The Birds and The Bees Vs. Barbie

Mothers of the world, I'm about to tell you something you may not want to hear. Clutch your bibles and hide the children. Barbies promote sex. If you don't already know this, you obviously didn't own the blond bombshell with the double D's. As of this moment, I expect you to be in denial. What? You just checked on Susie Lou and she was driving Barbie to her house? Yeah, try Whore House. What? You saw Penelope Ann dressing her Barbie to go to school? Why were her clothes off in the first place? What? You bought Pumpkin PooPoo Doctor Barbie to promote a future career in medicine? Yeah, and those meds will turn out to be birth control. I'm telling you, it's time to face the facts. Who needs the birds and the bees when you have Barbie?

Skip the anatomy of the figure, we all already know about THAT. (Gazungas-waist-legslegslegs.) Skip the innocent smile that stays white without those amazing Crest White-Strips. Skip innocent occupations such as, "Nurse Barbie" and "Babysitter Barbie." Skip it all. We're about to get down to the nitty-gritty: Barbie is a tramp. Why do you think she has painted on panties? BECAUSE OTHERWISE SHE'D TAKE THEM OFF. Why do you think those panties have an innocent floral print? BECAUSE HER THONGS ARE IN THE BACK SEAT OF KEN'S CONVERTIBLE. Why do you think there is one Ken and thousands of Barbies? BECAUSE KEN IS A TRAMP, TOO. There's no way I was the only child who had a Ken doll who sneaked out of the Barbie House at night to have a little hanky-panky with Wilderness Barbie. (And boy, was she wild.) There's no way I was the only child who made Ken use the grocery store as an alibi while he was really playin' some Marvin Gaye over at Gymnast Barbie's house. (Even though all Barbies were contortionists.) There's no way I was the only child who had Ken babysit Barbie's little sister Kelly and then get it on with her. (Or maybe I was the only one for that one...) If Barbie was a slut, Ken had to be, too. (Slut Barbie got taken off the market in '92 when some parents complained. Same thing happened with Gonorrhea Barbie in '96.) Besides, Ken was hot. At least mine was. (Magic Razor Ken. He had stubble that could be removed with warm water and then would reappear with cold water. I never removed his stubble. I loved his stubble.) (True story: Magic Earring Ken got taken off the market in the 1980's because people complained he was too "gay," including the gays. Apparently lavender silk shirts and diamond earrings are stereotypical of that of the homosexual. I personally would have purchased Magic Earring Ken in a heartbeat. I could have had a lot of fun with that one...)

Remember Life-Size Barbie? All I have to ask is this: Why do you think they made a Life-Size Barbie but not a Life-Size Ken? Think about it. (Or I could just tell you. BECAUSE WE'D BE DOIN' IT WITH THEM! THREESOME, BABY!)

We must not forget in 1994, merely two days before Valentine's Day, Barbie and Ken called it quits. According to Russell Arons, vice-president of marketing at Mattel, Barbie and Ken would "remain friends." Well, according to Natasha Ferrier, former president of her junior class, "Barbie and Ken will remain friends. YEAH. Friends WITH BENEFITS." Do you really want your child playing with a doll who has problems with commitment? (Unless you count commitment to taking advantage of Cheerleader Barbie after a Friday night kegger.) Sure, you don't have to tell your kiddie that Ken has moved on to greener pastures (it's a phrase, NOT a sexual innuendo), but that doesn't mean they're going to have Ken and Barbie be together forever. That's BORING. That's LAME. Why do you think divorce rates have increased? Because as children, we were taught to play the field, and it's all because of Barbie. It's a disaster waiting to happen. Sure, you buy her Babysitter Barbie, but that only leads to Pregnant Barbie, which leads to Abortion Barbie, which leads to I Don't Give a F*ck I Just Wanna Get Laid Barbie. Why do you think boys are so much hornier than girls? Because us girls got that all out of our systems when we were playing with Barbie and Ken. (And listening to "Barbie Girl" by Aqua. What a classic.) Guys can't release their sexual impulses when playing Donkey Kong, can they? I don't think so. Unless giant apes turn you on. (Or if the word "Kong" makes you think of "thong" or "ding dong" or some other "ong" that could only take a perverse imagination to think of.) Until they make Abstinence Barbie, I would recommend not investing in one for your child. Buy her a Furby, instead.

The Bowl-Cut With A Boner

Some girls are Boy Magnets. They're the girls every boy had, has, or will have a crush on. The girls that every guy wants to show off to his buddies. The girls who own the asses every boy wants his hand on in front of his buddies. They not only have a boyfriend, they have a long line of Potentials for when they kick the boffy to the curb. They are beautiful. They are envied. They are...Boy Magnets. Then you have girls who are simply Hormone Magnets. You know the ones. They walk by a boy, and he whistles and says something profound like, "Junk in DAT Trunk!" or "Lemme introduce myself to those two friends you got there!" (Breast Reference. Yeah I didn't get it my first time, either.) They walk by another boy, and he looks her up and down and makes a sound like, "Mmm mmm mm-mm-mm," or simply, "Mmmmmmm." They walk by another boy, and he sprints to the bathroom to flog the log. They are Pamela's. They are J-Lo's. They are...Hormone Magnets. THEN you have the sad and pitiful category that for some odd and highly unexplainable reason I seem to fall into. Future-Pedophile Magnets.

"She's hot."

So he didn't direct this statement directly towards me, but I was in the middle of a conversation with him and ONE other guy when he suddenly turns to the guy and says:

"She's really hot."

I hope you can imagine how uncomfortable that is for a girl. Especially when he says it, then turns, looks at me, and then looks down at my chest. It doesn't get any more uncomfortable than that.

"I would masturbate to her picture."

I cannot even begin to describe the Uncomfortableness of that situation. I could have been shitting my pants, and it would not have made a difference. I could have been shitting in someone ELSE'S pants, and it would not have made a difference. That's how uncomfortable it was. Try to grasp this, PLEASE.

"She can give me her picture if she wants."

Note to guys who are interested in masturbating to a girl you are currently acquainted with: Ask for the girl's picture BEFORE you let her know what you're going to do with it.

"NO! NO. NO. NO. NOOOOOOOOOO."

I let the O's drag on as I walked away. If he can be that straightforward, SO CAN I. (Though I was a freshmen at the time, I still think that was the best way I could have handled it. Things like "maturity" and "manners" don't matter when a guy is on the verge of dropping his pants and touching himself in your presence. The Divinyls may get away with it, but not the bowl-cut with a boner.)

This is when the thought first crossed my mind that I may be a Future-Pedophile Magnet. I have to admit, I was in denial for quite some time. You see, you do not want to be a Future-Pedophile Magnet. (I know it sounds intriguing...) I cannot even tell you what kind of girls Future-Pedophile Magnets are, because so far I am the only one I know. We're a rare breed. All I know is the type of guys we attract.

"Sup Natasha."

"Heeeyyyyy Alfred..."

"So I woke up this morning and my hair was green. I was like, 'Ahh SHIT!' "

"I noticed your hair was green."

"Yeah I don't know how the hell it got like that! I just woke up and it was green."

"You just...woke up...and your hair was green?"

"Yeah man but it's AWESOME. Then my mom beat the hell outta me 'cause she hates the color green. She likes purple shit, you know?"

"Oh wow. I'm sorry your mom beat you."

"It's cool. I'm getting my nipples pierced today."

"Ahhh...nipple piercings...always an option!"

"So do you have a boyfriend?"

"Nope..."
I do this thing where I speak before I think. It's kind of a problem.

"Can I get your number?"

"Sure..."
Then I do this other thing where I give Future Pedophiles my number. It's kind of a bigger problem.

"Here you go."

"Thanks. Ill see ya later then. Natasha."

"Natasha! What were you doing talking to that guy?"

"He asked for my number and I gave it to him DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT I WAS PUT ON THE SPOT, OKAY?!"

"He tried to kill himself last year! He has serious mental problems, that's why he wasn't here the last 3 years."

I feel like should have a theme song. "Future Pedophile Magnet, na-na-na-NA! Perverts hitting on her in so many WAYS! She's gonna get molested one of these DAYS! Na-na-na-NA!" Or something like that. It's taken me 5 years to accept it (it actually started in 8th grade with my first two stalkers. yes, TWO. Na-na-na-NA!), but now that I have I can get to the bottom of what it is about me that seems to scream, "PERVERTS OF THE WORLD, CAST ME IN YOUR SEX DREAMS!" Is it the hair in need of a dye-job? The chipped toe-nail polish? The same black blazer I wear every single day of my life? I mean, what is it? Does it even matter? No. They will keep on comin' anyway. Because that's what Future-Pedophile Magnets do. We distract future-pedophiles, one (or two) at a time. "Future Pedophile Magnet, na-na-na-NA! Deviants on the verge of whipping it OUT! There's nothing she can do but cover her privates, run, and SHOUT! Na-na-na-NA! Future Pedophile Magnet."

Vampire Ass

I've been obsessed with vampires for as long as I can remember. I've always thought of it as "my thing." You know, like when people have "their things," like, "I have a troll collection," or, "Leprechauns get me off." Vampires ARE MY THING. So what I wanna know is why is EVERYONE ELSE suddenly obsessed with MY THING? I know exactly why. It's that book. THAT DAMN BOOK. That book has every girl and woman running around reading about vampires, talking about vampires, dressing like vampires. Guess what? I did that BEFORE THE BOOK, BITCHES.

Yeah okay, so I read it. WHEN IT CAME OUT. I didn't jump on the bandwagon, I was DRIVING that friggin' bandwagon. Then what? Two years later everyone is acting like it just came out?

"Natasha! You like to read, right?"

"Yeah!"

"I just read this REALLY good book."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. It's called Twilight, and it's about these things you may have heard of called vampires, and see what happens is---"

"I read that book a long time ago. And I know what a vampire is."

And I know what an OBNOXIOUS PAIN IN MY ASS is.

"Oh, so then OF COURSE you've read the second one, too."

I hate when this happens. What? I start a trend (okay so I know I didn't START it, but just go with me here), and that automatically means I have to KEEP UP with that trend? I've moved on, baby! To bigger and better things! To new things you'll be asking me if I've heard of 3 weeks from now! So BAM!

"Can you lend me it?"

I mean I can always resort back to old trends...

So. I have people asking ME if I've heard of, "Twilight." Yeah I've heard of it BITCH, I knew about it when you were still getting breast-fed. Yeah okay, so I went and read the second one because of all these Twilight Experts running around like rabies-victims saying, "OHMYGOD here's every little detail as well as every major turning point and twist in the third and the last books of the series!" So YEAH, OKAY, I'm now in the process of reading the third one.

"Is that the third one?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my god you're only on the THIRD one?"
Oh my god you only have a THIRD of a brain?

"Yeah."

"Oh my god wait until you get to the FOURTH one!"
Oh my god wait until I shove this book up your ASS.

"Yeah."

"Like, you'll be SHOCKED."

"Uh-huh."

"Like, I REALLY want to tell you right now what happens."
Like, I REALLY want you to know what it's like to have a 400 page book IN YOUR ASS.

"Don't."

"I mean I won't, but oh my god you'll be SHOCKED."

I have people asking me if I want "I LOVE VAMPIRES" temporary tattoos. I have one girl telling me she's going to get an "I LOVE VAMPIRES" permanent tattoo. ON HER ASS CHEEK. I personally don't want "Vampires" written on my ass. And if someone looks at my ass, I want them to be admiring it, not reading it. And think about it: the cheek of the ass curves, a word would not turn out right. It would fold in and...I JUST DON'T WANT A VAMPIRE ASS, OKAY? I just want to get this third book over with so I can then read the fourth one and THEN I can be cool like everyone else. THAT'S ALL THAT MATTERS IN LIFE. TO BE COOL.

So the movie comes out soon. That much I know. Will I go? Will I succumb to the riding of the bandwagon? Will I scream like a little girl when I see a hot vampire onscreen? Will I grow envious of the leading lady and picture myself making out with a vampire before I go to sleep? Will I daydream of making out with vampire after vampire in the midst of a Transylvanian castle surrounded by even more vampires? Guess what? I did that BEFORE THE BOOK, BITCHES.

I Was Strangled in P.E. Class

FACT: P.E. is still around.
FACT: P.E. is required for everyone except those in Marching Band.
FACT: I thought that by the time I was a senior P.E. would no longer be required.
FACT: I was wrong.

Our routine goes like this: Dressing out. TAKES 10 MINUTES. Roll call. TAKES 15 MINUTES. Explanation of the game. TAKES 15 MINUTES. Game. TAKES 5 MINUTES. Dressing back into our original clothing. TAKES 10 MINUTES. I get more of a work-out stepping in and out of my shorts than I do in "Mat Ball." (I'm not even going to bother explaining that one. There's a mat and a ball and really that's all you need to know to get the gist of the game.)

There is a difference between being able to talk about P.E. for days (which I could absolutely do) and being able to BE in P.E. for days (which is turning me into Jack Torrence). P.E. is one thing movies seem to get right. It's the most UNphysically demanding class, it's incredibly sexist, and it's a complete waste of my time. The worst part is, it's required for EVERYONE. (Except Marching Band. Apparently tuba players have a more intense work-out than football players. Didn't you know? Tubas get you jacked. That's why our tuba player weighs about 400 pounds, so of course he definitely does NOT need to be playing Crab Soccer. That's 400 pounds of MUSCLE, man. Crab Soccer is for stupid SOCCER players, man. THEY need an hour work-out before they have their TWO hour work-out AFTER school. MAN.) So since it's required for everyone BESIDES Mr. Tuba, I have to deal with many unique characters that honestly I could go without having to deal with.

"We havin' sex tonight, baby?"

"No."

"Shut up, BITCH."

He grabs my throat and squeezes it tightly. No, I'm not joking. I was strangled in P.E. class.

"HAVE. SEX. WITH. ME. AT. SEVEN."

At seven?

"Sorry baby, I'm just bipolar today."

"Don't make me kick your ass."

I probably wouldn't have said this to the boy who just strangled me had he not been a 4 foot tall freshmen.

"What was that BITCH?"

"Are you a freshmen?"

"Yeah baby, I'm a freshmen. Give me some love."

"What middle school are you from?"

"I came from an alternative school. But they kicked me out."

Alternative school. Bad... Getting kicked OUT of your alternative. school. Worse...

"That's...interesting..."

...and maybe I shouldn't have told him I was going to kick his ass...

"I love you, baby."

...and why do I attract criminals and perverts only...

"Don't you love me?"

...maybe I should do something about that...

"SAY YOU LOVE ME, BITCH."

"Maybe later."

"Okay, baby. I can wait for your lovin.'

So along with dealing with these unique strangers/criminals/munchkins, I have to succumb to the "girl version" in every game we play.

"OKAY LISTEN UP! WE'RE GONNA PLAY CATCH! BOYS, YOU ARE RUNNING AND CATCHING THE FOOTBALL IN MID-AIR! GIRLS, YOU ARE STANDING ONE AND A HALF FEET APART AND TOSSING THE NERF BALL TO ONE ANOTHER LIKE YOU WOULD TOSS AN EGG. GOT IT?!"

It really doesn't get any more humiliating than that.

"OKAY, NATASHA, TRY NOT TO DROP THE NERF BALL."

Annnnd...maybe it does.

At least I don't have to worry about getting hit in the crotch. I've seen more crotch-shots in P.E. than I have in my entire life. Guys seem to think it's funny to watch other guys fall to the floor in agony. I find it sad, and, once again, a waste of my time. I see it enough in Will Ferrell movies.

FACT: I look short and fat in my P.E. uniform.
FACT: Everyone looks short and fat in their P.E. uniform.
FACT: I thought that people would be too busy complaining about P.E. to notice that I haven't shaved my legs in weeks.
FACT: I was wrong.

Not As Cool As Fred Flintstone

My sister and I were not your average children. We didn't play Beanie Babies or Hide and Go Seek. We didn't watch Timmy the Tooth and we didn't want to be princesses when we grew up. (I personally wanted to be a chain-smoker who frequently went to Blockbuster and smoked in the aisles as I chose a new release.) We made up our own games.

"Give me a Scotch on the rocks, Bartender."

"Need a light, as well?"

"Yeah thanks."

"Anytime, mister. Wanna talk about it?"

"My wife left me."

"Pssh. Women."

"Give me another drink in one of those tiny glasses."

We didn't know the "tiny glasses" were shot glasses. And yet we somehow knew exactly what to do with them.

"Which ones?"

"You know, the ones Mommy keeps up there!"

"Oh yeah!"

"I'm drunk."

"Let me call you a taxi."

The game always ended when the customer got drunk. Which happened fastest for us when we had apple juice. (Apple juice always tasted gross. Still does.)

Then we would cast spells in the backyard to summon the fairies.

"Salt?"

"Check."

"Nutmeg?"

"Check."

"Mello Yello?"

"Check."

"String of hair?"

"Ouch. Check."

"Pair of Dad's underwear?"

"Check. AND mom's."

Spells always consisted of whatever we could find and get away with taking. Our neighbor once brought a taped VHS of '90210' to throw into the cauldron. (The cauldron actually WAS a cauldron. We had bizarre things in our garage...)

"JUMP JIVE AN' WAIL!"

When every other kid on the block had one of those electric mini-convertibles that drove like REAL cars (with the speed limit of a tricycle going UPhill), we had a janky mini-van that ran on our own two feet. (picture Fred Flintstone's car without the cool zebra print. The day you realize you're not as cool as Fred Flintstone is a sad, sad day.) So, being too embarrassed to "drive" the thing, we invented a game to play on TOP of the thing. Basically you danced and danced until someone got sick of watching you and yelled, "JUMP JIVE AN' WAIL!" in which you must immediately echo, "JUMP, JIVE, AN' WAIL!" and then leap off so they could climb up and dance like Snoopy. (The title of the game came from a CD my dad played of old jazz hits, like Danke Schoen and Nat King Cole's L.O.V.E. For some reason Jump Jive An' Wail seemed to be most appropriate for mini-van-dancing.)

"FINE. I'll just play with ROSE."

We only had imaginary friends when we got into fights. We used the concept to make each other jealous. Poor Rose. I didn't even play with her, I just said I was going to in hopes that my sister would immediately regret her decision to quit the game and bite me in the back. (that's not a phrase by the way, she really did BITE me. my parents would only react when she "broke the skin," which happened quite frequently)

"This is my boyfriend, Stud Man Lee."

Stud Man Lee was a pillow in a floral pillowcase. (It's called using your resources.)

"This is MY boyfriend, Charlie."

Charlie was a giant raggedy-ann doll. (It's called pretending your doll doesn't have cascading locks and rosy cheeks and what WOULD be a va-jay-jay and instead naming her Charlie and drawing a goatee on her face.)

"I'm sick of these games. Let's get into pillowcases and sled down the stairs."

Ahhh...screw dating and parties. There are times you just gotta sled down some stairs.

I Can't Get Enough of You, Newbie

We have a newbie in my first period. Hey, I'm not complaining; I'm all for the newbs. Can't get enough of them, really. I wish we always had them. Newb after newb after newb...but this one?

"You look like Hannah Montana."

I don't like this newb.

"I do not look like Hannah Montana."

"Yes you do."

"No I really don't."

"Yeah you do."

That was Day One. Annoyed, but not angry. Hannah Montana cracks, I can deal with. What I can't deal with is someone sticking a tack into my leg.

"Ouch!"

"You felt that?!"

"YEAH, I felt that! You stuck a tack in my THIGH."

"HaHA!"

"Not funny, man. Noootttt funnnyyyyy."

"Lemme do it again."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it hurts. AND because---OUCH!"

"Shut up that don't hurt!"

"YEAH it does!"

"Lemme do it on your arm."

"NO."

"It's not like you ain't used to it."

"What?"

"You cut yourself, don't ya?"

"NO!"

"Ahhh, really?"

"Yes, REALLY."

"I thought you was emo."

"What?"

"You always be wearin' long sleeves and shit. I thought you cut yourself."

He does the motions. And the sound effects.

"Eee! Eee! Eee! EMO."

"Nope. Sorry. I like my veins how they are."

"Your what?"

"My veins."

"What yo veins got to do with it?"

"Never mind."

Then there was the time he really needed a cigarette. BAD.

"You got a cigarette?"

"No."

"Give me a cigarette."

"I don't have one."

"You want me to stab you?"

"NO, I don't want you to STAB me."

"Then give me a cigarette."

"I don't smoke."

"That's it I'm jackin' your car."

"You're...jackin...my car."

"That's what I said, bitch!"

"It's already been jacked, sorry."

"Someone jacked your car?"

"Yeah."

Not really.

"HaHA! Dude that shit funny as hell!"

"I'm glad you're amused."

"I'm stickin' a pumpkin in your muffler after school. Just gonna stick that pumpkin right up in that black Volvo of yours."

It didn't matter that a pumpkin could never fit in a muffler, that was still the day I was officially creeped out. He knew what car I drove. I don't know how. But it was creepy. That was also the day someone told me he was from a correctional facility for juvenile delinquents. AWESOME.

"Hey hemorrhoid."

"Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah, haHA! I called you a hemorrhoid!"

"Yes, that IS what you called me."

"You know what a hemorrhoid is?"

"It's bad."

"Yeah, but you know what it is?

"I would rather not have this conversation."

I really just didn't know what it was.

"Hey, Teach! Tell her what a hemorrhoid is!"

God that's embarrassing. For me and for him.

"It's an inflammation of the butthole."

Thank you, teaaaaacher! Now let's talk about anal sex! In full detail! With pictures!

"HaHA! See, you a hemorrhoid!"

"You're right. I AM a hemorrhoid."

"HaHAAA you a dirty butt hole!"

He yells this as the rest of the class is taking a test. Now the whole class know I am a "dirty butt hole." Well then.

"Hey hemorrhoid, you got a boyfriend?"

You've GOT to be kidding me.

"Yes."

"Well FUCK YOU, THEN!"

Let's look on the bright side, shall we? I only have EIGHT WHOLE MONTHS with this guy until I never have to fear him and his tacks again. EIGHT. WHOLE. MONTHS. What a newb.

It's Not Over 'Til The Crackhead Streaks!

"Shhh..."

"Shhh?"

"Shhh..."

I was at my first party as a senior and the first person who came and talked to me was a shirtless stranger telling me to 'shhh.' I decided to just go along with it.

"Yeah, I KNOW. People don't realize this is a PARTY? We all need to shut up and stand here in silence. It's what party people DO."

He shakes his head.

"Shhh...crackhead."

So this could mean many things. 'Shhh' Boy is calling me a crackhead, telling me he's a crackhead, or has some form of turrets.

"Crack...head...?"

Sometimes it's best to just repeat weird things slowly and steadily while squinting your eyes.

"There's a crackhead here."

"There's a crackhead here?"

He nods his head.

"Running around."

"There's a crackhead running around here?"

He nods his head.

"Naked."

"There's a naked crackhead running around here?"

He nods his head.

"Shhh..."

And he slinks off into the shadows. I am NOT leaving this party until I see that. As my momma always told me, "It's not over 'til the crackhead streaks!"

"I'm sssssooooooo tiredddddd..."

At first I felt bad for the stranger who was oddly drenched from head to toe with hair down to her knees. I know what it's like to be tired. We all do. Until she decided to lie down. On my lap.

"Ummm..."

NO, I wasn't sitting in this chair. NO, I wasn't in the middle of a conversation with a cute boy who has now left because he probably thinks we're lovers. NO, your knee-length hair is NOT immune to water. It, too, is SOPPING WET. NO, my dress is not of a thinnish material and now that it is soaked as well it might possibly stick to every curve of my body making me feel self-conscious the rest of the night. NO, it is not awkward for me to ask you to get the hell off of me.

"Get the hell off of me."

I wish I said that.

"Ummm euhhhh blahhhh."

I think what I said was more like that.

"Euhhhh blahhhh..."

That was actually her that time, not me. I sit, soaking up every last dew from her mop of a head. I see someone I know. No, they aren't a good friend, or a friend, or even an acquaintance, I just know of them.

"HEY!"

I jump up, waving. (It was less of a 'jump' and more of a 'slow rising', like an old woman with back problems and a great deal of patience.) The girl awkwardly shrivels into a ball into the corner of the giant armchair, keeping her eyes closed the entire time. I decide she is really out of it and do not hold a grudge. I should not judge her. I should hand her a towel, but not judge. So she likes to swim? So she gets ridiculously tired? So she likes to take acid? To each his own.

"SOMEONE CALLED THE COPS!"

Now this is what separates the men from the boys. Okay, not really. This is just what separates the sober from the intoxicated.

"COOOOOPPPSSSS!"

A few people jump the fence, one group off to the side hurriedly finish what they were passing, THEN jump the fence, some people who I noticed were ALSO drenched from head to toe stay right where they are staring into space, and I and the couple people I went with walk to car. (Just because we were in ship-shape to drive doesn't mean we weren't aware of the idiots parked all around us who were NOT in ship-shape to drive, therefore we waited until THEY left, which took forever, and by that time someone had told us the cops had NOT actually been called and that it had just been a scheme to minimize the size of the party. Good things come to those who wait. And apparently, good things come to those who trip. Because they too got to stay at the party. How interesting.)

Some people then began to jam out. I wanted to join in but all I play is the tambourine, which some people don't find "cool." The PARTRIDGE FAMILY found it cool! ESMERELDA found it cool! Bass guitar my ass, tambourines are where it's at.

At midnight everyone pulled a Cinderella, (though Cinderella doesn't roll doobies), and booked it out of there. Everything must come to an end, even parties. (Though it had come to a false end earlier, leaving us wondering if the party really WAS ending...but it was.) We took one last glance around for the naked crackhead, and left with our heads hanging low. (From disappointment. It's not everyday you get the chance to see a naked crackhead. Or even a naked person, for that matter.) (OR a crackhead. I wasn't going to keep on going with that, but I didn't want you to infer that I see observe crackheads on a regular basis.)

"OH MY GOD, LOOK!"

Naked crackhead.