"Time for pie?!?"

Oh the holidays...how I loathe thee. Family functions always freak me out. Between dodging my great grandmother's insistant "why don't you have a boyfriend?" questions and vaguely answering the "what are you going to do when you graduate in six months?" question, there is little time for me to loaf about as a generally like to do. And staying with my retired grandparents severely limits my ability to be a "wild child"; ie. no drinking or sex. Balls.

Despite the many drawbacks to coming home for the holidays, I do get to hang out with the ever fabulous Liz. As an unemployed Chicago resident, Liz is always able to make me feel better about my own life. The only work she's done in the last four months is at shitty temp agencies. At least she's not a bartender at Applebees--the tragic fate that has apparently befallen another high school acquaintence. Besides, if she had a real job, I wouldn't get to steal quality lines like "I was a prostitute for Quill Office Supplies". Crack with your turkey is nice and all, but nothing says marketing quite like pussy with ink jet refills and ballpoint pens.

As a grand ol' fuck you to the boy who said I was completely uninterested in love, I have a crush on a boy...and it's not him. That'll teach him to tell a chick with PMS what she is and is not interested in. I know I suck at being spiteful.

And now, a quote from the Three Huskateers favorite show.

"I'm not an Indian! My love of gambling and drinking and my knack for catching syphillis is just a coincidence!"

Happy Thanksgiving.

Atlantic City: Always turned on

Time for the standard post-weekend update (just for you, Zander). In an effort to get out of my current funk and spend a little quality time with my fellow seniors, I braved the nasty Jersey smell and headed for the east coast, white trash version of Vegas. Only the best for me. My weekend wardrobe consisted of cleavage revealing shirts, my "slut" pants and a red feather boa.

Friday night we arrived late, checked into our foul room at the HoJo. Our hotel was chosen for it's low price, but more importantly for it's nearness to the boardwalk. The fact that directly across the street was a "Cash for Gold" store and that hookers congregated on the corner at 2 a.m. was just a bonus. After checking in, we headed to the Tropicana to begin losing our money. At the Firewater Bar there, we waited 15 minutes to get served by a bartender not pretty enough to be a stripper but not ugly enough to realize it. Drinks were overpriced and water-downed. Then we discovered the glory of Pennies from Heaven. Even though I didn't win a cent, it's very easy to entertain yourself for several hours on $2.50 at penny slots. Plus as long as you sit at a machine, you get free drinks. At some point after 3 a.m. we wondered back to our hotel room. For whatever reason, I decided to sleep on the floor in the closet. Not my proudest moment. Still it was worth it to hear the cleaning lady scream, thinking I was a dead hooker when she keyed in the next morning at 11:45.

Saturday we ventured onto the boardwalk. We spent nearly 4 hours making our way from the Tropicana to the Taj Mahal, but whatever...we acquired cool shit along the way. We stopped for psychic readings that were eerily correct. We then moved on to an arcade and spent quite a bit of time playing skee ball. After amassing about 700 prize tickets, we finally decided to get temporary tattoos. Then it was on to Ceasar's Palace, to pose in front of statues and otherwise interrupt serious gamblers. Along the way, I continuously felt the need to pose with my hand on the crotch's of statues. Maybe if you're extra nice I'll post the picture of me molesting Ben Franklin. After heading back outside, we were interviewed by the London Telegraph. Be sure to pick up a copy to see yours truly. Finally we made it to the Taj, which is fabuously on the outside, but pretty much the same as all other casinos on the inside. At about 6:30, our blood-alcohol level became critically low and we returned to the HoJo to apply our temporary tatoos and drink 40's out of paper bags. There are quite a few pictures of me with my pants unbuttoned on the balcony with Blackberry Jack in hand, displaying my poorly place body art. All classy like.

Then came the search for a strip club. Despite Em stopping at the Visitor's Center to ask where we could see strippers, we were pretty much at a loss. The only male strip club in town had a $20 cover. I am morally opposed to paying to see dick, since I see so much of it for free. Besides, male strippers just make me want hot dogs...or cocktail wienies if it's amature night. Eventually we settled on The Playground. Public transportation in Atlantic City is shitty. The bus is called the "Jitney", holds about 10 people and costs $1.50 for a 4 block ride. At the Playground, I got a free and rather good lap dance. I also swore that if I hit the jackpot, I would come back for a spin in the champagne room. Em kept sticking dollar bills in the girls g-strings, even though I told her that's what the garters are for. Whatever, if you knew Em, you'd think it was hilarious. God I love strippers.

Upon leaving the Playground, I was propositioned by a nasty old man. Lola said he wanted to come home with me, not to fuck me, but rather because he just needed a place to stay. I lost a bit more money at the Tropicana, and returned to the HoJo and the closet floor. Sunday morning came all to early. We were all slightly hung over, tired, and dreading coming home.

Good times were had by all, especially me, which is the most important thing.

One of these things is not like the others

For most girls, their PMS ritual revolves around chocolate and crying. True to form, I differ from most girls. Every month, I use the 5 days in which I am completely useless to reassess and evaluate. Generally this involves a lot of self-doubt, uncertainty, and regret. Thankfully, that time has passed.

The trouble with this period of self-reflection is that I inevitably start wishing I were different. I start to think about how nice it would be to have a boyfriend...one boyfriend. Eventually I remember the many reasons why I am not one of those girls. For one, I have to many facets to be satisfied by one boy. Monogamy is for suckers. If you can have your cake and eat it too, why would you turn that down? Girls who get all wrapped up in love, all wrapped up in one boy are so dull and annoying. I'm not saying that I never want love; don't get me wrong. Just not now, and not from a weakling.

If I'm going to be a Sex and the City character, I would be a careful mix of Miranda and Samantha--not Carrie and Charolette.

I want to preface this post by saying that I am extremely drunk and will probably delete this when I regain consciousness in two or three days.

I haven't had sex in over three weeks. I haven't gone through a self-imposed dry spell like this since I was in a relationship.

Brought to you by the ever-so drunk letter L.

PS. Since I'm drunk, I will reveal two more secrets. 1. Someone is pull on my hair at this moment and it's totally pissing me off. 2. I have feelings for someone and I'm pretty damn sure that person plans to use me for sex. Such is life, I suppose. Someone is always hurting you in ways you had never thought of before.

PSS. Posts have been completely depressing, lacking in hilarious sexual stories, and emboding a certain Sex and the City quality. This must end as soon as possible. Probably once the weekend offically arrives.

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

A boy said to me the other day, "You're the most interesting girl I've ever met. Unlike every other girl I know, you are completely uninterested in love." I sighed, knowing that his judgement was not entirely wrong yet a bit exaggerated. However, I started thinking: if I ever want more than just sex, am I going to look like a wolf squeezing into a sheep's costume? Maybe we can't change who we are...or worse, maybe we can't change who we made ourselves become.

Brought to you by the letter L and some serious pondering.

The grass is always greener in someone else's lawn.

When I was home, I wanted my "to do" list from D.C. Now that I've been back, I want my "to do" list from home. It's not that there is anything wrong with either group, but I'm just bored. The boys from D.C. all fall into one of three categories. They are either poor little emo boys with little ambition to do anything but whine about how no one loves them or political whores who are too boring and too busy with the election these days or computer geeks. Generally, I prefer the little emo boys, but eventually, they all want me to be what I simply am not: less shallow with my sexual relationships.

Sometimes I seriously consider cancelling all the appointments, clearing the waiting list and starting fresh. The problem is there is no such thing as a blank slate and new meat goes sour in a little under two weeks. Then I'd be right back where I am now and that's not very productive.

Maybe I just need a new vibrator.