Saturday, March 17, 2012

I'm Not Dead, but it Was Touch and Go There For a While

*insert generic apology about not posting here*

Now that we're over that, let's talk about the time I legitimately thought I was driving into the den of a killer. 

Let me open with a fact about me: I am careful about everyone's safety in social settings; I am usually the DD and I rant like an old woman about how motorcycles are death traps, so why I agreed to do what I did is beyond me. Anyway, what happened was:

I was invited to hang out at the house of a guy I know. I had never been there before and I, frankly, didn't know him that well. I said sure because my life is sad and I didn't want to spend another night watching the same episodes of The League and trying not to look around and notice how gross my room is right meow. He lives out in Melrose, about 30 miles from where I'm at. I didn't get off work until 11. While at work, I loved this plan and I was 100% sure I was not going to be killed (keep track of that percentage, it'll change as we go on)

I went home, took a shower, googled how to get there, and set out upon my adventure. The drive out there was pleasant for the first part where I was seeing lots of deer on the sides of the road; I was overly excited, especially considering my thoughts went something like "AWW DEER! I bet gramps would like to shoot them." Then, I noticed there were no other cars on the road and I was in the middle of fucking nowhere; percentage of certainty that I'm not going to be murdered: 80%

So, I drive along like a happy (and only marginally nervous) little bumble bee until I see the Kangaroo gas station where I thought I was meeting said guy so I could follow him back into BFE to his home. I inform him I have arrived and go inside to get some coffee. The dude behind the counter looked like that inbred monstrosity from Harold and Kumar; I heard banjos. Percentage of certainty that I'm not going to be murdered: 75%

I am informed that I went to the wrong gas station (probably because that one was well lit and there were witnesses). So I continued another 5 miles or so up to the "right" gas station...which was in boarded up. There's a single car sitting in the parking lot. Percentage of certainty that I'm not going to be murdered: 50%

We proceed down the road, me following behind. Now might be a good time to mention that there were no streetlights, like, at all. So we make a left off the hard road. This is a legit dirt road and I'm now humming along with the happiest shit I have on my phone to keep the panic at bay. Percentage of certainty that I'm not going to be murdered: 20%

As I scoot along the road is crazy bumpy (I drive a Honda Civic (hey! a palindrome!) and just in case you know less about cars than me (impossible!) those aren't made for off-roading. So, I'm bouncing along and it feels like I'm on this dirt road forever and the deeper I get into this wooded bullshit the closer the trees get and the narrower the road gets. I'm hyperventilating and trying to get right with the universe. Percentage of certainty that I'm not going to be murdered: Fuck that, I am going to die.

Here's the twist ending: I'm not dead! And he's not a murderer(probably)! I know yous guys were worried, but feel free to celebrate because I did make it out alive and have since been there in the daytime and it is not far off the road; in fact (if there were fucking street lights) you can see the main road from the dirt road in places. So, yeah, I thought I was a goner, but I'm also a dumb bitch sometimes.

I need to tell y'all about Crazy Bananas Mike ASAP. Bitch has lost his shit. 

Friday, March 2, 2012

And That's How I Wound Up Hulk Angry at Busch Gardens

Hey y'all! I apologize once again for being MIA a lot and also for my last two posts being boring (also, in advance, sorry for this one being boring). I want to tell you all about how Old Mike lost his shit last night (preview at bottom! :D), but I'm gonna wait and see how that one pans out so I can tell you the whole story. 


I went to Busch Gardens last week! It was fun. I went with people I don't really know. It was a guy I'd gone on a few dates with and his family...for someone with anxiety I sure agree to some anxiety-inducing shit. The part that got me all ragey and ranty actually had to do with me being a shameless eavesdropper.

I was walking to the park gates and got stuck behind this behemoth of a family; mom, dad, little boy...all fat (not the point but I want you to get the mental picture). They're walking with junior in between them and they're lightly pushing him back and forth (this is obviously NOT the part that upset me) and he's pushing back at them. They were heckling him by saying "hey Sally, is that all you got" and "oh Sally, you better call Lightning to come help you, Sally" (weird misogynistic Cars reference).

Seriously?? If you're a parent and you ever call your son a girl like it's a derogatory thing, you fucking suck. There's no defense of that; you just actually should have your kid taken away. It was disconcerting to see the same archaic ideas that we've been fighting against for years being drilled into the head of the next generation. That kid is obviously being inundated with how lucky he is to have been born a boy, because being a girl is the worst thing you can be. If you're going to heckle your kid about being weak, just call him weak; if he can't throw a ball, call him a... fucking shitty ball thrower (or something that rolls of the tongue better I guess). There's no reason we should still be able to hear things like "You throw like a girl" or "Why you crying, Sally?" coming from parents. 

I'm having such a tough time being funny or even interesting lately! I don't know where my groove went, but I'm desperately looking for it. If you see it, call me. 

**Preview of insanity: he told me that "telling someone you love them and then sleeping with someone else is the definition of a whore" and I'm not talking to him, but if I was I would inform him that: a whore is "a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, for money; prostitute; harlot; strumpet." I certainly haven't been paid; I date poor guys.**

In the mean time, Killa informed me that beavers make noise (I did not know this) when asked what they sound like, she said "a whining toddler"...she was right. Enjoy