Thursday, May 9, 2013

It Rhymes with "Pizza"

Who: Natasha
What: Hungry
When: 10:00pm
Where: Friend's car
Why: Drunk

I hope you enjoyed the change in style there. It's called a list. I'm about to make another list, so prepare yourself.


There. DONE. What was that? It's a list of nothing? Yeah, but a WHAT of nothing? Oh, a list? ...booya.

Let's pretend like I did NOT just bring back "booya" and move on. I'm sure you're wondering where I'm going with this by now, and honestly, so am I. I thought maybe my fingers would channel the creative flow for me, but obviously Jesus should stick to taking wheels - not keyboards.

THERE I WAS, staring at the pizza that lay before me. Its warmth emanated from the dashboard it rested upon, calling my name. I had been drinking, yes. I had skipped dinner so I could get drunk quicker, yes. I was in front of a fresh pizza, yes. I could have some pizza, no. I'm going to say pizza one more time, pizza, yes.

I couldn't have any of the pizza because this was a special pizza that my friend had made for him and his friends. I believe the kids call it a "weed pizza." If I were them, I'd call it a "weezza" because it rhymes with "pizza," but people just don't appreciate awful humor like they used to. As if I really care. Check the title. 

My friend had gotten out of the car to go fetch our friends from inside the bar, leaving me to sit in pepperoni prison. It's like that psychology experiment they did when they sat the marshmallows in front of the children and told them not to eat them. Except instead of children, it was me. And instead of marshmallows, it was warm, cheesy drugs.

BUT, I do not smoke weed. EVER. I'm going to explain why later, but before I continue with this story, you're going to have to know this. Me and weed do not get along. HOWEVER, he had not cooked the weed into the pizza crust, leaving me eight options of legal snackage. I tore off a few pieces of crust and ate them, rubbing my tum-tum in delight. Okay, so I didn't rub my tum-tum, nor is "tum-tum" a regular part of my vocabulary, but it sets up better imagery than me saying I bloated up and then burped. Which didn't happen, either. Or did it...

He returned to the car with a couple more of our friends and I immediately confessed.


"That's fine. You know that has weed in it, right?"

"Yeah but no worries, I only ate the crust."

"Yeah. It has weed in it."

"No, no, the crust. Just the crust. I didn't eat any of the not-crust part."

"Yeah. The crust has weed in it."


"A lot of weed."


"Yeah, hahahaha!"  

That's him. Laughing. 


That's everybody in the backseat. Laughing.


That's me. Typing the letters "h" and "a." I did not actually laugh.

"No, it's not in the crust."
This is called "power of persuasion."

"Dude, I made it. I put a lot in the crust."

"No, no. It's not in the crust."
This is called "in denial."

"There is a LOT in the crust."

This is called "it's starting to kick in."

"Yeah, dude! You're feeling it!"

This is called "I'm such a fucking dumbass I could have just asked to go to Taco Bell and avoided this entire situation but noooooooooooo pizza crust now pizza crust now YOU FUCKING IDIOT."

But despite my laughter, I knew where this was going.

Who: Natasha
What: Stoned
When: An hour later
Where: Friend's house
Why: God damn pizza crust

In the middle of a card game, it hit me. BAM! Just like that. Like this: BAM! Once more, with feeling: BAM! Suddenly I had no idea what to do with my mouth. Do I leave it open? Close it? Are my lips pushed out too far? They're jutting out, aren't they? I'll purse them. Just tighten them into a straight line. WHAT no that's ridiculous. Just say something. Open your mouth and nope - it's closed again. Oh, oh! It's open! Alright, speak! Now - oh, closed again. Open. Closed. Open. FUCK THIS PIZZA CRUST.

Natasha Ferrier's Stages of Being Stoned

1. Giggles 
2. Silence. Aforementioned lips thing. 
3. Extreme self-awareness 
4. Hatred for everyone around me
5. Hatred for myself
6. Inability to move
7. Insomnia

Stages one and two were down and I had five more to go. 

Act One. Stage three.

What do I do with my hands?

Act One. Stage four.

These people fucking suck. Why am I friends with them. They're retarded. 

Act One. Stage five.

I fucking suck. Why am I friends with myself. Wow. That makes no fucking sense whatsoever. You're retarded. You're arguing with yourself right now in your head. Who does that. What are you doing with your life. You have done nothing. Go eat some more pizza crust, why don't you. It's the only thing you can accomplish. Your greatest success is defined by bread dough. Bread dough, Natasha. Bread dough.

Act One. Stage six.

I should do nothing with my hands. They should stay where they are. Both of them. Stay, hands, stay. Good hands.

Act One. Stage seven.

I cannot sleep. But I will lie down and keep my eyes closed and pretend like I'm sleeping so no one will talk to me. 

"Hey, Natasha, are you okay?"

God damnit. If one more person asks me if I'm okay, I'm going to do...well, nothing. Because I can't move. And because I'm pretending to be asleep. I need to piss. Fuck. I'll just hold it.

Who: Alfred. Kidding. Who the fuck do you think?
What: Mother fucking pizza crust
When: Never again
Where: Nowhere. Cause it's not gonna happen.

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