Kristy currently has a boyfriend (which as you might imagine, requires about 8 posts of its own, but I’ll let her handle those).  I however, have therefore been having to make enough poor decisions for the both of us (no small feat if you saw her performance with the baby Sig Eps last semester).  But if I do say so myself, I have been doing a pretty decent job, considering I’m holding down a job and trying to make aforementioned decisions on weeknights, since I work every Friday and Saturday (hurrah, midweek moves!)

Making poor decisions here is proving a little more precarious than at school, however.  At Richmond, my lack of Greek affiliation allowed me to somewhat fly under the radar as not many people actually knew who I was (not all of us can be as obnoxious popular as Kristy).  But here, people know who I am because I am the blonde, American bartender at the local pub.  This has made me slightly paranoid, but so far I don’t think any of my bad choices know each other (thank god) although I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until I make a nice little reputation for myself.

This particular story starts about 3 weeks ago.  One of my coworkers had been seeing an Irish guy for a few weeks and he came into the bar with one of his friends.  His friend (“A”) tells my coworker (“E”) that he thinks I’m really cute (duh) and that he’s interested in me.  At this point, I don’t think much of it (he’s just another Irish guy who can add his name to the list of regulars who want a piece of this, you know what I’m saying?)

About a week later, we (some of the girls I work with) go over to said Irish boys’ house to pregame.  We’re all hanging out and I decide that maybe this “A”  boy is actually pretty cute and that it would not be entirely unpleasant to make out with him.  The boys all decide to stay at the house while the girls go to the pub, but “A” (jesus, I feel like gossip girl with the initials) tells “E” that she should bring me back to the house with her later when she comes back (the pub is only open til 12 on weeknights).

So, yada yada, we go to the bar and then grab a pizza (had to happen). And by that time, it’s 1 am so when we go back to the house, everyone is already in bed.  Now, I was under the impression that everyone would still be up and hanging out, so I’m preparing to just leave and take a taxi home because I am not in the mood to sleep on a couch in a house full of strangers.  But “E” goes into “A’s” room and asks him if I can crash with him, and he says it’s fine as long as I’m not drunk.  And believe it or not, people, I am actually not drunk at all.  Not even a little.  And he is totally sober.  So, naturally sharing a bed and all there’s some making out and fooling around but nothing serious (yes, I am a massive American tease, deal with it).

In the morning I wake up, and it’s about 10 am (Thanksgiving Day– I am thankful for general sketchiness) and I decide its time to peace out.  I am in the middle of one of my patented Alicia move of just sneaking out (HIT IT AND QUIT IT) without saying goodbye (if he really likes me, he knows where to find me), putting on my shoes in the living room, when there is a knocking at the front door.  What do I do?  It’s not my house, but at some point I am going to have to go out the door.  And the knocking isn’t stopping.  Fuck, he’s going to wake up.  and sure enough he does, and after signing for the delivery he notices me, standing fully dressed, just about to bolt.

A: So, you were just going to leave without waking me up?

Me: Nooooo, I was going to come in and say goodbye on my way out but I left my bag in here.  (The part about the bag was true, and I did debate waking him, but, honestly, I was just thinking about a rapid exit strategy).

And then he offered me tea (aww) but I told him I had to go home and make Thanksgiving dinner (true).  So we had about a 2 minute chat and I peaced out, and then realized he didn’t ask for my number (hm) but I was willing to let it go because he told “E” on several occasions that he was interested in me.

So, I didn’t see him for over a week and then on Sunday, I was doing a lovely Sunday Session (classy Australian for “drinking all day”) and I ran into him.  And to be honest, I was pretty pissed (see how fluent I am in Australian?) so I don’t remember much of the conversation except for him informing me that he had a GIRLFRIEND.  At which point I get a little emotional (that’s right, I, Alicia, got EMOTIONAL over a silly BOY.  What can I say?  I had been drinking all day. It happens.)  And then my friends decided that shots would be a good idea (whatever your problem is, shots are NOT the solution.  Just say no.)  That’s about when everything goes into complete, total, utter, old-school-Sophomore -year-style blackout.  Oops.

So the next day I had to work and he was in there drinking for hours (hours!) with his friends.  And I’m still worried about the after effects of my blackout.  I know one of my friends told him off (not sure how coherent it was) which means he knows I was at least somewhat upset over him.  Did he see me get emo?  Angry?  Oh god, who knows what I said or who I said it to?  We all know how I shoot off at the mouth after a few too many.  I bet I made an ass of myself.  ARE ALL HIS FRIENDS STARING AT ME?  THEY ARE.  I bet he told them I am some sad, desperate girl throwing myself at him. WHY DO I DO THIS?  I AM going to die alone.  And who the hell does he think he is, coming in here and sitting there?  Has he no shame?  WHY THE FUCK DO THEY ALL KEEP LOOKING AT ME.

In fact, one of the guys he was with even came up to get drinks from me and said, “So, I bet you had a hangover this morning?”  Fuck.  Really must say no to shots. Or drinking all day.  Or drinking on an empty stomach.  Or all of the above, really.

I get off of work about 2 hours after he gets there and run out the door.  Its only when I get home that I see that all my makeup has come off throughout the course of the day and that I look like a complete trainwreck.  I look like the embodiment of a hard night of drinking followed by 8 hours of work.  Brilliant, way to show him what he’s missing out on.

And then last night, I got off of work and met up with a friend (I had changed and added some concealer, thankfully) and we run into him AGAIN on the street.  I don’t see the asshole for 10 days when I actually want to see him after we makeout and then after getting humiliated, I see him every single fucking day.  This is so typical to my life it’s not even funny.

So, in order to prevent getting a whorish and/or embarrassing reputation around town and with all the locals, I have sworn off Irish guys.  Kristy has also sworn off drinking for the month of December (excepting Christmas and New Years Eve) so we’ll see who cracks first.  Sadly, I think it’s probably going to be me.  I’m sorry, I have needs and I never meet any Australians because we’re always hanging out in Irish bars during the week.  What am I supposed t0 do, develop standards?  Not likely.

As some of you know, this summer I have been working as a waitress (or in pc terms “server”) and bartender.  I found this job by basically applying to half the restaurants in the greater Harrisburg area.  During my great resume distribution, I went to pretty much every bar/semi-respectable place on restaurant row on Second Street in Harrisburg to fill out an application.

One of the restaurants I applied to is co-owned by the father of a girl I went to school with from 6^th grade through high school.  Now, going to an extremely small private school (class of 32, no wonder I’m so weird) we had a lot of interaction.  We were casual friends in middle school, I suppose, but definitely were not close by any stretch of the imagination.  As such, I don’t think I have talked to her since freshman year of college.  And it was definitely no great loss.

But, this summer, she called our mutual friend Sarah to hang out.  And then this unnamed girl told Sarah that she was in her father’s restaurant “hanging out with the staff” (read: intruding in places where she doesn’t belong and not reading social cues) and somehow it came out that I had applied, and she personally ripped up my application because she just dislikes me that much.

Now here is the point when Sarah tells me this that I am a) pissed off and b) confused.  I will be the first to admit that I can be a horrible person.  But I have done nothing to wrong this girl in any way.  And she resents me so much FOUR years after we have last seen each other that she would physically tear apart my application.  I don’t really have a problem with her hating me, but come on, at least let me fucking earn it!  I mean, how petty and small does she have to be?

It’s a good thing I’m not so petty and small or else I would point out that if it weren’t for Daddy’s ample willingness to throw money down at a certain Philadelphia university her 3.0, 1130 SAT-scoring (coughFATcough) ass would never have gotten into an Ivy league school.  And frankly, it’s a good thing I’m not so petty or else I might also mention that most of us are surprised she made it this far, even with a fake major like anthropology and an extra semester or two.

Because, if she wants to be small and petty, I can be small and petty.  Richmond has taught me many, many things about just how bitchy girls can get (and I owe much of that to the glory that is Kristy).  So unnamed girl, I am really, truly sorry that you cannot get over whatever the hell it was that happened in high school that made you dislike me so much.  I am sorry that you have not been able to mature beyond your 17 year old self (including forcing awkward, almost line-crossing relationships with your teachers/coaches/father’s employees [note: they’re paid to be there, they have to put up with you, that does not make them your friends)].  So, again, my deepest apologies.

And it’s a good thing I’m not so petty and I’ve let my typical rage go, or else I would have offered to girl-fight you.  But let’s be honest: you’d probably just sit on me and then that would be the end of that.  Isn’t it good that I’m willing to be the bigger person here?

Poor Katie.  I was so excited to see her that I hardly noticed that she looked like she had been hit by a bus (with her mangled body then defiled by a hobo).  Her plane from New York had been delayed a few hours and from the looks of it (left over makeup, matted hair, and glazy expression) she was running on little sleep and a tremendous hangover.

Katie and I have been best friends since the fourth grade.  We had been maintaining a long-distance relationship since I moved from Tampa in seventh grade.  We had our minds set on going to the same college.  But, as fate would have it, she ended up at NYU and me, at Richmond.

I had been at Richmond for three months. So, on our drive to campus from the airport I caught her up on my life at Richmond.  In a nutshell: I had met Brittany (my fashion mentor and the most fabulous girl in the world) and had fallen for a stud on the lacrosse team with a minor bald spot but, nonetheless, a total hottie (I would lick his bald spot any day—oo lala).

I showed Katie to a typical Friday night at Richmond.  We pre-pre-gamed in my dorm room while beautifying, pre-gamed in the neighboring male dorm where we upped the ante with card games and chanting, then made our way to the main event.   

The evening was running smoothly until Brittany suggested a different plan of action.  I HAD to go to the lacrosse party and she HAD to go to a party off-campus to stalk someone else. This obviously could not be discussed in a mature, rational manner.

After some rather harsh words were exchanged Brittany and I mutually come to the conclusion that we hated each other and would never talk to each other again.  So, we split our assets: half of the group went with Brittany and the other half went with me.

With that resolved, Katie and I made our way to the lacrosse party at the apartments on-campus.  During our walk one of the guys we were with jokingly pushed his buddy John.  John NOSEDIVED into the prickly bush that surrounds the Westhampton Lake.  All we could see were his feet dangling out of the bush.  Plucked from the bush he stood with blood bubbling from little holes all over his body.  This was very funny.  Though he did not laugh Katie and I laughed and laughed and laughed.  We were having fun (that skank Brittany really missed out!).  

At the party there was not so much laughing as scheming (on my part).  How was I going to get his attention??? He was in the front of the apartment, next to the door.  Katie and I were in the back.  While she was chatting it up with a senior (mostly because he had a flask and she doesn’t like beer), I was plotting my move.  I strode up to the front of the room to grab another beer.  

All I needed was a little eye contact but he failed to notice my seductive glare.  I grabbed a few beers and went into the back room to chug a little confidence into myself.

A few more beers in and I was definitely feeling “confident”.  I had wasted enough time so I impatiently stormed into the front room ready to make things happen.  

FUCK!  There he was: completely engaged in a conversation with a cute, short brunette.  I made idle conversation with a few losers and was getting quite annoyed as their flirtation continued.  I needed to get his attention ASAP.  I needed to show him how I was so much better (and more fun) than that silly hoe.

So, I ran to Katie in the back room where she had remained flirting with senior, flask man.  “You need to do this for me Katie,” I said as I dragged Katie by the arm to the front room.  

She looked a little confused but didn’t resist.  I heard hooting and hollering but stayed concentrated on the task at hand.  We made out for quite a while when I realized HE STILL WAS NOT PAYING ATTENTION (but, pretty much everyone else in the apartment was).

Katie left me in my fit of frustration, fluttering into the back room.  That’s when the immature jocks started exclaiming, “You’re a lesbian!”

“I am not a lesbian.”

“YOU’RE A LESBIAN! WOO HOO LESBIANN!”

“I AM NOT A FUCKING LESBIAN!” I screamed as I ran out of the apartment.  

I was sad, angry, and confused (and very drunk).  That fucking bastard didn’t even notice me making out with my hot, blonde friend.  Everyone in my school thinks I am a lesbian.  My crush is with someone else.  My life is absolutely horrible! Tears filled my eyes. I started BAWLING.  I ran home crying HYSTERICALLY.  A car passing by stopped to see if I needed help.  I told them to “fuck off” and sprinted back to my dorm.  

My roommate was startled when she came back to me, sitting alone on my bed crying (not that she wasn’t getting use to this).  “I am a lesbian and I lost my best friend,” I mumbled through the tears. 

I awoke the next morning to Katie stumbling through the door.  Apparently I had written my address on her hand.  HURRAY KATIE WASN’T LOST FOREVER!  She told me how she woke up nude and started giggling.  She couldn’t understand why she and I were both naked.  It wasn’t so funny when she realized it wasn’t my naked body.   

The rest of Katie’s visit went relatively smoothly. I made amends with Brittany and showed Katie the other side of Richmond life (late nights in the library).   

Katie and I are still best friends and have not made out again (yet).

It has become a common belief among my coworkers and family (especially my Grandmother) that when I get to Australia I will meet an attractive young man, fall madly in love, get married and never return to the States.  I have just one thing to say about that: not fucking likely.

The reasons for this are numerous and complicated.  The most important of which is simple: I suck at dating.  There, I said it.  We all know it’s true and now it’s out in the open.  My failure with the opposite sex stems from numerous sources:  the fact that I am cripplingly neurotic, that I am an asshole, that I always forget no one else thinks I am as funny as I think I am, that I am full of both debilitating self-doubt and the certainty that I am better than everyone else… I could go on and on and on.

My failure in the dating world also has to do with the fact that I chose all the wrong guys.  But it’s not in the bad-boy/assholes/emotional fuckwits wrong-kind-of-way.  If only it were that interesting.  In fact Kristy and I both have a habit of choosing a certain kind of guy.  They usually fit these three qualities:

-          moderately attractive

-          marginally intelligent

-          possessing the personality of a cardboard box

Why this attraction the human equivalent of dry toast? You might ask.  For Kristy and me, they are similar yet different reasons.  This might come as a shock to many of you, but Kristy likes to be the center of attention.  I know, hard to believe.  By wanting to be with boring guys, she basically guarantees that she will be the interesting person in the relationship.  Everyone will pay attention to her and only her.  She will be the wittiest, most charming, most attractive part of the relationship.  (Everyone who has seen the cardboard cut-outs she has “been in love” with sees the truth in my theory, K).

Personally, I prefer less than inspiring boys because if they are dull, it means they have less to say and thus, less shit I have to put up with.  Because, honestly, I am so rarely interested in the thoughts, opinions and beliefs of others (hey, like I said, I am an asshole).  And really, any guy who is interested in sharing his emotions is a guy I have no interest in.  After all, I’m the girl who once defined her ideal relationship with the mantra “I want to be adored, but not bothered.”  I expect dry toast to love me, but I don’t want to hear about it.

The problem with this model is that guys who fit the three criteria above tend to come from nice, normal, well-adjusted, vanilla homes.  As such, interacting with kk and me, frankly, scares the shit out of them.  They ultimately show how well-adjusted they are by running far, far away.  In fact, it has been a noticeable (horrifying) pattern of my life for the past five or so years, that I scare boys right into the arms of someone else.  In fact, I had a discussion with my dear friend Liz just the other day about this very issue…

Alicia: You know, I think that in hooking up with me, guys see just how much crazy  is out there.  The suddenly realize they really do want to be in a relationship.  Just   not with me.  They want to be with a nice* sweet** girl.

Liz:  Didn’t they make a movie about that?

* boring

** really fucking boring

Yes, they did, Elizabeth.  It was called Good Luck, Chuck.  My life is now a shitty Dane Cook movie.  Great.  Just when I thought being a real-life, low-rent Bridget Jones was bad enough.  Fuck me.

Now for many, the rejection would be the end of the story.  But for us, this is just when things start to get interesting.  Because really, we’re all about competition and conquest.  If anyone actually did show poor enough judgment to want to date either of us, I’m sure we’d quickly dismiss him as mentally unstable.  Just as Groucho Marx once said, “I don’t care to belong to a club accepts people like me as members,” I don’t care to date anyone who would chose to date me.  The thrill of the chase is the fun and excitement and its all downhill from there (editor’s note: HIT IT AND QUIT IT).  I once dismissed a guy who actually liked me (who knows why?) by telling Sarah I couldn’t date him because “the only thing we have in common is that we both think I’m hot and awesome.”  Now that I type it, it seems like a BRILLIANT foundation for a relationship.  Too bad he de-facebooked me when I started ignoring him/ his IMs/texts/wall posts.

What have we learned?  A) I like boys who would have no reasonable interest in my crazy ass and B) if they ever did want to date me, I would have no interest in dating their crazy ass.  So, its growing more and more likely that I will die alone and have my face chewed off by my 8 house cats before anyone finds me.

So unless I find some way to break this vicious, horrible cycle (not bloody likely) the odds are pretty low I end up married within the year.  But, as you all know, there will be no shortage of horrendously awkward hookups (there never is) and you can hear all about my international shame right here.  Hurrah!

He had his eye on me for quite a while.  It was when I did a nosedive to the floor that he made his move.  He picked me up, dragged me across the bar, and kicked me out.  The security guard then told the doorman not to let me back in.  

I tried to play it slick.  I walked to the parking lot, counted to five (with Mississippis!), and confidently made my way back toward the door.  I gave the doorman my ID and, in return, he gave me a look as if to say “do you think I’m a fucking idiot???”  

“You are not allowed back into the bar.  You are a minor and obviously drunk,” he told me in his oh-so authoritative voice.  Despite my best efforts to explain that I was not drunk but simply klutzy and a bit retarded, he vehemently denied me entrance back into the club.  So I turned around and walked away.  And then, when he wasn’t expecting it, I ran like the dickens past him and back in!

I hardly had time to do my victory dance when a very upset group of security men started moving toward me.  The club was extremely crowded so I sprinted into the middle of the crowd and tried to act casual (slash hide).  I guess I was pretty conspicuous in my neon orange tank top and with my mangled long, bleached blonde hair (yea I unfortunately went through a blonde phase).  It didn’t take my nemeses long to spot me and, despite my best effort to quickly dash away, I was caught.  

This time I wasn’t going without a fight.  I thrashed and kicked and pushed.  After about a minute of this he had reached his threshold of annoyance.  He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. 

Now back on the outside of the club I realized one of my shoes had not survived the struggle.  Wearing only one shoe I paced back and forth in the street, contemplating my next move.  What the hell was I going to do?  I forgot where we parked, I didn’t have my cell phone, and all my friends were in the club with no idea that I had been kicked out.  I know they told me if I tried to enter again I would be arrested but I really didn’t have a choice did I? 

So, I darted once again past the guards and into the club.  

On the outside once again (they had become quite efficient at kicking me out) I made friends with a random girl in the parking lot.  Sitting inside her car I told her my story (in a very thick gansta accent that I had apparently acquired during the evening).  “Yo man, the popo say I can’t go back in or they will arrest me! Man I aint got nowhere to go I don’t even know bro! Can I borrow your cell?”

She let me borrow her phone and I called my friend Holly (the only number I could remember).  “Holly, I’m going to get arrested I think! I don’t know! They are going to arrest me if I go in again! Holly help me!!!” Then I hung up.  Holly lived about 2 hours south of this bar in Melbourne, Fl.  She had never met any of my Melbourne friends.  Needless to say, Holly could not help me from what was inevitably about to happen.

And with that, I ran in again.

The official tally on the number of times I was kicked out remains a mystery.  Some speculate it was upward to six or seven times.  I think it was only four, maybe five. 

I was read my Miranda rights and hand cuffed. Because I have small hands and because I was drunk and my hands were super flexible I keep slipping out of the cuffs and tossing them into the street.  Then, I would try to run away to freedom! They did not find this amusing and were forced to shackle my legs. 

At this point in the night the club was closing and everyone was leaving.  Lucky for me the cop car I was sitting in was right by the exit.  Nearly everyone I knew from my senior class passed me in the cop car.  They would hoot and holler as they passed.  I would, in retaliation, flick them off with the cuffs dangling from my wrists and a cold, hard look in my eyes.  A few people tried to talk the cop out of arresting me.  None tried nearly as hard as I did.  “I’M SOOOO SORRY! I just graduated from HOLY TRINITY! I’m a straight A student! Umm… my uncle is a cop!”

Because the jail is an hour away they have this high security type bus that picks up the arrested people from around town to take to prison.  The bus was segregated by gender with bars sectioning off the females in a smaller space in the back.  The other female offender was your typical red-neck.  Braless in her wife-beater she described her crime.  I don’t speak red-neck fluently but from what I could understand her man had dun her wrong and she was slashin’ the tires of his red truck or something.  As she was talking I realized the severity of my situation.  I couldn’t be arrested! I couldn’t go to jail!

I quickly came up with a scheme.  

And that’s when I faked an asthma attack.  I don’t have asthma but I must have done a fabulous job pretending as my fellow convicts started freaking out.  In between chocking I explained that I was having an asthma attack, instructing them to tell the driver I was having an attack and needed to go home and get my inhaler.  The driver pulled over to the side of the highway to assist.  He then gave me two options: 1) go to the hospital and then go to jail or 2) just go to jail.  

“Ughhh I guess I’ll just go to jail,” I told him.

At the jail they gave me shoes (extremely large flip flops), took my fingerprints and mugshots, and threw me into a cell.  I was SOBBING. I was crying so hard my body was shaking.  I had never been in trouble before.  I kept thinking about how my political career was down the drain.  I WAS RUINED! NOOOOO!

At one point I overheard one of the cops say to another, “Is that little blonde girl ever going to shut the fuck up!?!”

When they took me in for questioning I tried to explain.  “My boyfriend was with another woman in there! I thought he loved me! How could he betray me like that!”  I thought this made for a much better story then the truth.  She tried to make me feel better and told me about how I would met someone else and that he wasn’t worth this.  “NOO! I LOVE HIM! He was with… my best friend! OOO THE PAIN! SOO MUCH SUFFERING IN THIS WORLD!”

I was still charged with trespassing regardless of my intense story of betrayal that went on for nearly a half hour. 

My mom picked me up around noon the next day.  My eyes were so puffy from crying and I looked so miserable that she couldn’t get mad at me.  “Yeah, your father really doesn’t need to know about this.”

The misdemeanor charge of trespassing was eventually dropped, under one condition:  I was never to return to the scene of the offense again.  I was permanently black-listed from the only club in my god-forsaken town.  

Jen must have been wearing glitter because I was drawn to her like a moth to flame (glitter is one of my favorite things in the world which, incidentally, is why I am not allowed within 100 feet of it).  I made my way over to her, pushing through the crowd of drunk bitches decked head to toe in their 80s gear and thrashing about on the dance floor.  It was 80s night at the sigep lodge and I was looking super fly in my cut off sweatshirt, hot pink leggings, and rainbow bangles.   

“You’re a new Tridelt right!?!” I asked with my nose merely inches from hers, throwing social etiquette such as personal space to the wind.  My eyes were so wide with excitement that there was a legitimate probability of having them pop out of my face completely.  I had a smile so large that both rows of teeth were exposed.  Between the music, the beer, and obviously the glitter, I was a bit overly stimulated. 

Jen reacted differently then most strangers when cornered by a hyperactive mess; she was not scared and did not even try to run away. “Yeah, I am.  I’m so happy! GO TRIDELT!”

It took a minute to process her odd reaction. 

With this introduction aside we did what we do best, raged.  

After downing a few “beasts” and fist pumping to a few songs my Attention Deficit Disorder started kicking in.  I convinced Jen that we should leave our friends and go check out some other parties.  We merrily hopped from party to party until the lodges closed and we were forcibly kicked out. 

I was not quite ready for us to part ways so I convinced her that the quarter mile trek across campus back to her dorm was completely unnecessary when I lived in a dorm much closer!  With that, I lead my new friend to my room in Robins.  

We sat in my twin bed chatting a mile-a-minute about God knows what.  I have a feeling that whatever the conversation was, we believed it was incredibly deep and heartfelt.  I’m not sure of the hour but at some point in the night my RA (who lived next door, poor thing) came in to tell me that I was (once again) being too loud and keeping the girls on the hall awake.  We caught this subtle hint and fell fast asleep. 

I woke to the blaring of my roommate Brittany’s alarm clock.  I opened my eyes to see a girl lying next to me in the bed.  I shot straight up, shocked.  “Who is that?” I whispered to Brittany, trying to remain calm.  

Still trying to comprehend why on earth I had a freshman girl in my bed I quickly put myself somewhat together.  I had a Tridelt meeting that was (ever so conveniently) at 9 a.m. this Saturday morning. The meeting was to give the older Tridelt members a chance to get to know the new pledge class.  Unbeknownst to them I was already ahead in this endeavor.  I had gone above and beyond…  I had slept with one of the new girls!

I couldn’t let Jen go to our meeting in her 80’s gear so I did what any respectable one-night stander would do; I gave Jen an oversized shirt and sweats to throw on.  We walk of shamed our asses across campus and strolled into our Tridelt meeting with our heads held high. 

Now, I am not a religious person but there was some sort of grander scheme in the works that night.  Though I had to hear “Kristy, stop creeping on the freshman girls!” quite a bit more then I ever thought I would in my lifetime, I had successfully “tainted” Jen.  When time came to match up big and littles they really had no other choice.

And that is how Jen became one of my littles and best friends! 

The moral of my story is this: sleeping with strangers is always a good idea.  You never know.  That stranger could become your best friend! J

Actually, scratch that last thought.  I do not want your STD or murder to be on my conscience.  

I love you Jen! Good luck with senior year!

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of working the day shift at the restaurant where I am employed.  Since it was Labor Day and everyone normal is having cook-outs and enjoying the last unofficial hours of summer, we were painfully slow all day.  I decided to be pro-active about my life and start making to-do and packing lists for the trip.

Now, as I prepare to move 9,700 miles away from my friends, family and childhood home, knowing no one but Kristy, not having a job or a life plan, I asked myself a very important question that every young woman of a certain age and disposition asks herself when preparing to drastically alter her life:

Exactly how many pairs of black shoes do I need?

Unofficial tally: 5, bare minimum.

As I made my lists and and began to panic (how am I supposed to fit my entire life into 2 suitcases??)  My coworker “Sheryl” came over and saw my massive list (which was only divided into 2 categories: Shoes, going out shirts).  At this point she felt it was necessary to help me out.

“Honey, no.  You are going to regret taking all that stuff.  Take two pairs of shoes, five or six bottoms and eight tops.  You’re going to hate dragging around suitcases filled to the brink.”

Two pairs of shoes?  TWO PAIR?? Clearly this woman has never met me.  2 pair?  Am I a puritan?  A hillbilly?  Maybe a Buddhist who believes the path to enlightenment is the shunning of material possessions?  But two fucking pairs of shoes?  Get real.  I’ll tell you what I’ll regret: when I’m in Australia and all the Aussie girls are pretty and tan and nicely dressed and I look like an asshole who only has 8 shirts and TWO FUCKING PAIRS OF SHOES. And then I fail to meet a nice Australian boy and I die alone.  Maybe that’s for the best, because I don’t think I want to live without my black boots, leopard print ballet flats, or pink converses (3 pairs!! Anarchy!!)

And I really wish that had been the most interesting conversation of my day. But ohhhhh, no.  Not even close to it.  The aforementioned restaraunt is owned by a Greek (like off-the-boat-Greek) guy named “Nick.”  Nick is about my parents age and has kids aged 27, 25 and 23.  The youngest two are girls who worked there this summer.  Maybe this is why he felt protective (?) and tried to have the following conversation with me: (You really have to imagine it in a Greek accent, but I am not typing this phonetically)

Nick: Alysia, when do you leave for Australia?

Me: The 14th.  Two weeks from tomorrow.

Nick: Ah, very soon.  Isn’t the cost of living very high there?

(Oh, jesus, this again)

Me: Um, maybe?  It can’t be worse than Copenhagen though.

Nick: Ok.  But Alysia, you must be very careful there.

Me: Oh, yes, I will be.

Nick: No, very careful. (lowers voice)  You know there are many people from… overseas there.

(Yes, he is from overseas.  I take a minute to ponder this irony as he continues)

Nick: Do not trust strange men.  You are a young girl.  And pretty too.  You must be careful of disease.

(He knows this isn’t the third world, right?  And I have all my vaccines up to date.)

Nick: You must be careful with… the sex.

Wait, what?? WHAT?? This cannot be happening to me right now. WHAT the SHIT.  My middle aged MALE boss is trying to give me the fucking talk.  At 2 in the afternoon. AT WORK.  While I have open tables.

Nick: Yes, Alysia, listen to me.  Mens, they will lie.  They have disease.  The AID, you know. (yes, he said “AID” not “AIDS”).  Diseases, you understand? I was reading a story about this British and German guy, they…

I missed the rest of what he was saying, so fervently was I praying for a massive earthquake that would allow the ground under me to cave in and swallow me whole.  THE fucking TALK.  I didn’t even know what do say.  Tell him I never have sex?  That when I did (a thousand fucking years ago, thanks for reminding me) I practiced safe sex?  I think I’ll just settle for hoping for the sweet release of death from this situation. Frankly, I have no desire to tell my boss anything about my sex life (or lack thereof).  I probably should have just told him I’m strictly a BOMO girl.  Hit it and quit it.

Seriously, who else would that happen to?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Mean, I know.  I do feel bad for the girl.  But this is what happens when you rely on abstinence-only religious right sex education.  Some how I have my doubts that the McCain campaign knew about this when they chose Palin (as they claim).  Kind of adds a whole new level of risk to the “high risk, high reward” choice.

Oh, and she also lawyer-ed up over that whole issue of her potential wrongful termination of her public safety commissioner (after he allegedly refused to fire her sister’s ex.)  Big week for the Palin fam!!

ps- when asked to comment McCain said “i’m a maverick, and part of being a maverick is bucking the system and doing absolutely NO research about my running mate! MAVERICK!”

When people question my money-saving maneuver of not getting health insurance while abroad I remind them that I am “strong like bull”.  That’s when they remind me of this story…  

It was a typical night of debauchery that ended with my head in the toilet.  The only difference between this night and so many others was that, while I was in the bathroom of my residential hall, I was not on my floor.  I do not know the girls who lived on the third floor of Moore in 2006 but apparently they didn’t like me.  They specifically didn’t like how I screamed at them about society and then puked like the little girl from the exorcist across their bathroom floor. An RA was almost instantaneously brought to the scene to assess the situation. 

RA: What day is it?

Me:  I don’t even know my name!!!

Wrong answer. 

I woke from my slumber to find myself in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm and with my dear friend Brittany by my side. “GOD DAMN IT I WAS JUST HOSPITALIZED LAST MONTH! THEY DIDN’T EVEN PUMP MY STOMACH! WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE! HOW AM I GOING TO PAY FOR THIS!”  She tried to comfort me and apparently did a good job because next thing I know we were laughing.  Our volume crept higher and higher until…

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY! THIS IS NOT FUNNY! I COULD HAVE YOU BOTH ARRESTED!” . 

God damn cop sent our good time bus screeching to a halt. At this point I was ready to leave; I was no longer finding my current predicament entertaining.  I beckoned to the doctor, screaming at the top of my lungs until the nurse came in the room.  I demanded they release me at once but she said that 1) I needed to wait for the doctor to take out the IV and 2) to stop asking her about how to pay for the ambulance because she had told me MANY times.

OH MY GOD. I had nearly forgotten about the IV in my arm.  “Brittanyyyy… Brittany,” I moaned. “Take it ouuut. It hurtssss. IT HURTS SOOO BAD. OH MY GOD THE PAINNN! TAKE IT OUT BRITTANY” She wouldn’t yank the IV out of my arm so I had to take matters into my own hands (literally).  Despite Brittany’s desperate pleas to just wait I could no longer be restrained.  “ONE…” Brittany gave me a threatening look.  “TWO…” Brittany started getting up from her chair to stop me.  “THREE!”

I ripped the IV right out of my arm.  Blood started spewing from my arm.  I got some on the wall, the floor. I had it on my face and down my arms and legs.  Brittany was still in shock when I jumped from the bed and ran out the room, a trail of blood following me.

I found the nurse.  She had the most mortified look on her face I have ever seen.  “Can I leave now?” She stood dumbfounded.  As I walked away I turned back to ask her one more thing, “And how should I pay for this?”

The thing that redeemed the entire evening was the arrival of “Shirley”.  I spotted her out of the corner of my eye upon her entrance.  Even though she was petite, she was hard to miss, why with that teased tossled, over-processed lovingly highlighted hair, her orange sun-kissed skin  and the lights of the bar reflecting off her oh-so-carefully chosen bangles, necklaces, and earings.  She was dressed in what Tim Gunn (god bless him) might call “a lot of look.”  A matching flowy pants and halter ensemble in navy linen with appliques of white flower patches.  An outfit that in no way allowed the use of a bra.  All pulled together with wedge sandals. 

At first it seemed that “Shirley” was not pleased with the volume of the musical entertainment.  She kept gesturing to the gentleman caller that she was with, and sticking her fingers in her ears.  Shirley somehow neglected to see that she had chosen the bar stools approximately 3 feet from the amplifiers. Oops.

Shirley’s entire attitute changed as the band played on (and she worked her way through a few drinks).  Soon she was dancing in front of the band (please keep in mind that this is a neighborhood bar: there is no dance floor, and the only other person dancing was one trashed girl).  At one point, she came over to where we were sitting and attempted to pull Sarah out on the dance floor with her.

At the set break, our dear new friend came over to talk to us.  She inquired as to why we were not dancing.  Besides not being insane, we informed her that Sarah had been in a car accident earlier that day, resulting in a concussion and a sprained ankle.  (And no, she wasn’t drinking with a concussion, much to my disappointment).

It was then that Shirley turned on me.  “But YOU! What about you??”

Me: Oh, I don’t dance.

Shirley: Oh, come on.  I know you girls think I’m crazy, but I don’t get out that much! (I guess they only do limited release over at the mental institution).  And I don’t really drink! I’ve only had 2 and a half beers!  You need to enjoy life!  And YOU (again singling me out) you need to smile! Why don’t you smile??

Me: Oh, I don’t know.  *fake a smile* (God, I fucking hate people).

Soon the music starts up again, and Shirley returns to her one-woman show.  At some point she had also befriended Matt’s (Sarah’s boyfriend’s mom) and throughout the set keeps running up to him and saying “I love your mom and girlfriend!!”  At the end of the night she again returns to us, her new girlfriends.

Shirley: We should do this again! We should go out all together!

(Oh my god, I would rather staple my face to the carpet)

Shirley (seeing my skeptism): It will be fun!! I’m a fucking GRANDMA! And I don’t give a SHIT!! A grandmaaa!! I like to have fun! I’ve only had FOUR beers!

(Holy jesus, she is going to kill us and wear our skins as a halter top/pants ensemble)

Shirley: YOU need to SMILE.  SMILE!!

Joe: actually, she can’t.  She has a condition.

Shirley: Oh really?  What is it?

(Bitch-itis)

Shirley:  If you don’t smile, I am going to SMACK you!

(Believe me lady, the feeling is mutual)

Sarah and Joe: *horrified looks*

Shirley: I mean smack her in the GOOD way!! 

At this point I have actually been repressing a smile. Mostly because I know it is going to be smug and judgemental and, frankly, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.  But the way everyone in the bar is looking at her I just can’t help it: I break into a smile.

Joe: Oh my god, it’s a miracle! Her condition!

Here’s the thing about people: I don’t really like them.  I especially resent being told to smile, be happy, etc.  The only time I actually didn’t loathe this woman with every fiber of my being is when she threatened to slap me.  That is an emotion I can relate to.  Must be too much time spent in dark places.