buying things now.

Me: Yes.

Friend: Ok.

Day Drinking

Get out of my life!

To say things got slightly out of hand last weekend would be a bit of an understatement. I could feel it in my bones before the weekend even got started and boy oh boy was I right.  I blame two separate and distinct things for this ridiculous behavior: Three Sheets to the Wind playing at Republic on Thursday night and day drinking. 

Thursday evening started innocently enough.  I caught Matt & Kim play at The Canal Club earlier in the evening and under normal circumstances, I more than likely would have called it a night after the show but I didn’t have to work on Friday and hi, it’s Three Sheets, America’s number one tribute to yacht rock.  I’m not sure why everyone in RVA gets absolutely blitzkrieged when they play, but they do. I don’t even like yacht rock, but shit gets dirty south so it’s on like Donkey Kong on the third Thursday of the month.  Everything from buying shots like Oprah buys cars on a bar stool (not me), fist pumping HARD (not this girl), not remembering how one got home (me plus 10 others) to making out in the middle of the bar (definitely me, but others, too) all occurred. 

Waking up around noon on Friday I found myself busy fielding an array of text messages, phone calls and emails all asking the same question, “What the fuck happened last night?”  Once it was clear there was no definitive answer as to what the fuck had, in fact, happened, it was decided that a group of us should definitely hit up Hooter’s.  You know, because that’s what normal people on their day off, right?  Drink pitchers of beer and eat hot wings.  Sure they do.  Fast forward to Friday night and now I’m three sheets to the wind. 

Somehow I survive and wake up on Saturday morning still in my clothes from the night prior.  I promised myself I would, under no circumstances, start drinking before a normal hour and within thirty minutes I found myself on the way to brunch to get the party started once more. Within a few hours a surly drunk redneck bought the entire table shots of Bacardi while we sang classic rock songs loudly.  Again, this is completely normal, right?  I had the clarity of mind to know I should go home and nap it out and not continue the party like everyone else.  I took a three hour nap and woke up almost as drunk as I was before I put myself down. Not one to be deterred from having a good time, when my friend told me some of them were getting tats and oh, did I want to join?  I decided yes, I absolutely would do that because getting a tattoo after drinking is always a splendid idea.  An hour and sixty bones later I am now the proud owner of a new tattoo that is clearly visible in 99% of any outfit I own. Win!  Anywhoos, to celebrate poor decisions I continued the party until lord knows when and woke up once again in my outfit from the night prior (plus tat!). 

Sunday I took a stand and said, “Fuck you” to all brunch invitations. I was responsible as a mother effer and was asleep by 11! Screw your Sunday Funday and fuck day drinking. I love day drinking like a Mama Grizzly loves hating gays and brown people, but I just can’t keep up.  Nada mas! If you need me during the day, I’ll be volunteering or making a compost piles.  Unless it’s your birthday. Or a snow day. Or a holiday. But until then, forget it.

Go away, please.

Oh, you like me? Neat. Let's date.

Recently T Saur has been getting mad creepy.  A few weekends ago I was at a local watering hole (shocking) and when I got into work that Monday he immediately ran over to me and barked, “Did I have a nice weekend?  Because he saw me at (fill in the blank) bar.” Please note, this is not the first, second or third time T has claimed to see me out and about and not come over and said hello. (Which is actually preferable).  As a matter of fact, now that I get to thinking about it, this has been happening about once a week for a few months now. Are you following me around?  Gross. 

Anywhoos, this past Monday he rushes over straight away in his stinky eighteen-piece suit and once again asks me how my weekend was, doesn’t even wait for an answer before placing this on my desk:



Total pregnancy test, amiright?  I even asked him why he placed a pregnancy test on my desk and he laughed and said no, it’s a wine opener and he thought I would want it? You know, because after the trillion bottles of wine I’ve consumed I probably don’t have a wine opener.  I guess it was kind of nice, if not a little weird and totally unnecessary.  Fast forward to yesterday. Again, it was first thing in the morning and I’m my standard thirty minutes late getting here.  He runs over and says in an uber scary dead pan voice, “I like the color of your hair”, to which I replied, “Oooooookay. Thanks?” You like the color of my hair? What? Why are so weird with everything in your life?  Go. Away. 

Speaking of lives, what’s going on with my life lately? What with my stalker from last week, T Saur and the crazy Vietnam Vet Hobo who asked to, “ride in my car” yesterday I’m seriously beginning to question what kind of crazy mojo I’m putting out there.  TLW no want your crazy. Please leave my life.

Creep Street


Trying to picture a scene that’s hard to believe: Me. At a bar.  Drinking.  Okay, now that you’ve imagined the unimaginable let’s make it weirder.  Let’s assume I’m there with some friends, (What?  I have friends? Yes. I do. Fuck off). Let’s then assume that one of them is wearing a shirt with a college football team logo of some sort on it. Then picture a random stranger walking up to said friend and stating that he also went to that college and wow wasn’t that big win last Saturday bananas? (Stephen Garcia’s dick is huge, BTW).  Conversation about said football team continues and this girl zones out and runs to the ladies room as I have the bladder the size of a baby squirrel.  

ANYWHOOS, so when I get back to my seat I’m informed that this strange man “knows” me and knows my name.  Seeing as I have never laid eyes upon him I immediately inquire  from where do I know him?  He mentions several friends of mine and I’m all yeah, ok, fine, but how do you know me?  He tells me he’s seen my picture on their Facespace and I’m all, oooooookay, that’s the creepiest thing I’ve heard all week.  He says no, it’s not creepy. He’s just seen my picture and wasn’t I at Gus’ a few Sundays ago watching football? I said that I was and this is getting real weird, real quick.  He thought for sure he saw me there and was going to say hi but decided not to say anything because that would be weird.  I ask him how right now is not weird, but a few weeks ago would have been weird?  He didn’t really have an answer for that since he was super busy drinking his grape flavored Red Bull and Vodka. “All grape flavored drinks are just better” he told me. 

Much to my disappointment he continued talking to me and told me he works for AT&T.  I asked him to please make it so I could make phone calls in my apartment as that is my home and it’s a pain in the fucking ass to drop calls on the regs.  Then he asks me where do I live on (fill in the blank) Street?  KIM, I never told Creepster what street I lived on. So then there’s that.  He eventually meandered away as he drunkenly realized I was not the slightest bit interested in him wearing my skin as a suit. 

There you have it folks.  Just a typical Thursday night out attracting the biggest freaks in RVA. HOLLER LOUDLY!

Ooh the flossy flossy!

I Hate Yoooooooooou

Wow! Look at you lucky sonsabitches! Three posts in one week. Lordy! What is this? 2009? Suck it, bitches.  For your information I had already written today’s post yesterday, but Steal Your Soul’s computer decided to eat it like a sacrificial lamb. Meh. It wasn’t all that great anyways. It was basically me just ranting about how much I hate T Saur swarming around my desk a trillion times a day and asking him to sit the fuck down.  So instead of T Saur I want to discuss my gum AIDS. 

About a month ago one of my coworker’s (who I actually like and will talk to) went to the dentist and was told she had four (4!!) cavities that all could have been prevented if she flossed.  Going to the dentist makes me cold sweat, but getting cavities filled makes me throw clots.  Unfortunately, I also really hate flossing and admit I do it never.  However, her trip to the dentist scared me straight.  If you can cure the gay, then you sure as hell can cure being mouth gross!  I went to the store that night and purchased myself some real nice floss.  Of course it took me a few more weeks to actually start using it, but once I did I immediately started feeling better about myself.  I felt responsible, like a normal grown up. I even considered checking my mail more than bi-monthly, but decided to not take on too much, too soon.

It wasn’t too much longer after I started taking baby steps toward proper dental hygiene when I started noticing my gums were itchy like whoa. Who has itchy gums? This girl. How is that even possible?  I don’t know, but as I’m typing right now I have the insatiable urge to rake a pair of gardening shears across my mouth. Gross? Yes, very.  I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it or how one gets rid of their itchy gums but once I figure it out, I’ll holler and let y’all know. Also, let me know if you or someone you love has had this ailment and whose leg you humped to rid yourself of this malady.  Maybe if there are enough of us, we can start some type of support group. 

PS-For those of you grossed out by my gum AIDS, be thankful. I could’ve written about the period I’m having. You. Are. Welcome.

Current Status: Roofied


Eeeeeewie!  Last night got real weird real quick.  Yesterday was Fat Tuesday.  Fat Tuesday is my new favorite night of the week during which I go over to a friend’s house and watch TV shows about fat people. Mike and Molly on CBS (the best worst show on TV!) immediately followed by the Biggest Loser.  I love The Biggest Loser, btw.  It’s all omg you are SO big followed by fuck yeah, lose that weight

Anywhoos, after that LOL Fest I agreed to go out for one (1) drink and one (1) drink only to catch a wee bit o karaoke at Sticky Rice.  I was so proud of myself when I actually adhered to the plan at hand and made it home before my 12 o’clock curfew!  Upon arriving at my apartment I do not see a unicorn or a hot boy or a delicious Channello’s cheese sticks with a trillion extra ranches, but a girl passed out cold. I’m all, “Oh shit. I really don’t want to have to deal with this crap”, but then thought I can’t go all Kitty Genovese on this girl’s ass. (Google that if you don’t know who I’m talking about, retards.) 

I assumed she had gone outside to smoke, gotten locked out and passed out.  Wrong. Once she came to and she was all, “Where am I?” and I’m all, “In front of my apartment door?”  She’s all, “I’m cold.” So I’m all, “Ok. Shit. Come in.”  It becomes pretty apparent that she was for sure 100% roofied like a mother fucker at a bar on Robinson that I won’t name but rhymes with Fuddy’s and somehow ended up at my place.  I know drunk and this shit was not that.  She says she met some guy off the internet and her boyfriend (!?!) will be pissed if he finds out.  I realize shit’s getting real real quick so I call for backup.  I text my friend the following message: “I think there’s a drug dealer in my apt! Help!” and it worked like a charm! He was there in no time. Yay!

The next logical step is figuring out how to get this girl the hell out of my place so I can catch some Zzz’s. Several failed phone calls later it’s clear she’s not getting a ride from anyone.  She says she has a friend who will let her crash her crib near Bryan park so in the car to drop off Roofie Town we go. Once we’re on the highway she realizes that no, it’s Byrd park, not Bryan park and I can’t blame her for the mistake. I’ve lived in RVA all my life and use Byrd and Bryan park interchangeably. We hop off the highway, find her friend’s house and wham, bam, thank ya ma’am my good deed of 2010 is presto donezo! 

Now on to the important part: my karmic repayment. I would like the following things to happen: a new job, a raise, get laid and pay off my credit card. THANKS BUNCHES! Love ya!