There were no skinny bitches this time.
There was, however, a very cute bartender named Buzz wearing red velvet pants. Yeah’ I’m pretty sure he was swishy, but Carissa isn’t buying any of it. Because so many heterosexual masculine men voluntarily go out wearing red velvet pants in July. Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking.
Blind Russians and Harry the Hipsters‘ that is my kryptonite.
At one point, I declared that I needed a chili cheese burrito from Taco Bell and knew that it had to be so otherwise the universe would collapse upon itself. Seriously. That’s how important the chili cheese burrito became. Because it is essentially the most important food known to the heavens. It’s chili. It’s cheese. It’s wrapped in a ready to go bread type thing. Whatever it’s called. It’s flat. You know what I mean. Tortilla. That’s what it’s called. A tortilla.
Kahlua plus vodka plus Bailey’s Irish Cream plus retro music equals Weetabix stoned out of her gourd. Damned bar. That’s an evil bar. IT’s all the bar’s fault. Damned bar.
Carissa was des-driver again. She’s a martyr. St. Teresa of the codependent alcoholic set. My Quilt Chica Mary commented, ‘Boy, you don’t drink much but when you do’ watch out.’ I replied that it’s in my genes. It is. My ancestors would be proud.
Corn dogs are not as good as I thought they were.
There seem to be no horses at the fair. Just lots of gargantuan cows. They were frightening. We also saw a wild pig ruckus. It was crazy. Oink oink oink. They really do oink like that. It’s not just like on the See And Say you had as a kid. That’s really what they sound like when they’re pissed off. Don’t piss of the pigs. You’ll get some angry bacon. That’s all I’m saying.
I saw my cousins at the Journey concert. They are bonsaii children. I think my aunt is pinching them to keep them small.
My chin itches.
Blind Russians=bad.
Neil Schon has an orgasm face during almost every guitar riff. It’s quite disturbing. You almost want to go up and slap him and say ‘Oh would you just cut it out already? Christ. Get over yourself.’
But no one did.
At one point, I was dancing exactly like James Brown, only no one seemed to care. At one point, I can almost swear that I was the coolest person in the bar, but no one seemed to notice.
Something about the Kahlua, it seems to bring out the internal sex goddess in me. I’m all hip hip swervy wiggleness and very provocative. It’s amazing really. I was so damned sexy that I almost wanted myself. Damn.
You know what the best song in the world is? I don’t either, but it goes ‘Rocka rocka rocka rocka’ and something about a Tootsie Roll. And need I mention that I was the coolest sexiest person in the bar dancing to that song? No. I don’t. You already know it. Damn right.
Journey’. It’s a good thing. Except for that ‘Wheel in the Sky’ song, because I really hate that one. But the rest’ it’s all good. And the Lovely Carissa is one of my best friends ever.
I cannot sing for shit when I’ve been drinking. Just wanted to declare that to God and everyone. Not like I didn’t already when we were driving down Broadway and I was singing ‘Any Way You Want It’ and trying to accomplish harmonies that I can’t figure out WITH accompaniment anyway, let alone without any music whatsoever and completely from memory. Luckily, Carissa still thinks I’m cool anyway.
Room spinning. Going to bed now. But know this’ if the skinny bitches had been there’ their asses would have been grass. That’s all I’m saying.
I’m going to hell.
I hope they serve Kahlua there.
