The Then and Nows of the Infamous Exes

You turn on the tube. "Where Are They NOW?" appears on the screen with pictures of David Cassidy, Luke Perry, and some other hottie from some other decade that went M.I.A. You stop. You think. You munch on whatever salty snack you've got in hand, and your mind begins to wander. It doesn't wander to other celebrities you had a crush on as a kid (Christian Slater, perhaps? For you grandmammies out there, Clark Gable, maybe?) NO. It wanders to a different "Where Are They NOW?" category: your ex-boyfriends.

I have precisely 6 ex-boyfriends. Two of them didn't know they were my boyfriend, and only two of them lasted more than 2 weeks. Two of them dumped ME, and one of them broke off the engagement the day of our wedding. Dirty bastard.

Stan was my first boyfriend.
THEN: A 7-year old boy with a knack for fort-building and a killer pair of roller blades. He once mouthed the words, "I. LOVE. YOU." with hand movements to go with it as he roller bladed past me on the asphalt of Mountain View Elementary. The day of our wedding I came to school in my Blue Dress and my three best friends spent all of recess picking dandelions for the bouquet. Stan didn't bother dressing up or showing up. It was at that moment I knew we were over. Maybe if I had informed him of the wedding things would have been different.
NOW: A 17-year old boy who has traded in the signature-blades for a skateboard. Listens to heavy metal and has more piercings than words in his vocabulary. Anorexic-looking drug addict with a staring problem. Has a self-applied-tattoo of a panther that looks more like Mogli than Bagera on the front of his neck and insists on wearing eyeliner only on the lower lids. Laughs at air a lot.

Perry was my second boyfriend.
THEN: 6th grade. Awkward-looking fellow with glasses and a buzz cut. I was the only girl who noticed the beautiful olive skin and the only girl who failed to notice the acne. He sat behind me. He didn't talk. Until one day I turned around and said hello. It was then he began to joke about hiding Hitler in his basement and how he goes down there every night and whips him, but sometimes his mom goes down there and makes love to him. To some he may have seemed like a serial killer in the making, but to me he was a shy boy with a sense of humor waiting to be unleashed to anyone who would listen.
THEN: 7th grade. We dated again. And again. And again. Because after everyone had made fun of me for dating Perry The Mute With The Bad Acne, summer came. We broke up. We came back to school. And Perry had changed. Perry. Was. A STUD. All the girls were after him, but he always stayed with me. (Except that one time he dated my best friend for a day and the other time he dated one of my good friends for a couple weeks and that one other time he was hitting on some 6th grader.) He was cute (except for that one time he got neon-yellow highlights and gelled his hair down into his face for a month) and he was addicted to porn. But that didn't matter.
NOW: He moved to South Dakota and last I heard of him he still had a porn addiction. Other than that I don't think I'll ever hear of Perry again.

Charlie was my third boyfriend.
THEN: My best friend had liked him for the entire previous year and I could never figure out what the hell she was thinking. (Maybe because I never talked to the guy. But I was perfectly comfortable to just sit back and judge him.) Then 7th grade came and I started to befriend this Charlie fellow. I don't know when I decided I liked him but the next thing I knew I had been 3-way called and my friend had declared, "You two are now dating." and hung up. So I guess what made her declaration official was the fact that me and Charlie stayed on the phone and chatted it up, then the next day at school people just knew. It was the first time I had become good friends with the guy before having a crush on him, and I think that's why we lasted. (for the mere 2 months we dated. but that was hella long term for me, man) Good times.
NOW: Seen him here and there but who knows what he's up to. Apparently he's still a very funny guy.

Ben was my fourth boyfriend.
THEN: Total cutie with the maturity of a 5-year-old and that "you can't have me because I'm dating your best friend but I'm still gonna flirt with you all the time but remember you can't have me because I'm dating your best friend who I think is the hottest thing alive" thing goin' on. Which sucked. There was this whole mix-up thing with the 3-way thing THAT WORKED BEFORE but for some reason didn't work as well this time and I went to school thinking we were a couple and was really confused when he wasn't talking to me and talking to the "hottie with a body best friend" instead and I think I cried when I got home that day.
NOW: Maturity level has stayed the same. Might be on steroids. Ran into him at a party and he was really nice but I also was really nice and I don't think either of us are normally that nice. If you know what I mean. He's one of those guys who take pictures of themselves in front of the mirror with the picture cut off right above his junk and you can see that line that has a name I can't think of at the moment and man do I hate when guys do girly shit like that.

Jack was my fifth boyfriend.
THEN: I didn't even know who the guy was and I had girls coming up to me saying, "Jack really likes you. He talks about you ALL the time!" So yeah, I was a little creeped out. Then I met some guy and we started talking and it wasn't until a month later I realized HE was the Jack people had been telling me about. So yeah, I began to get creeped out again. Besides, I had the biggest crush on his best friend. But then we kept on talking. And writing notes. And holding hands. And all this would have been the perfect little love story if I wasn't 15 and him 17. Because 17 year olds don't have problems with expressing the way they feel. And because 15-year-olds do shitty things like break up with their boyfriends when they get a haircut.
NOW: Male model.

Scott was my sixth boyfriend.
THEN: Nice. Shy. Broke up with me over a phone message. He must have been in a tunnel or something because he was breaking up the whole time. And yes, that was an intentional pun. But just in case I didn't get the phone message, I had a nice MySpace message awaiting me. We were one of those cutesy-awkward couples who never touched. You gotta experience that at least once in your lifetime.
NOW: Nice guy. Really nice. I know it seems like the point of all this is to bash the ex-boyfriends, but I have nothing bad to say about Scott. He is a genuinely kind fellow. And very attractive. But of course we all know that looks don't count...

So there are the Infamous Six. I wonder if I'm on a list somewhere out there...

"Natasha"
THEN: An innocent girl with a pair of maroon pants. Preferred teasing her hair to brushing it. Smelled of Loreal Kids and kept live cicadas in her backpack. Chased me around asking me to elope with her when I had no idea what that word even meant. All she ate was candy. A little on the bossy side. Talked about Harriet Tubman a lot and was always reading a book as she walked down the hallway. Had a gap between her two front teeth that she would squirt juice out of like a fountain. It was pretty cool, actually.
NOW: Wears a lot of black then gets mad when people ask her if she's gothic. Always thirsty. Never wears pants. Not even jeans. Not even in the winter. Smiles to herself sometimes like a crazy person on the side of the street. Still has the gap in her front teeth. Tells everyone to pronounce her name NatAAAAsha, like she's from Minnesota or something. I still call her NatAAWWWWsha, though. (because I'm a little bitch.) Used to drive this giant grandma car until she put a huge dent in the side of it. Now she drives a little black car and she drinks coffee a lot and I think that must be why she's stayed the same height since 8th grade. Hasn't had a boyfriend in a year then blogs about how sucky all her ex-boyfriends are. Maybe that's why. But man the chick is HILARIOUS.

And that's the Then and Nows of the Infamous Exes.

Not Your Average Sex Symbols

I'm sick. And tired. I'm sick and tired. Of what? Oh, wouldn't you like to know. I'm sick and tired of sexy men. That's right. Not just sexy men, but men of the UPMOST sexiness. The sexiest ones out there. Well, according to you. Why am I the only one yearning to rid myself of these average, run-of-the-mill symbols-of-sex? Johny Depp? Only as a pirate. Brad Pitt? Taken, anyway. David Beckham? Sure, if you're into men who wear tighty-whiteys. The older us females become the more our tastes in men seem to entangle into one. When we were young and naive was the time we knew who made us melt like those firecracker popsicles we ran across the street without looking to the ice cream truck to get. We didn't listen to who the magazines named, '50 Sexiest Men in Hollywood.' I think it's time to pull out our Flux Capacitor and take a blast to the past to examine a prime example of a 5-year-old with shockingly good taste in the Hottie with a Body Department: me.

Natasha Ferrier's Sexy Beats of 1995

1. Robin Hood: Man, was he foxy. Literally. What? You thought I was referring to Kevin Costner? Yeah, if you're into men whose eyes always look like they're staring directly into the sun. I'm talking about the real Prince of Thieves, the Disney-animated red fox with the nimble body (we all know where THAT would come in handy) and his smooth-talking...I'd want THAT snout whispering into my ear. Forget the fact that he's wearing a dress with a belt the entire movie, just sit back and imagine what's under the dress with the belt. Ohhhh yeaaahhhhhh.

2. Basil from Baker Street: If alliteration isn't sexy enough, try the British accent this Great Mouse Detective speaks with a dash of Suave and a hint of Damn He's Fine. If the half-smirk and the single raised brow doesn't do it for ya, fast-forward to the scene where he goes undercover as a sailor. A pint in hand and stubble? Good lord I'm in trouble.

3. The Dad in 'Casper': Okay okay, so some of you may know him as Bill Pullman. But Bill isn't the one I want taking me home. I want Dr. James Harvey, the one with the raspy voice and brown cardigan he never changes out of. Brown cardigans, not your thing? WHO CARES HE'S HOT. Man would I give anything to be in Christina Ricci's place...helloooo pedophilia.

So those are my three. All I ask is that before you judge, you actually go out and rent the movies and look for the few things I have so kindly pointed out to you that will make you forget all about your boyfriend and your precious Patrick Dempsey. Of course, I don't expect Robin, Basil, and James to do it for you like they do it for me. The whole purpose of this light bulb I have placed over your heads is that you realize there are ones out there for you that aren't featured in People magazine. Take a couple of my friends for instance.

-Charlotte has seen the Pirates of the Caribbean movies just as much as any other crazed Captain Jack Sparrow fan, but she doesn't watch them for Jack. She watches them for Davy Jones, the half-man, half-octopus with a beard of tentacles and polka-dotted skin the color of a dirty lake. "Look at his lips," she insists. "And the way his nose moves when he talks...but really, it's the lips." I'm not into fish-men with ink-dyed bodies, but I must admit, the man does have nice lips.

-Felicity says hands-down that Aladdin is the sexiest Disney guy ever drawn. (as far as humans go) There's really nothing else to say here...BECAUSE HE IS.

-Clara may just take it a little too far...sure, she says Vegeta from Dragonball Z is her soul mate. Sure, she says she loves him more than she loves her mother. Sure, she says she has sex dreams starring the anime-cartoon with the monkey-tail. Sure, she draws pictures of him naked. Sure, she draws pictures of him and her having sex and hangs them up in her locker. Maybe I'm just jealous that she has found her soul mate so early in life. But she really shouldn't hang those pictures up in her locker.

So you may look at me differently now that you know a mouse wearing a detective's hat has been the star of many a sex dream of mine, but I'm sure one day you too will find your own Basil...if you're lucky.

B.A. all the WAY

Pot. Acid. Blow. It's 2008, and this is what innocent little teenagers, the precious babies of parents across the globe, the lights of the lives of married couples everywhere, the same kids who used to be those pudgy little babies who were breast-fed until they were four, the same chubby tykes who rode a trike with a seat that opened up to put secret treasures like dead cicadas in, are into. High school doesn't just open up a world of oppurtunities, but a world of things to put your Little Cotton Candy Buns under the influence. So what do we non-conformers do when everyone else is "puffin' the magic dragon"and "takin a trip to Narnia?" We use our above-the-influence-imaginations and think of alternate resources so we too can go around for hours saying, "I'm sooooo fucked uuuuup, maaaannnnn." to someone who will reply with, "Maaaannnnnn, I'MMMMM sooooo fucked uuuuuup." and then WE can rebuttle with, "We are BOTH soooooo fucked uuuuuuup." So what do we do, you ask? You ponder? You bite your fingernails and get down on your knees begging to know? We chug some cream.

There's three parts to a pre-party "get-fucked-up-fest." Steal, chug, and smack. It all starts at whatever gas station looks to be the most crowded on that promising Saturday night. You go in. You don't make eye contact with ANYONE. You just maintain that furrowed brow like you're REALLY looking for something, something you've been searching for for hours now at every gas station across the nation, and all you're thinking is, "It must be here somewhere. It must be here somewhere." You may even mutter a little to yourself, "Somewhere...must be..." but don't be too loud or you'll look crazy and crazy people in gas stations are always sketch. Then you go behind the coffee bar, which is always conveniently located on the opposite end from the cashier, grab the goods, and don't BOLT, but slowly walk out, then turn around and take one last glance-over, maintaing that furrowed brow, as if you're thinking, "One last look...I just can't believe they couldn't have it..." then shake your head in despair, you may even throw your hands up in the air in complete defeat, but not too high or you'll look like someone is pointing a gun at you and saying, "HANDS UP!" and then you'll freak everyone out and really draw attention to yourself, and leave. So you're in the car, and you pull out the choices. Amaretto. Bailey's Irish Cream. Chocolate Caramel. Hey, maybe good ol' fashioned Vanilla does it for you. And no, I'm not talking about the big containers. Please. As if you'd EVER get away with THAT in your pocket. I'm talking about those itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny creamers that us coffee-drinkers have become so addicted to. (It starts with one, "oh I'll just give it a try" then two, "one more and it will be perfect," then three, "one more can't possibly hurt...i'm already doin two" then four, "three just doesn't do it for me anymore, I NEED MORE" and by the time you reach five little flavored creamers in your coffee it's more cream than coffee and you're pretty much a goner.) So you choose your preference. You chug it. And NO, that's NOT the non-alcoholic-get-fucked-up-secret. Come ON. You think a dose of vanilla is gonna get you feelin' loose? HERE'S what people don't know about those little gas station coffee bars. Located next to the creamers are the Stoks. That's right, Stoks. They look like cream. They taste like shit. And THEY, my friends, are what get us folks who have grown rather fond of our brain cells over the years, "fucked uuuuup maaaannnnn." It's what we call "BLACK Cream" with a WARNING label that states "18 AND UP" and "LIMIT TO ONE PER DAY." That's right. Talk about BAD. ASS. Heroin? PLEASE. Anyone can stick a needle in their arm. My doctor does it a few times a year. Try chugging concentrated caffeine. Now THAT'S something to brag about. Follow it up with one more cream (Amaretto this time, perhaps? A house favorite.) and smack your lips. THEN...prepare to get STOKED.

"Hey! Where are you guys?"

"We'll be there in a minute. We need to pick up some stuff."

"What stuff? You mean..."

"We're gettin Stoks."

"Stoks? I've never even HEARD of those...are they new?"

"Relatively. Just be ready. We are gonna be stoked UP."

"Be careful driving! Don't take too many."

"I've chugged them plenty of times before. I'll be fine."

"CHUGGED? Natasha, please be careful. PLEASE. I don't want you to get caught."

"I've never been caught. I nab these things every weekend."

"Stealing STOKS? Natasha! You could go to JAIL!"

"Look we're here."

"Hold on. Natasha is doing Stoks tonight!"
"What are Stoks?"
"They get you stoked up and she has to steal them!"
"Woah! I've never even HEARD of those!"
"That's what I said!"
"That means they must be REALLY dangerous!"
"Natasha is SO B.A. Okay I'm back. Hurry! And be careful, okay? Dont' let the cops see you!"

"There's actually a cop in there right now."

"WHAT? Where ARE you?!"

"Gotta go. No time to explain. I'm gettin' gas and then the stoks and I'll be there."

"Okay, bye! She's getting stoks and she said she's gettin GAS. Probably some other drug we haven't heard about..."

"B.A. all the WAY!"

So you know my secret. The secret I have shared with oh-so-few lucky individuals. As Gandoff would say, "Keep it secret. Keep it safe." For, as you will see the next time you stop at the On the Run Tigermart, STOKS come in few quantities. There's two containers: SWEET and UNSWEET. (Get the Sweet. It still tastes like shit, but more like shit with splenda.) And you'll want to grab a few for your buddies, because everyone knows it's not as fun to be the ONLY fucked-up one. So the next time everyone is chokin' and tokin'...you'll be STOKIN.'

If You Give A Deranged Nutcase Some Scissors

Achluphobia, what many kids have: the fear of darkness. Erotophobia, what many parents have: the fear of sexual questions. Deipnophobia, what many human beings have: the fear of dinner conversation. Anatidaephobia, what I'm sure only one person in the world has but they still had to create a name for it: the fear that somehow, somewhere, at all times, a duck is watching you. Though these phobias apply to many, none of them apply to me. My fear is one so rare, so unusual, they have yet to come up with a name for it. In order to convey the severity of this fear, I will name it myself. Snipsnipophobia, what Natasha Ferrier should have been diagnosed with after her traumatic experience in '96: the fear of haircuts.

"So how long has it been since your last haircut?"

"Well, actually...it's been abouttttt....maybeeeee...oh, about six years."

"Wow!"

"Yeah, I know."

"So when was your last trim?"

Was that a trick question? Because I definitely thought that was what I was answering the first time. Should I lie and save myself the embarrassment, or honor the whole "honesty is key" belief system?

"Oh, like...threeeee...months ago...yeah, I'd say about three months."

Of course I'm gonna lie! I'm not Mother Theresa, for crying out loud.

"Yeah, there are some dead ends. You want to get a trim every two months."

SOME dead ends? SOME? Does she not realize that if I'm supposed to get "oh just a little trim that will ruin my life" every two months, that's like THIRTY trims I've NOT gotten that I should have. That's like, SIXTY inches of hair I'm NOT supposed to have that I have. That's like, FIVE feet of hair. That's like, a SMALL PERSON.

"Yeah, I've just been so busy I haven't been able to get a trim in awhile."

Busy for six years, that is. Busy growing out my hair that the last lady not only chopped completely off, but cut into some sort of weird shape so it went down into a point in the back that had even my best friend calling me, "Triangle Head." Busy staying away from psychotic loonies with small-toothed combs like YOU.

"Well, how much would you like cut off?"

She's asking me this AS SHE'S CUTTING. What if I had said, "one centimeter please"? Would she be like, "too late, I already cut five inches off"? YEAH, then why'd you start cutting before I even answered the QUESTION, you Edward-Scissorhands Wannabe with BAD highlights?

"I want to keep my hair as LONG as possible."

"Okay."

"Like, as LONG as POSSIBLE."

"Got it."

That's what the last lady said and by the end of the "trim" I looked like Carrot Top without the carrots.

"Like, I want it AS LONG AS POSSIBLE."

"So, like two inches?"

Get the ruler get the ruler get the ruler get the ruler.

"Is that the least amount you can cut off?"

"Well you actually have four inches of split ends, so that'd still be leaving two inches that should probably be cut off."

What are you trying to say, doll face? I've gone six years with those split ends. Another twelve won't make a difference

"I'll just stick with two, thanks."

"You want bangs, as well?"

Did I say anything about bangs? Did I mention bangs at all? I don't THINK SO. What is it with these people? It's like if you give a mouse a cookie. He's gonna want some milk. If you give a deranged nutcase some scissors, she's gonna want to chop off all of your hair.

"No thanks, just the trim. Just want to keep it as loooonnngggg asssss possibllleeee....that's right, just as loonnnnggg assss possibllleeee....you know, just want to keep it as lonnngggg asssss---"

"Yes, I will keep it long."

Snip snip here, snip snip there, hair falling to the floor, no one sweeping it up, just leaving it there for me to stare at, just leaving it there so I realize that it is no longer on my head but now on the floor, no I can never put it back, unless I got hair plugs, oh my god I'm about to have a nervous breakdown, she's still snipping, why is she still snipping, why is this taking so long it's just a trim, if she gives me bangs I'm ripping out her heart and eating it, gotta think of something else, that man who just walked in is bald what could he possibly have done here this is a hair cutting salon---

"Done! Wanna take a look?"

They always ask this as they swivel your chair around to face the mirror, which really gives you no choice since the mirror is huge and you don't want to look like a freak and stare at the floor the whole way out.

"Well, do you like it?"

They always ask this with a smile on their face, giving you no opportunity whatsoever to say NO I HATE IT HOW'D YOU EVER PASS BEAUTY SCHOOL because they would be crushed and it would be awkward.

"Yeahhh...!"

"You do? Because I cut this here and---"

Blah blah blah I know how scissors work, thank you. I just want to pay and get out of here. Actually I just want to get out of here and NOT pay but that would be breaking the law, I'm sure.

"Well, thanks!"

"Remember! A trim every TWO MONTHS! You had 4 inches of split ends that I had to cut off."

Screeeccchhhh! Wait a second, little missy, you said you were going to cut off TWO INCHES and that was IT. You good-for-nothing-lying-cheating-scheming-pink-banged-tattooed-bicep-BITCH. I HATE this place. I'm NEVER coming back. Not if someone holds a gun to my head. Not if someone pays me a million dollars. Not if you and your little posse tell me it's been TEN YEARS since my last haircut and that I have hair FALLING OUT. You double-crossing-psychopathic-leopard-heels-livin-in-the-80's-BITCH.

"Only FOUR? Wow! Because I haven't had ONE TRIM in SIX YEARS! Only FOUR inches, huh? Wow..."

Take that, BITCH.

JAIL BAIT!

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"I'M GOIN' TO JAIL!"

Yeah. Just for the record, when I'm in college I'm not going to show up at high school parties. And if by chance I did show up at a high school party, I wouldn't alert those under eighteen that after having the sex I am planning on having with them, I would be going to jail since I am in college at a high school party because obviously I need to get people wasted to get them to sleep with me. Because I'm in college at a high school party. Pointing at hot people screaming, "JAIL BAIT!" because I'm cocky. Pointing at ugly people screaming, "JAIL BAIT!" because I'm desperate. Pointing at the dog screaming, "JAIL BAIT!" because I'm wasted. Pointing at the gangsta screaming, "BROTHA!" because I think that showing everyone how "cool" I am with the homedawgs hides the fact that I'm in college at a high school party and though I'm screaming, "JAIL BAIT!" at every girl with legs, none of them seem to be the slightest bit interested. Maybe that's because I'm in college at a high school party. YEAH.

"I REMEMBER YOU!"

"Yes you do."

"Wait, don't tell me...DON'T TELL ME...NATASHA! Told ya I remembered!"

As if him remembering who I am just made my night. Like he's the kind of guy who goes around "making people's nights."

"Yep that's me."

"Bet ya don't remember me, do ya?"

This is the part where I admit I know his name and he gets all cocky and all "of course she knows me name I'm So-and-So So-and-So" and I'm all like "screw you pal" and he's all like, "man she digs me" and I'm all like "no no" and he's all like "JAIL BAIT!"

"No. Sorry."

So let's just skip all that because either way he'll end up screaming, "JAIL BAIT!"

"JAIL BAIT!"

Told ya.

"Why haven't I seen you here before?"

"It's my first time."

"There's a first for everything, you know."

Yeah like me ramming my foot up your ass. That'd be a first.

"I have parties at my crib all the time. You should come."

Your crib? Yeah I'll be sure to drop by with a rattle and a ba-ba.

"Yeah maybe."

"Really. Except last night sucked. See this guy right here?"

He points to the only Asian person in the room.

"You feel weird man? You feel like the walls are closin' in on ya?"

"You mean cause I'm the only Chinese guy?"

"Yeah. I know how you feel man."

"You were the only white guy at your party last night?"

"Nah man. I was the only attractive guy at my party last night."

I can't believe people like this even exist.

"Seriously! I was literally in a room FILLED with ugly people. It was awful. I knew exactly what it felt like to be a minority."

Yeah, like you feel right now? Being the only college dude at a high school party? Like that, you mean?

"Yeah, so I ditched that scene."

"Wasn't it your party?"

"Yeah, but I had to get out of there and find some hot people. I was goin' crazy!"

It's not that college people aren't welcome. I love the college kiddies. But the cool ones are the ones who DON'T show up at high school parties. Probably because they're cool. No cool cats at any coral I've been to, just the losers. The ones lookin' for jail bait. If you want to go to jail so bad, why don't you go snatch an old lady's orthopedic shoes right off of her feet? Or pull a Foot Stomper and just stomp on some old lady's orthopedic shoes? Or take a pair of orthopedic shoes and chuck them at an old lady? There are a million possibilities. At least I'm learning from this. Learning that I am NOT going to ANY high school function WHATSOEVER once I graduate. Even if I could pull off looking like a high school student, which I could, how embarrassing would it be when I was discovered?

"So, do you have Crazy Mr. Morrison?"

"No..."

"Who do you have for History?"

"Professor Hudgens."

"Professor?"

"I'm in college."

"COLLEGE? AT A HIGH SCHOOL PARTY? BAHAHAHAHAHA!"

or...

"Hey NATASHA!"

"HEY!"

"What are YOU doing here?"

"Uhhh...I mean, it's a party..."

"LOVED HIGH SCHOOL SO MUCH YOU HAD TO COME BACK FOR ME, EH?"

"I just want to party..."

"DIDN'T GET INVITED TO ANY COLLEGE PARTIES SO YOU HAD TO BACK TRACK TO THE GLORY DAYS, EH?"

"I just thought I'd drop by..."

"THOUGHT YOU'D LOOK REALLY COOL BEING THE OLDEST ONE IN AN ENTIRE HOUSE JAM-PACKED WITH PEOPLE, EH?"

"I'm gonna go..."

or...

"Hey pretty lady, what grade are you in?"

"I'm a freshman. A freshmen at---"

"Watch out for guys on the prowl for jail bait..good thing I'm seventeen."

"You're seventeen?"

"That's right. I'm a senior, little freshmen. I'm just not eighteen yet."

"Uh-oh."

"What?"

"JAIL BAIT!"