Wednesday, March 10, 2010

The Bachelor


That was me.


That was me punching my steering wheel.


That was me throwing a glass.


That was me realizing I had broken the glass by throwing it.


That was me realizing that I should have known that a glass would break if I had thrown it, since glass is not, as I had originally thought, invincible.

"Hey! Whatchya doin' in there!?"

That was not me. That was some asshole who had decided that now would be the perfect time to roll down his window and talk to some girl in the lane next to his, since they are both sitting in traffic, and since the girl who is yelling in a language other than English, and what looks to be ferociously trying to honk her horn in every place besides where the horn actually is, really, really seems to be in the mood for casual chit chat.

I turn and stare at him, not really knowing what to say since the only things on my mind were 1) How much does it cost to get tinted windows? and 2) FUCK YOU.

I decided to not think of a response at all, but to instead do what naturally came to me, which was to turn up my music as loud as it could go, look at the asshole, and lip sync to him.


And then I rolled up my window, leaving him my left profile, which I thought was a nice gesture, since my left profile is preferable to that of my right. Despite being serenaded and waved to, I heard no "thank you" from the asshole, but instead got to see him speed off, which I think was quite nice of him, since that is exactly what I wanted him to do.

Now now now, do not go making assumptions. Don't think that I was having a "freak-out" or a "melt-down" or a complete "break-down" or any of this nonsense. I have no such things. I have "epiphanies," that's what I have. And when I have an epiphany, I like to shout out to the world about it in only a language an orangutan would be able to understand. You can look at is as me reaching out to my ancient ancestors. I also like to throw things, because I'm just. THAT. happy. It's like when you celebrate, you light things on fire so they shoot up to the sky and explode; I don't see how causing explosions and throwing glasses are any different from one another. That's right, it was a celebration. A celebration of an epiphany. One that I am about to share with you.

I was born to be a bachelor! YES! This is such wonderful news. I debated on changing the name of my blog to, "Born to Be a Bachelor," but then decided that being born to be a bachelor and being damned to be a damsel are one in the same thing, because they are both so wonderful! Now, the bachelor life is not for everyone, so don't start thinking YOU want to be a bachelor just like me; you would only get frustrated, because I make one HELL of a bachelor, let me tell ya. I will admit that it took me some time to realize this, which also makes me think that there are plenty of potential bachelors out there such as myself, and I see it it as my call of duty to help you find what you were born to do, if this is, in fact, your purpose in life.

Ah...I can see it now. (I actually CAN see it now, since that IS my life right now, but what I meant by that phrase was that I was about to take a glimpse into the future, a future that just so happens to be a lot like my present.)

I will have my own TV show, entitled, "The Bachelor," and people will think, "Oh! Natasha is going to get to make out with 20 striking blokes and then tell two or three of them that she's fallen madly in love with them, then spend a few episodes whining about NOT KNOWING WHO SHE LOVES MORE THEY'RE BOTH JUST SO WONDERFUL, then will magically and conveniently know by the very last episode that one of them is her soulmate and the other one is just some guy with soft lips." But no. This will not be the premise of my show. If I had a show like that I would not call it, "The Bachelor;" I would call it something like, "Wannabe Spouse," or, "Horny Devil," or "Super Slut." But this is The Bachelor. The Bachelor, people, in which the premise of my show would be me. Bein' a bachelor. And lovin' the bachelor life.

I already have the ingredients necessary for a good ol' Bachelor Stew, which are the following:

1. a bachelor pad

Got it! Sure, it's more of a bachelor dorm than a bachelor pad, but to me that's even better because "dorm" has one meaning whereas "pad" can have many, which can therefore potentially cause confusion to those unfamiliar with the phrase. My bachelor dorm is messy (hangers are against my religion), disgusting (trash cans are, too), and has a wide variety of DVDs (the perfect antidote for a bachelor such as myself, for with the power of movies I can live vicariously through anyone from John Wayne to Lola Bunny) (yes, that was a Space Jam reference) (Space Jam is the stepfather I never had) (and by that I mean Space Jam is AWESOME). As you can see, my living arrangements are already taken care of. Living alone is like taking a bubble bath filled with rubber duckies. You're alone. AND YOU LIKE IT THAT WAY.

2. a bitch on the side

Any bachelor needs to have at least one bitch on the side. This, I'm currently working on, so don't rush me. If you are interested, however, you can reach me at 1-800-IMYOBITCH. You can tell your friends, as well, because I'm open to many bitches.

3. failed relationships

Not to sound like Cher, but DUH. (And by Cher I don't mean tattooed-ass-Cher, I mean fell-in-love-with-her-brother-but-he's-not-really-her-brother-Cher. Just to clear that up. If that even helped.) I'm 19, man. If I didn't have any failed relationships by now then something would be seriously wrong with me. I see it as a good thing, really. SORRY I DON'T SETTLE FOR ANYONE. SORRY I'M NOT SATISFIED WITH ANY PERSON WITHIN 5 YEARS OF MY AGE WHO HAPPENS TO HAVE A PENIS. SORRY I MAY HAVE A SLIGHT CASE OF BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER. See? Wasn't that good just then? It's the Bachelor Bitterness. Man, I'm gettin' better at this by the second!

4. mulah

I'm starting to just make things up, honestly, since I don't know much about the bachelor life, considering the fact that I haven't even lived for 2 decades. But I do know that when I am officially a bachelor, I'm going to be a rich one, and people will beg me to marry them, to date them, to cure the blind, but I will do none of these things, 'cause I'll be a bachelor. AND DAMN HAPPY ABOUT IT.

*Remember, that's 1-800-IMYOBITCH.*

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Natasha Ferrier and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night

The night was going fine. Splendid, in fact. Music was playing (music can always keep the mood happy), plans were set (plans that involved David Bowie sporting spandex pants on the big screen, a.k.a. plans that were sure to guarantee a GRAND ol' time), a select few of my companions were quite merry (merry. jolly. intoxicated. whatever adjective you feel like using), but 7 incidents later, it all went straight to Hell. Which is quite fine, really. I'm sure Hell is a decent place where no one is ever cold and you can roast any type of food you want at any place or time, like marshmallows, for instance, but wherever this night had gone was a different type of Hell than I have ever heard about, a Hell where tires are popped, people are punched, fathers have to get up at 3 in the morning to pick up their "adult" daughters, and there are no marshmallows in sight. Not one. Not even minis.

Incident #1 - We were running late to the movie.

Between a minor freak-out that I may miss David Bowie tossing goblins and babies around in the air (a spandex-pants wearin' hunk o' love who loves children: any woman's dream) and the slightinclination of my speedometer, I somehow popped a tire. Damn my tires. They pop all the fucking time. I'm a good driver, really, so good, in fact, that I always keep my eyes on the road. The ROAD, people, where they SHOULD be kept, but apparently this just isn't good enough because some dimwit by the name of Di M. Wit decided that it would be a great idea to randomly pour a shit ton of cement in certain places, making little cement hills, and he did it everywhere, thinking it was quite entertaining, and then even had the audacity to name these randomly-placed cement hills, as if cement hills are worthy of a different name. Ant hills aren't, why should cement ones be? Well, Mr. Wit, I hate your curbs, and obviously your curbs hate me because they won't leave me the hell alone, which brings me to the second incident.

Incident #2 - I popped a tire.

I've never really understood the song, "Pop Goes the Weasel" but if by "weasel" they meant "tire" then I understand completely. And by "completely" I mean more than most. And by "more than most" I mean my tires go pop and then I go scream and then this particular night go to Hell. Shortly after my epiphany that My Tires Suck A Lot, I pulled over and parked, because it's one thing to pop a tire, but it's another to think it's okay to keep on driving on that popped tire and nothing will happen. (I learn from my mistakes, thank you very much.) It is because of this second incident that brought me to incidents three, four, five, six, and seven.

Incident #3 - My car gets puked on.

I see no need to elaborate here. You know what a car looks like. It looks like a car. You know what puke looks like. It looks like chili. Moving on.

Incident #4 - My friend gets punched.

It was probably not the best idea to hop out of my car at 2 in the morning and approach three wasted men who thought kicking my donut tire that was beside my car was the funniest, most entertaining thing they've done in years (which it probably was), but that's exactly what I did, but only to tell them to STOP and that that donut was MY donut and could they please NOT kick it down the street because just because I LEFT it on the side of the street does NOT entail that it is for freebies. That donut is for my CAR. Not freebies. My CAR. CAR yes FREEBIES no. I was just letting it air out, is all. Just giving it a breath of fresh air. Aren't tires supposed to have AIR? Which explains why my tiny tire full of air attracted a bunch of airHEADS. (I could make a lot of puns about air, I'm kind of on a roll here, actually, just like my tire was...get it? On a ROLL?!Nevermind. Now I'm just putting on airs. "AIRS!" HA! Ah just forget it.)

As they tried to make up their minds as to whether or not they were too drunk to change a tire or not ("I know how to change a tire." "But we're pretty drunk, Miss." "But we do know how to change a tire." "But we have been drinking." "We know how to drink, too." Oh, you know how to drink? Is there a method I should know? Have I not been taught the ways? Just change my damn tire, fool. I just want to use you and then lose you, but so far both of these are proving to be quite difficult.), my friend took the liberty of getting out of my car, approaching the three men, and kicking their beer glass straight out of their hand. I then took the liberty to immediately walk away and get back into my car, locking the doors and listening to Drunk Dude #1 gasp, "What...the...FUCK..." The next thing I knew those three kumquats were punching my friend in the face, and then running away. Wow. You're real tough guys, aren't ya? To go around punching people 10 years younger than you, smaller in size, as well, and then to run off? Sure, okay, he kicked their glass, so technically, he started it. But in my personal opinion, kicking a glass and beating someone's face in are two completely different things. Which they obviously realized, hence the running away. Complete cowards. Go suck on your mom's teets while you're at it. But don't expect beer to come out. Cause it won't. Morons.

Incident #5 - I chase my friend around town.

Okay, okay, so "around town" is a bit of a fabrication; it was more of up and down a sidewalk and then into one random alley and then into a parking lot and then behind a building and then to nowhere because my friend outran me because I have shorter legs. Damn my short legs. They make it very hard to chase people around at 3 am, which is not something I do very often but it would be nice if when I did do it I could actually do it, instead of having to stop and stare at my legs and curse them.

Incident #6 - My sister and her boyfriend go M.I.A.

No, I do not mean my sister and her boyfriend turned into Indians and started singing about sticks and weed; I mean after running around aimlessly, I return to my car only to find that my other two companions (there were 4 of us total) were no longer sitting in the backseat of my car. This is when I decided that whoever coined the phrase "things could always be worse" was a very intelligent and experienced individual, or me in a past life.

I call my sister. No answer. I call her boyfriend. No answer. I keep calling. I keep getting no answer. Then I get a text saying they got a ride home. I wish I was the type of person who would think, "Oh good! As long as they are safe, I am happy!" But I'm not. I'm the type of person who would and DID think, "WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE ME A RIDE YOU ASSHOLES."

Now, if you heard this story from the other three, I'm sure everyone's perspective on the tale would be quite different: my sister would talk about how she had to sit in a freezing car for hours while watching one person get punched and then another person chasing him around with two handfuls of napkins yelling at him to calm down; my sister's boyfriend would talk about how he had to call his grandparents to pick him up in the middle of the night and drive another 40 minutes to take his girlfriend home; my friend would talk about getting punched in the face and bleeding nonstop out of his nose and out of his lip and having to tell his friend he was with a trillion times to put away the damn napkins; but I am the one telling this story, so you will hear my perspective.

It was me. And my donut tire. Both of us quite still, both of us remotely quiet, and both of us not really sure where our lives would go from there. I did not imagine the night would come to this, but it had, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit and pet my donut for being the only one there with me. And then, 30 minutes later, I get a phone call.

Incident #7 - I get a phone call.

Yes, I do realize I put "I get a phone call" twice in a row, and THAT, my friends, is strictly for dramatic purposes, which is exactly why I am about to say it for a third time: I get a phone call. From my father.

"WHERE. Are you."

"Heyyyyy Dadddddd..."

The rest is history, history that involved my dad having to come pick me up at 3 in the morning, me having to call my friend's mom since he was nowhere to be found, and me being grounded for the time being. Which is, just for the record, completely understandable, whether I admitted it at the time or not.

The Final Outcome - Everyone is a-okay.

I do hope you already assumed everything turned out just fine, because if it had not, I would not be writing a humorous story about it, because I am not that warped of a human being. Now, when I say "just fine" I do not mean there were no consequences. Of course there were consequences, like me being grounded and having to pay for my car being towed and my new tire and a car wash to get the puke off and the memory of an absolutely horrid night embedded into my head and YES, there were consequences. But, as Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better." This experiment just didn't turn out so well. Blasted curbs.