Many Bloodsucking Creatures

Yesterday was a fun-filled day of pokes, prods, and pre-surgical testing.  Attempting to draw me out of my latest mini-mental-breakdown (brought on by its main culprit as of late: a blood test), my dad filled me in on the latest political news. Glenn Beck was having a rally at the Lincoln Memorial on the revered anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech.
Nice.
With a last sniffle and a "Ugh. I hate Glenn Beck.", I slipped onto the exam chair and allowed to the nurse to take what I was sure to be yet another donation to the Edward Cullens fund. My dad is a wizard.

I decided to do some follow-up on this precious display, and have a few thoughts on the matter:

- Beck has masterfully created a brand new sentence filler. Gone are the days of "um" and "like" - if you want to roll tea party style, start using "God" instead.

- Of course he was well aware of the potential controversy of the Martin Luther King speech anniversary - he was banking on it. One person's irreverent is another person's "maverick". One might infer that he hopes to have comparative statements about the impact or importance in later years. Perhaps even with quotations! He has engineered his role as leader of some sort of movement he hopes to be comparative to civil rights(of course, not the "progressive" aspects of it. just magnitude.) Beck's dreams involve textbook references with side-by-side photographs, SAT essay questions of compare and contrast. Go big or go home, I guess. And when you need to make a plate of BS big enough to feed Mama Grizzlies, such ingredients are needed.

- It's not that I feel his message is entirely worthy of ridicule. I was once an attendee of church picnic-like affairs. I can appreciate the strength of a sermon. The concept of "restoring honor" sounds as soothing to me as the next person. I just don't equate that with pro-life or pro-"marriage"(please note use of quotation marks) ideology.

-  And it's not that I don't appreciate a conservative message. When it comes to the trivialities of politics(better phrased as "things that are trivial, like politics"), my loyalty shifts based on who has the better deal.  Often enough, the Democratic party's keg is kicked and one has venture down to elephant town to get drunk. Sometimes they ID you and you have to drag your sorry ass back and hope someone makes a liquor run (though it might take a few years).

So that's it for my diatribe. Stay tuned for mosque talk, "reasons why my pediatrician sucked" and other bitterness!

Conversation Starters

I lied to two people today.

Well, technically three. But the two main victims were told directly to their faces, which I imagine is supposed to make the crime more...repugnant.

The victims? A dentist and a hair dresser.  Didn't know what hit 'em.

The aforementioned are the types of occupations in which rapport is awarded - or rather, considered part of the job. Despite hundreds of nameless mouths or heads of hair they shift and shape in a year, they are expected to maintain some sort of memory, in order to maintain the almost-ease of conversation with the annual patients whose intricacies, while inconsequential, allow them to feel more relaxed when remembered.(Though I don't imagine anyone ever feels relaxed enough for those horrid cleanings. Shudder.)

Yet, the same conversations remain in their repertoire. Targeted by age and gender, the questions are meant to elicit the small talk that creates the comfortable environment that is sought.

So, why make things uncomfortable?

When the mother hen-like dentist asks about the bandage or hospital bracelet, there is no point in mentioning the "c" word. Quite the conversation killer.

Or not so much killer, but monster-steroid enhancer. Adult sympathy, unlike it's adolescent counterpart, is experienced, hard-hitting, and often...hysterical. It asks the real questions. It has real-life comparison points and the worst: recommendations.

As much as I would love to foster intimacy with individuals who will as soon forget my teeth or hair specifications as they put away the file(or hair dryer), I feel it unnecessary. Excessive, if you will.

Why ruin their day with the knowledge that they're touching a (c word) patient?

The whole thing just seems silly to me.

So, if our encounter only merits a short or sporadic conversation, you will be told I had a minor  operation. And that I'm going back to school in week. And that everything is swell.

Preset answers for preset questions.

You Gotta Have Heart

"She is our flower! She is in the flower of her youth!"

rosary beads, WHY YOU!, repeat repeat repeat

she's little, but she's a heavyweight.

grandmothers are good for things like that.

Euphemisms that turn into THE words, 

circle talk and praise of good veins

We-will-fix-you's

curative, chemical, giveeeeememorepilllllls!

it's an air mask for a jet pilot. Maverick!

hospital staff is good for things like that

i got a team of people on prayers, a team of people on treatment, a team of people on fattening me up with the most delicious things possible, a team of people on sanity and awkward jokes(cuing laughter for mine). And a team of people on acting as my mouth, arms, and legs when they slack(they're called parents and they are quite the asset, let me tell you).  All of whom are on the all-star team of keeping me alive. I'm confident about my odds.

I'm ready to fight, mothafuckaaaaa!

The Stage

Headphones in a glass room. The casual ignorance of the lack of soundproof walls and tinted glass. Performance value.

There is always a song to be sung, a dance to begin at the most basic tapping of finger tips. I see figures floating across a stage in perfectly coordinated movements - swaying(or popping) to the rhythm of a sultry love song, or rapid pant of a heart-pounding club beat. The first jazz dance of Gershwin in a sequin top hat(glitter was an eye hazard) and the last twirl-and-dip on the sticky local bar floor are not to be forgotten.

Tap dancing with mirrors to match movement to tap dancing across a heart with no recollection of its happening. I miss the time step.

 

Sometimes the best expression of style occurs alone in carpeted bedroom. Doors closed, with only the mirrors to judge what is exposed. A song echoing off the basement walls - with only the pitter patter of miniscule paws to keep time. An existence in the partial secrecy the moon affords you.

 

The daily journey home involving a walk-in-the-park and a game. How close can a person get before they hear the words sailing off one's lips?

Better to be suspended above the viewers of the art, the recitation of words and movement. Blinding bright lights obscure the view of filled seats. No eye contact. Center stage squint. 

Hidden in the limelight for too long, it is time to return. 

Palm Reading

Patches, Trax, and Cupcake draped their lethargy-pumped bodies around a wooden table obscured from view of other patrons. It was humid inside the private alcove; but the importance of privacy far outstripped the inconvenience of a sweaty brow.

They nursed their drinks, musing over past days. With markings on the tops of their hands, silvery declarations of title, they were distinctive from the others. Atop the table, among the varied condense-tipped glasses, was a book.

"Put one palm on top and stroke the pages with the other. Think about your question until it feels...right. Then open to the page you touch."

Questions were asked and answered. Though many of the cryptic messages required the combined interpretations of hope and cynicism, often enough the text spoke loudly and clearly.

"Am I good in bed?"
"Don't be ridiculous."

Ouch. That's gotta burn.

The book was then unceremoniously tossed, to be replaced by another round.

Priorities.

How Stella Got Her Groove Back

I mentioned earlier how I was having some difficulty for a few weeks writing poetry. I had lost my groove. Very concerned that this was a permanent groove loss, I sought help. And then fortuitously the blog-stalking that I so oft have to do for work led me to Hannah Miet, who is a fucking g. After some feedback on the male point-of-view poem, one comment in particular: "It sounds like an Asian preteen male wrote it", I decided I should probably revamp. Or grow a penis. Those were the options provided to me. But before my sex-change in the name of poetry, I want to take another swing at it. The new version, alternatively title "the frat boy"(I'M SORRY IT WAS TOO EASY.), explores the internal monologue of a guy at the bar with drunk girl. I was told this was more accurate(feedback: "it sounds like a dyke wrote it"), so it appears I am on the right track. So once I start demanding anal sex, I think I will finally have hit it on the head. Thoughts?

And as always, feel free to stalk me if you want to read it. And by stalk, I mean email. That would be uh, cool. Thanks.

Though I'm a bit scared to post my wittle poems on the big, bad web(outside of the confines of my 15-person facebook list for all my notes), I don't really have an excuse given that I've been published a few times. And it's only fair to post in the blogoverse what I gained from the blogoverse(stab me for the use of the term blogoverse). So, here ya go. Judge away fine fellows.

Hannah Miet is my New Muse
You're fickle and volatile
you are the pinpricks of tics
which switch my desire for
a cubicle fuck to a
toss off floor 6.
I've thought of you before.
before the daydream that fades to soft tinges
that make me drowsy at desk
touch the keys as they bend
to whatever curve my mind's run down next
Useful as a post-it note without stick,
your words fall like drip drip
of a leaky faucet
I long to express
the feeling you've never felt
except when reflecting off
conquers
you dispel all cause for concern
with a look and a wink and a
left-hand turn
look away, for I'm through with the
swerve of a crash-and-burn
learn to put out your cigarettes
on someone else's arm.

Taming of the Shrew

Hannah Miet is my new muse. I thought for a time why the poetry wasn't coming, why the words remained stagnant. Or worse, neatly tucked into approved-sentence structure with properly placed punctuation AND capitalized words. The horror. the horror. I decided that my creativity had been drained from this blog business or simply leaking out of my cublicle chair(along with my will to live). I needed some help.

First, I was assisted by the-guy-with-a-gift who gave me a magical assignment: write from a male point-of-a-view. Specifically, "no feminist sarcasm". I was worried, to be sure, that some might accidently spurt out(it wells about the throat, waiting). I can't help that vast majority of men and their behavior give me ageda on a regular basis. Maybe I should hop out of the frat scene for awhile and linger among the engineers. They at least inspire some faith.

When the assignment piqued immediate interest, I realized that my writer's block may have been simply been caused by having nothing to write about. To be fair, this is a positive in real-world terms, as almost all of it is angsty in some way. Or simply angry(comedy comes from anger, according to something I read somewhere...therefore it must be true.) Or sad(read: pathetic. No one gets to read those though. Sorry, schaudenfreude fans). So, sadly for my creativity, I haven't had to bitch anyone out via free-form in awhile. Poo.

Back to the assignment, I began with the internal monologue of a guy about to approach a girl in a bar. Then realizing how risky that would be(breaking the constraints of the assignment waaaay too easy), I decided to try a different tactic. Channeling my knowledge of all that is idealistic, rom-com, wishywashy, and generally unrealistic, I wrote the internal monologue of a type b guy comforting a friend, whom he secretly loves. Mhmhm mush.  I think I successfully made males come off non-scummy, but that's probably because, as my friend aptly put, "I don't think it's male enough".

Can't win 'em all, I guess.



p.s. If you want to read the poem(or any of my other pieces), just give me a shout. I'm a bit overprotective.

Blue Moon

Some may call me the gangster of love...

Apt, because from time to time I shoot love in the foot and leave it bleeding on the asphalt.  Then, like the goomba I am, I skipped merrily away to a pat on the head and a new assignment.

Once, in a castle far, far away I knocked a guy's drink onto him while flailing my arms(they call it dancing there). Twice. Once was clearly not enough, so Fate decided to add insult to injury after the poor guy made the mistake of dancing with me and a precariously placed solo cup.

It was then decided(after profuse apologies and a make-up drink) that we should probably sit(with my arms at my sides. at. my. sides.) Among the leather couches of the ornate chamber, we had an atypical "fraternity gathering" discussion. Perhaps, for the first time, there was a genuine sense of getting-to-know-you and not getting-into-your-pants. I was taken aback. Someone was actually assessing me based on what I read on my commute and how I felt about family law. I then discovered the cause of difference: he was a GDI, not pledged to any of the local kingdoms with whose lords I had had encounters.

My ladies-in-waiting(go with it) were anxious to leave after it was discovered that a court jester(read: drunk kid passed out in his own vomit) was causing "difficulties" outside. I did not want to relieve myself of this person's presence, and fortunately he remedied the situation by suggesting we all go back for "a drink".

An apartment of scotch and beer. and a black, fluffy cat. Conversations and the understanding that one of my dear friends had to be taken home.

Though pins exchanged and facebook friendship resolved, such things come with the understanding that the likelihood of a second encounter matches that of a person spilling someone else's drink on him. twice.

Though I suppose the blue moon does appear eventually.

And now, with only myself to judge, I read the New York Times every. single. morning.

(Jersey) Girl Lament

Dear girls sitting at the table next to me at Starbucks: 

Yes, your boy(thing) is cheating on you. The girl you think he talks to about you is probably the culprit, and no she's probably doesn't know that you're going to "cut her" the next time you see her. Your friends that you think have successful relationships are, in fact, probably happier that you are, because they probably aren't spending 3 hours discussing the monotonous details of your interaction with some guy(s) who is/are probably with that girl you hate at this very moment. The repetitious conversation that you are having has covered almost every cliche comment related to boy gossip that makes even the most calm green-tea drinker's blood boil in frustration. 

I made a list for your records:

"Everyone likes what they can't have."

"It's the way it is."

"He just likes the chase."

roll eyes

"It's not you."

roll eyes

"He would just text me like randomly. On weekends."

unexpected?

"So that's life, what are you gonna do."

stop texting?

"We're nice girls, they know they can't do that to us."

oh, totally.

"He's just having his fun now, but when he meets that girl, which, like, could be me, he'll be different."

uh.

"This is what he wants to look at, that is what he wants to hear."

they are nice implants, actually.

"He says when he commits it's different, like he can only be with her so, like, that's why he won't commit."

sound logical reasoning.

"You can play the game for a little while, then everyone wants to settle down, be comfortable."

"Maybe we'll be friends in the future."

"Try it out."

read: have sex with him.

"I know he likes me, but I know he has other things, like whatever."

yep.

"I'm just going to tell him, I can't be your go-to girl. You need to leave you girlfriend....or I don't want to be involved."

you uh, tell him sister.

"I've had my fun, like .. but then again..."

"The more you look for it, the more you force it...I mean I never force anybody but..."

"I hate when they fuck around."

didn't you cheat on that other guy?

"So annoying. I hate that shit."

see above.

"I would never cheat again. When I first broke with him, like, like,likelikelikelikelikeGAAH"

STOP IT.

"Just to see what happens."

read: have sex with him.

"But like, you live and you learn."

translates to: you have sex with them and then...

"He crushed her ribs..but like he's a really nice guy, I've known him for..."

we call him bone crusher as a nickname. such a sweetheart

"They made out and like, he's a bad kisser but he pays, so like..."

dinner before dignity!

"But she made it clear that she wasn't interested, and like..."

translates to: but she'll still have sex with hm

"And then he texted me and said, 'LOL No', like what the hell, like..."

read: but then I had sex with him

"He deleted me."

boo.

"I'm glad I got to vent. You're the best."

IT'S OVER. BASKING IN THE QUIET. BASKING.

I would transcribe more, but my fingers actually have a quota for the amount of likes that can be typed in a single sentence. 

Thoughts:
-Oh dear god, you're going to eventually reproduce.

-You're 26 and having the exact. same. conversation that 16-year-old girls have about "relationships". 

-Your conversation mentioned facebook, texting, and drunken interactions about 30 times. 

-We have all had that conversation. Loudly. Probably in a Starbucks.(or cafe of choice) Fuck.

Notes to self:
Do not air dirty laundry in Starbucks. People can actually hear you.

Learn to use code names.
Kill whatever remnants of Jersey accent possible. 

As much as I want to ridicule these vapid, overly-bronzed waitresses with skinny vanilla lattes, I am stopped by the realization that they are currently having the most universal girl discussion in existence. The attempted deciphering of the male ego, and the ultimate failure. The resolve to not deal with the "bullshit," but the unspoken acknowledge they'll be answering so-and-so's texts come Thursday. 

The pathetic sort of comfort that comes from the mutually understood lie that the anxiety has an eventual "purpose". 

Resolution: NEVER HAVING THIS CONVERSATION AGAIN. If someone hears me utter any of the like-drenched words of "wisdom" above, feel free to beat me with a blunt object. 

Actually, I think if every, single girl aged 12-45 hears it from a few JersAY gravelly-voiced waitresses, the conversation(s) will cease. And across this fair nation, coffee shops goers will be saved from the stories "I just NEED to tell you, ohmygod..." 

Or we will simply continue having the same shared practices, perpetuated by a lack of good judgement and some expensive coffee.

Saviors in Boat Shoes and Stilettos

Memory:

Hustle and bustle at the house. Curling irons scorching counter tops(just kidding campus apartments!) Powders and creams; shine and shimmer coating sinks and faces. Dresses. Heels(That do not fit.) Handles of vodka. It's formal time.

Date ETA: 45 minutes. Primping: on schedule.

Discovery of plastic tag still on dress. Strong resistance to conventional means of removal. 

Screaming. Panic.

Hammer. tweezers. Swiss army knife. Ripping a hole in the thing and calling it a day.

Realization that gaping hole in dress is, well, a gaping hole.

Temper tantrum. Panic. 

Savior in pink taffeta: sew it for you?

Rejoice.

Savior in brown BCBG: peach schnapps?

Calm.

Sometimes peace of mind is a just a phone call or sewing stitch away. I've been very fortunate that I've never been lacking in the crisis-be-gone! ointment department. Y'know, the type you put on a particularly egregious zit like a break up or typical panic attack. The main person hooking me up with this salve over the years has been my dad.

So I'll admit it: I'm a daddy's girl. But instead of the typified shopping sprees for shoes, our idea of an impulse buy is a book. or five. Sadly, I appreciate these sorts of purchases infinitely more than the former. I know this makes me totally weird. And very hard to please.

Because half the time I'd rather hang out at a Barnes and Noble with my dad, laptops out, sharing articles we know the other will find interesting, relaying stories of the day about our coworkers and friends. I have blown off parties to sit and talk about Vonnegut and sip caramel macchiatos with my dad. I am in college. There is something wrong with this picture.

I remember one time I dragged a guy to my favorite haunt. Poor kid didn't know what hit him. We sat in the fiction aisle, and I tried to explain to him how boss Anne Rice is. Apparently vampire novelists aren't the best topic of discussion for dates, who knew?(Stephanie Meyers YOU DO NOT COUNT.) After making him uncomfortable for a wee bit longer, I let him take me for ice cream. 

When I think of our ventures - almost always involving food(Hey. Hey. Want to get dessert? YES. I'm on my way.), I remember I am very fortunate to have people like him in my life  - those waiting to rescue you from whatever crisis comes your way. I can only hope I've been a least a fraction of the white knight he and other dear people have been. 

At least, as these things go, I have time to make it up. 

Marriage Should be a Gay Affair

"Let them get married and be as miserable as the rest of us."

Amen.

I found out at dinner tonight that my friend's boyfriend proposed to her. Actually, "attempted to propose" is more accurate. At the will of both her and the dear boy's mother, the diamond engagement ring that graces her left hand is now a "promise ring". This, of course, did not stop the increase in pitch or added fluster when describing/defended it to the open-mouth expressions of her two oldest friends.

We just left it with us planning the eventual bachelorette party, and unspoken understanding that those participating may not survive. 

There's been a lot of marriage talk lately - who's allowed and who's not seems to be a conversation that's not only gracing my friend's boyfriend's living room. Sure, I'm all for preserving "tradition" and letting the faithful do their thing.

...and then i read WSJ's article explaining the spousal abuse of cell-phone tracking systems, in which men program their wives' phones in order to drag them back(by the hair, of course). And about yet another study of how men are apparently *incapable* of remaining monogamous, and I think: what are we trying to protect again? the *sanctity* of marriage? If someone can find it somewhere please let me know.  I think it's run off with common sense and prudence - and they most certainly aren't coming back anytime soon.

The argument is about protecting children, and how same-sex couples are apparently less capable of child-raising.

We apparently have a thing for divorce. We get bored, you see. Why bother hanging around some old hag when there's a 20-year-old secretary ready to bang(Mr. Sterling)? these are things we know, but let us stress again: children from divorced homes don't do so well(around brilliant study). apparerently, cynicism can breed early(who knew?!) and this makes them overwhelmly more likely than their happily-married-parented counterparts to get a divorce too. Hooray for perpetuating a system of utter misery and destruction.

This is not to say that same-sex couples won't also take to this divorce concept like the bubbling trend it has become, but I think we should give them a shot. Who knows, they may actually like eachother(enough).

And one must also remember the thousands of children banging their heads' against the wall in orphanages across the globe - places where child-care for infants is to the extent of being held once a day for 5 minutes. And we would let them sit, and waste away until it is their time to be bumped to a foster home, or brothel(if the location allows). Why would we limit a most wonderful expansion of much-needed potential parents?

Breeding(and bringing) these maladjusted future criminals into the world with no parents to lovingly smother the bad out of them(I think that is what does it. eh?) is just irresponsible if there is a potential solution. 

And there would be other positive effects, as well. 

The wedding industry will be booming. The influx of flowers, bands, banquet halls, and heinous-looking bridesmaids(or I suppose groomsmen, if they partake) dresses to be needed should do something for our economy, right? Though I suppose churches won't see much of an economic benefit, so that *must* be what they're bitter about.  And then the potential for divorce lawyers!(cynic, I'm sorry.) Never be a better time to be in family law, I imagine. 

Let them have their $6,000 cake and eat it too. It's only fair.
-- 

Your Love is My Drug

Oh this is so perfect, the soft feel of your lips against mine...I don't want anyone else.
"Oxytocin."

So wonderful, ah. every single word you say makes me want to just --

"Oxytocin."

The way you touch my hair, just pull me in closer, I --

"OXYTOCIN."

I love you. Only love. I can't stop thinking about the way --

OXY. TOCIN. OXYTOCIN!!!"

There should be an alarm in every girl's mind every time she potentially slips into this horribly frustrating, anxiety-driven quicksand.

This alarm could be supplemented by a boxing glove shooting out of a built-in wall. 

Or an anvil falling from the sky, a la Wile E. Coyote.

Sadly, that would probably not be enough. Because half the time we are very well aware of the stipulations and limitations of the situation, yet dance off half past the moon and whatever one can consider some version of reality. We just ignore them.

Thank you, every single love song, card, movie, novel since the creation of time.

vasopressin. dopamine. IT IS LIKE CRACK, PEOPLE.

Listen to "It's in His Kiss". Catchy right? Absolute bullshit. It is not in his kiss. It is in the evolution-produced secretions in the brain that are supposed to influence you to reproduce and protect the offspring. It is not the way he holds you, it is the oxytocin/vasopressin/dopamine released when you cuddle with another human being. It is a chemical reaction. It happens to everyone. With everyone(if you are not genetically programmed to be repulsed by them from the get-go, that is.) With anyone. It could be any member of the male species. Female, even.  We are programmed to crave affection, interaction. Anyone(or thing really) can fulfill this. We just overcomplicate with influences from cheesy romantic comedies that lead to absurd ideals about who or what we are supposed to be doing amidst the pre-reproduction song and dance(big white wedding? BUY ME A CAKE.)

And then there are those who cloak themselves in these flights of fancy to extract whatever possible from whomever possible. The manipulative types who are capable of making any situation appear to be your fault. Managing to sever all ties with reality, they shamelessly guilt-trip others into drinking their toxic Kool-aid.

I had had similar experiences once before; both of us wide-eyed college freshmen with our hearts set on being lawyers in New York. After my break with both him and the idea of being a lawyer, my favorite comment on the matter was "I'd hire him as my lawyer in a heartbeat. Manipulative bastard can convince anyone of anything."

This world would be a very cruel one if not for one (sometimes-secret)weapon:

Friends.

Primary role: "It's ok, we will hate him for you."
Often we find ourselves revelling in the fact that we can see "potential" in people; we minimize flaws and magnify positives, often at the cost of the accuracy of our memory. The manipulating type thrives in such an environment. Dearest bacteria, friends are what you have to be afraid of: they don't forgive, and they especially don't forget.

Sometimes only they are the ones capable of assessing a situation or, more aggressively, taking you out of it. Though they are often the worst enemy of our hedonist drives, our pleasure-seeking stems, at the end of the day what is good for us is not always what is convenient. Or texting you at 3am.

Often a thankless job, the friends may be the ones taking the phone out of your hand or at the very least, giving you damn good reason to put it down yourself.
Capable of being the most resilient force-field against the effects of Mr. dopamine and his friend "the douche-bag," the friend group is the disillusion task force - your karma dollars at work.

And let there never be a day when you find yourself broke.

Decisions

2am: Decide to go to Atlantic City
4:30am: Purchase bus tickets
2pm: Wake up
5pm: Bus to Atlantic City
6:30pm: Arrive
6:30pm-7:30am: Steak and crab legs, Boston cream pie, daiquiris, silver people with silver beads, heels, $2 shots, $20 kamikaze, a dentist and an accountant, BOBBAY!, craps and slots, Australians in white, sand, funnel cake and cheese fries, seagull attack, breakfast(in bed).
8:50am: Bus back to Philly
11am: Brunch
12:30-4pm: Intermittent sleep/cuddling/pillow talk


When deciding whether to take the comped room in AC, several arguments were batted around. But one that comes to mind in particular is the "What other opportunities are you going to have to do this?" or rephrased as "It's not everyday that..." or simply "Dude. Free hotel room." The 21st birthday celebrations that were in full force at the time may have contributed to the "FUCK YEA" decision.


Needless to say, it works on me. I like living in the moment. Or the 15 hour stretches of "moment". Hours of conversation with people you may never see again in a city where people actually DO NOT sleep (sorry New York). All I can picture is the eventual "settled down" version of myself who will have legitimate excuses to tone down the fun. Or have a new concept of it - Legoland? Mr. Magee's Wonder Emporium? Sunday night HBO? I feel personally responsible for ensuring that the "settled down" version has enough memories of shenanigans to look back on. (There needs to be something to explain the account balance.)

The women shine like the twinkling lights of the slot machines, and are expected to tolerate the staring one typically associates with evaluating a particularly complex painting(no but really there is some finesse to this, people). With stilettos and vodka-cranberries they teeter like the last tumble of the die before settling on a number - which may make or break your heart(bank account). Beyond that, grannies with pennies pull the night shift while sipping whatever drink is placed at their side. Mohawked men pick up tabs for the underaged without interaction beyond a "you're welcome". Children run around in circles with beads jingling around their necks - incentives given to their parents to remain faithful to their casino of choice. A world of insomniacs. My kind of place.

And then I come back to the cocoon of my dearest friends, the kind of people that have love spelled out as chocolate-chip pancakes and 5-person-bed-parties. I'm trying to soak up as much as I can before I have to "go without" for an entire semester. By that I mean, I'm going to have less people to smother with affection. This places me in the "spontaneously combust" level of worry. I might actually have to get a boyfriend.
Ehh. I think I'll be fine.