Although I’d love to tell you about my night last night, something is standing in my way…and that something just happens to be…aaalll-cccoooo-hhhooolll. No no, not Andy Warhol, alcohol. I’d escaped the apartment wherein lies my ex-boyfriend and unfinished master’s program applications, then headed to the nearest bar to get white girl wasted all by myself. Hang on just one second…almost done…almost… Sorry, I had to holster my double edged sword. With a night as blacked out as a 5% window tint, I decided to throw some old blog excerpts your way.
Oh hairbrush, where for art thou hairbrush? How will I ever extend these long dark locks for my prince to climb if they are tangly and knotted? Perhaps it was finally time to admit that no prince was coming to my rescue, or maybe in fact, too many had come to my rescue. It was not so long ago that one prince surprised me with breakfast at work, another had showered me with gifts from a vacation, and several other sweethearts had provided my drunken nights with an open tab. Perhaps all these boys had come into my yard expecting milkshakes and I had given them shaved ice. Time to build a snow cone stand because I can’t see myself being warmed up any day soon. For today only, $1 snow cones flavored with I Don’t Care and just the slightest touch of Not Listening To Anything You Say.
It’s that time of year folks. It is the time of year for my semi-annual father/daughter dinner, with what I prefer to call my bio-dad. Having dinner with my dad is always sort of a train wreck…if that train were full of orphan cancer patients and followed by an explosion destroying the United States’ supply of Starbucks coffee, a terrorist attack, and the death of Jennifer Aniston. We discuss basketball and motown music (our only shared interests) and end the night with a hug that makes me so utterly uncomfortable I want to kill a puppy. I cherish puppies. Every man’s dream…a girl with father issues. Although not succumbing to the pressures of stripping and prostitution, I still keep around enough baggage to fill up my never boyfriend’s one bedroom apartment. The struggle is real.
Turns out, it’s time to put my baggage in a storage unit because I’ve got shit to do. The master’s programs I will be applying for require essays, recommendation letters, and baller status test scores. Good thing I’m so underwhelmingly prepared. I have not written an essay since high school, my science professors can only tell you that my lab reports were kickass, and my GRE scores…well…average. You know what isn’t average? Me. I’ve got mad experience as a bridesmaid, a chart topping knowledge of netflix, and the sickest nail polish collection this town’s ever seen. In other words, I pretty much need my recommendation letters to fly off the page and head South in the winter. Don’t you worry…I’ll give em the ole runaround.
With all this work ahead there will be no time for skeezes…whoah! What was I thinking? I always have time for a good skeeze. My skeeze of the day goes to goes to a guy at the pub named Brandon, who kept fixing my bra while I was trying to play pool! Luckily he was so drunk, there was no way he could figure out how to unhook it. Better get yourself a CUP of something else because I am so NOT interested.