Don't Know What I Want, But I Know How to Get It

Here is a cartooned-up photo of me. I didn't draw it myself or anything. Instead, I used my little Kodak program on my computer, just to prove how punk rock/hardcore/extreme I'm not. It kind of looks like I'm eating the magnetic fuzz stuff from that Wooly Willy toy.

I know I'm old and a mom and shit, but on Friday I crossed so many different party genres, I could put you all to shame. Yes, even you, you seventeen year old blogger girl who breezed on here just to leave a snotty comment about how funny it was when old people drank. You couldn't have kept up with me for even a second.

To begin with, the way I kicked my flu's ass on Friday morning, was totally punk rock. It was just as if I had worn safety pin earrings and three inches of black eyeliner all the way around my eyes and stomped the shit out of it with my biggest, most bad-assest, combat boots. By noon, it was pretty much gone.

Then I got super hardcore, because I was broke until the first and couldn't afford to buy my migraine prescription until Thursday, but then got the flu and couldn't safely leave my house. I had me one violent headache by three o'clock. The hardcore part was all of the out of control shit I had to do while entertaining my migraine. You know, like how I drove Stinky and four of her closest male friends home from Rock and Skate, with their overwhelming combination of stale sweat and dirty hair smells. I also had to listen to them talk, which made me sad and then want to laugh and then get kind of angry all within about two minutes.

Once we spent almost an hour driving all the smelly boys home, I found out that Stinky had fallen hard on the ice and we worried away another hour debating whether or not her hand was broken and we should go to the ER, or not. Around 1:30, we drove to the hospital and honestly, there is nothing at all more hardcore than going to the ER at bar close on a Friday night. My migraine withstood, flourescent lights, the sound of someone continually and violently retching, and the eye tearing alcohol fumes of the whiny, surly, drunken college kid sitting next to us who had been punched in the nose. Hard. Core.

At four a.m. when we finally got to leave the ER, (Stinky's arm wasn't broken, just really swollen) I changed my partying status from hardcore, to X-treme. The winds had kicked up and made the already ridiculously low temperatures feel like thirty below zero. Both Stinky and I had to hold onto each other so we wouldn't get knocked down on our way to the car. Yeah, I know dude - wicked X-treme.

So, to all you kids who think you're so much more intense than me because you're young and you can stay up for several days straight with the help of a bottle of tequila and a few lines of coke, step back. You couldn't hang with me for more than an hour or two. I had to do all of my partying completely sober. Suck on that!