I went to the Ye Olde Pub on Thursday night to celebrate my friend’s vice-presidential coup. I was disturbed to learn that a few of my compatriots and future colleagues are reading my blog on a regular basis. I’ve been saying it a lot lately, but damn you, mai tais.

I would try to tell a story, and they’d say, “Yeah, yeah, we know all about your vulva.” My sentences were being finished for me. Before the following picture was taken, I said, “Hey, make sure you get my rack in the picture.” They said, “Yeah, yeah, we know, you and your giant rack.”

Dammit! I don’t think I need to go to pub night anymore, because they all ready know my boring story.

Bless you.

“On the 44”

I like you much more
when you stop breathing on me
pop your zit at home.

“Graduate School is Destroying My Soul”

Read five more papers
Wish to get plowed by a train
PBR, dear friend.

“Vagina!”

Staring at the mouse
wondering, would it fit there?
Methinks it’s bedtime.

“I’m pretending it’s Friday night, except without beer,” I told my companion last night.

“Why can’t there be beer?” said my companion. Crap.

We met my companion’s friend at Cyberdogs in the Convention Center, which serves only veggie wieners. This is okay with me; I like a Not Dog as much as the next fucker, but the problem was the fellow behind the counter didn’t know what a Chicago dog was. What up, Not-Dog Slinger? He offered to make one for me, but they didn’t have any “sport peppers.” I think that guy was full of lies.

I ordered a nakey one instead, so I could dress it myself. When I got it, I realized it looked like a dick, for realla. I know, I know, there’s the whole hot-dogs-are-phallic thing, but this thing was all nubbly and queer-looking. All it was missing was realistic soy veining. I would like to know what brand of soy dog this was, so I can never buy one again. For the record: I like dicks fine when they are attached to their owners, but not dick-like food.

Afterwards the three of us headed down to this terrifying hotel bar downtown called Bernard�s. It was close and smoky, making me want a cigarette, but I realized I’d probably do pretty well if I just licked the filmy wall or one of the many grimy businessmen who were huddled down in the basement with us. The doors were heavy wood, and there was this ridiculous medieval-themed mural on the back wall, barely visible through the layers of nicotine. It was a beer-and-whisky bar, but I decided to take my chances and order a lemondrop, just to see what came back. Our friend ordered a whisky sour. The waitress couldn’t find the sugar or the sweet-and-sour to make either and was timid and apologetic, offering us one free beer for our trouble.

Later there were more drinks in better environs. There were good lemondrops and a sidecar, which is my current favorite. My companion went to the bathroom at the swanky place and his friend leaned in close to me.

“Your companion is getting pretty drunk,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. The first time we got drunk together, he had just one beer and tried to feed me a cheese sandwich he found in his bag.

“You better get him home soon. He gets pretty Cro-Magnon after too many. He’s all, ‘I need…and I want…ugh, ugh.”

“I know,” I said.

After my companion’s friend broke off and went home, I used my phone to fish El Mendez out of her pajamas and apartment to Charlie’s for waitresses with complicated, asymmetrical haircuts and cheeseburgers, which did not look like dicks at all.

And this morning I woke up as a redhead. And I am wearing yesterday’s pants and my underpants seem to have gone AWOL. Shiot, biotches.

I didn’t even realize it was Marti Gras until I saw some idiots with beads, a couple of hours after we left the house. A good time was had by all.

In Other, Fan-Fucking-Tastic News

My pick to take over my student office won the election today and is now the new Vice-President. She had the Giant Scrabble Bag enough to name me as her endorser in her candidate’s statement, which I did. I gently advised against that, since I am known, but not necessarily loved around school. I give her snaps and props for doing it anyway, because it seems to have garnered her many votes from students in my cohort.

And now I give myself snaps and props for being the best Karl Rove of my generation. But she will take over and do fine on her own…no puppet dictator here.

Too much frivolous on YM.

Me: OMG, what does that mean?
Halo: I don’t know for a fact that she was dressed up for him.
Me: Is it dirty?
Halo: Maybe it’s SEX DAY.
Me: He is probably holding onto hope, anyhow.
Halo: Now, just close your eyes and picture them getting it on.
Me: Ugh, all I can see are back zits.
Halo: So nice.
Me: And nasty sweat, not good sweat. I am seeing him with his toob socks left on.
Me: Pastiness.
Halo: no
Me: You started it!
Halo: Awkwardness.
Me: Strange chest hair patterns.
Halo: I wonder if he’s big.
Me: He cannot possibly be.
Halo: I just creeped myself out.
Me: Way to go.
Halo: How about Retro Boy?
Me: Anyone who wears a gold chain like that is a total cock rocker, dude.
Halo: cannot stop laughing

Update! 2:28 AM Now that I have finished snarfing all of the potstickers in the house, I have one question: would it kill me to use a contraction every once and a while? Can I unclench a little, at least while I am instant messaging someone? Answer: Apparently not.

Tomorrow: Contractions, and not the uterine kind.

It was a good weekend…there was a pretty good mix of work and play. Until Saturday night I was downright balanced and responsible and crap. On Friday night I went with a friend to Hell’s Kitchen in Tacoma to see Hell’s Belles, the all-girl AC/DC cover band. I have never seen such a weird mix of freakpigs in my life. There were the slumming Seattle hipsters (guilty) and then there were people who had mullets and feathered hair and leather fringed coats and they were on the for realla. I think.

I have never been to a show like that. The lead singer of Hell’s Belles is such a red hot dynamic sex machine that anyone who was coupled was frantically trying to climb down each other’s throats. I saw hook-ups with people who did not know each other at the beginning of the night. I saw pseudo-lesbianism that had the sole purpose of turning on the girlies’ boyfriends. “Gratuitous!” I yelled into my friend’s ear. I think the only thing that kept the whole thing from turning into an orgy was all the broken beer bottles on the floor.

My good friend Scratchy and I went to Lake Forest Park Saturday morning to do some community assessment for a class. It was a good excuse to eat pastries and hang out with lots of high-income white people. We took lots of pictures that were hilarious, to us, anyway. I am embarrassed to say that I am whoa psyched about throwing some of the appropriate ones up on a PowerPoint. I know PowerPoint is the devil, but I love it anyhow.

And then I got stupid last night. I drank most of a pitcher of PBR, and then decided that the bus was taking too long to come, so I went off and drank some mai tais. The last place I went with my companion I ran into some perps I go to school with and tried to hold an intelligent conversation, which I may or may not have succeeded at. Then I went home and threw up. I would date myself in a second, if I could.

My companion and I woke up at six and had a disjointed conversation about life, the universe, etc, and I realized I go on the wig on Sunday mornings, because I sometimes don’t see my Frannie for three days on the weekend. I fell back to sleep and dreamt that I got back together with Frannie’s dad because we were both fed up of not seeing her for days at a time. I woke up and felt very queer, like it all made perfect sense and had happened. But there I was in my apartment, all not depressed or manic and not waking up at four am and trying to repress all those bad habits that I had shook years ago. All those things are better, but no Frannie.

I feel like I’m on the other side of something and I can hardly remember how hard October was. You can “what if” yourself to death about things, but you will never really know if you’ve dealt yourself a crap hand or not.