It was truly an intense 36 hours between Saturday morning and Sunday evening! So much happened within that timespan, it seems surreal. Where do I start...
Well, I guess I could start with the idiots who live on the floor above my girlfriend's apartment. I finished packing my bags, had two glasses of red wine (Cabernet, of course), and went to sleep with no issues, around 12:30ish AM.
Fast forward to about 3:30ish AM.
Suddenly, music begins blaring. This is soon accompanied by hooting and hollering, which was actually loud enough to drown out the already obnoxiously loud music. There must have been 20-30 people up there; and all of them were 'talking' as loud as they could. Even though it had to have taken a good deal of effort to 'talk' over the music, it apparently made more sense to do that, rather than doing something like....Oh, I dunno...turning the goddamn music down.
Or maybe I'm the idiot with the crazy logic. I guess depending on who you ask, that might be the case, I dunno.
There were consistent bangs coming from the ceiling, which sounded like footsteps stomping on the floor. If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought there were a team of Irish Riverdancers dancing a jig up there.
Then there was the wonderfully deep, sawing sound of the glass door consistently opening and closing, over and over again, every few seconds.
Awesome.
I am Jack's horrible nightmare.
Meanwhile, my girlfriend and I were gnashing our teeth over the fact that this was going on, not just because of the annoyance, but because we had to wake up at 7 AM to catch an early flight to Atlanta then another to Memphis. This fact lingered in my mind the entire time like the slow drip of Chinese water torture on my brain, which of course only added to my stress and fury.
At one point, I got up from the bed since I couldn't sleep anyway, and walked out the glass door to the balcony; which faces East, overlooking the downtown Ft. Lauderdale area about a mile from the beach. It's a nice enough view, but who the fuck wants to see it at 4AM when you have to get up in three hours. I was basically hoping to get a break from the idiocy that was taking place above; but of course, no luck.
As I sat back in the chair, all I could hear were the incoherent, frat-boy type of moronic ramblings you'd hear at a stereotypical keg party on a college campus somewhere. This was an Animal House style party, apparently--except nowhere near as cool, or funny.
The conversations, if you can call them that, were your typical, "Dude, I'm so wasted" type of drivel that bores the shit out of you and makes you feel like your head is going to explode if you don't get far, far away from that person a.s.a.p.
Judging by the sound of things, I'd say everyone probably had done enough cocaine to kill an adult rhinoceros. Exasperated, I went back inside after just a few minutes of listening to that nonsense. I'd heard all I could tolerate without wanting to go break into some Army/Navy store, stealing a bunch of WMDs, then coming back and lofting a few assorted grenades and MOABs into someone's lap.
As I walked back in from the balcony, I blurted out, "Fucking assholes!" hoping they would hear me. I don't think they did, unfortunately. I laid back down and we waited, trying to give them the benefit of the doubt, hoping they would settle down after about an hour, but no luck. I think it was around 5:00ish AM when my girlfriend called the apartment complex's security desk. She answered some of their questions, and the phone call ended soon after it began.
Now that security was involved, I was gleefully awaiting peace and quiet for some much needed sleep.
I waited. Then I waited some more. And then a little bit more. About 45 minutes later, the zoo upstairs finally seemed to be quieting down. A few minutes later, it was quiet enough to deal with, and I tried to go back to sleep.
But...
Twenty minutes after that, it's a full godamn party again.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
It's a good thing I do not own a gun.
At that point, we gave up and just put pillows over our heads in the futile attempt to drown out the assholes above. I think it was around 6:30ish AM when Satan's army finally quieted down. All I remember at that point is that I crashed hard into a deep sleep for about an hour, when the alarm went off.
Oh, the misery of it all. I somehow managed to drag myself out of bed feeling much like John Belushi, or anyone else, really, who has been dead for twenty years. I walked into the kitchen to get a bottle of water, then sat down to compose myself. The silence was absolutely blissful. For a moment, I sat there with my eyes closed and took it all in, enjoying the quiet sound of nothingness.
A few seconds later, my eyes suddenly popped wide open. My exhausted, yet diabolical mind was brewing up a plan, seeking retribution. I casually surveyed the room, and my eyes caught the sight of the TV remote. At this exact moment, the left side of my mouth smirked liked a cat who just ate the canary. I turned the TV on and surfed the channels for the most annoying sound I could find.
Something that had no lulls or moments of quiet; something continual that would annoy the shit out of anyone in their 20s or early 30s who happen to be feeling the consequences of overindulging in booze and coke all night. I couldn't find anything on TV that was annoying enough, so I looked under the TV console and saw a few CDs. And then I saw it.
My girlfriend's Toby Keith CD.
I must've looked like Dinah, the cat from Alice in Wonderland due to the big, smiling grin that suddenly appeared on my face. Low-quality country music to a bunch of twenty-something, hung over cocaine fiends can't be good. Especially at 7:30 AM.
"Oh yeah!" I thought, giggling like a little schoolgirl.
I would not be satisfied until there was some kind of justice. I felt like I had to at least make an attempt at giving them a taste of their own medicine, just on principle. So while my girlfriend was in the shower, I put the CD in the DVD player and blasted Toby Keith as loud as her TV could go without blowing the speakers. In between the lyrics, I screamed things like: "How do you like that, you cocksuckers!" and "Payback's a bitch motherfuckers!" at the top of my lungs.
I don't know if they were conscious enough to hear me or the music, but it made me feel better regardless. After enjoying myself thoroughly for a few minutes of that, I turned everything off, finished getting ready, then drove us to the airport. I was completely out of it, mentally speaking. I had very little sleep, no breakfast, and was still incredibly thirsty. Being hungry, tired, and dehydrated, I could barely function or think at all, as a matter of fact. We were both operating on very little brain power.
Case in point: We thought we parked close to the Delta Airlines terminal; but as we walked out to the terminals, it turns out we were on the opposite end. Awesome.
So, in the oppressively hot and humid Florida weather, we schlepped our asses and luggage, walking for about 15-20 minutes to reach our terminal. I am completely shocked that neither of us got very lippy and there wasn't even much of attitude going on either. Thank goodness for that. The circumstances were bad enough without adding bad attitudes to it.
We actually made it through the security fairly quickly and arrived a few minutes prior to boarding, without any drama. Finally, we caught a break! Or so I thought.
We were flying from Ft. Lauderdale to Antlanta, then Atlanta to Memphis, then driving from Memphis to Tunica, Mississippi.
Yeah.
In case you're not counting, I was literally in 4 States within a span of 4 hours--and I'm not even a famous rock star, or anything close. Good times. But that's not even the worst of it. While putting my bags on the plane to Atlanta, I realized, much to my horror, that in the rush to get to the airport I forgot the suit I was going to wear to the wedding! I could feel my face get red and my ears suddenly felt about 10 degrees hotter. My blood pressure went through the roof as I sat down and put my hands over my face.
The wedding was the entire reason for taking this trip to begin with. What the hell is wrong with me! In that moment, my entire vocabulary was reduced to just one word. The only thing I could think or say was:
"Fuck."
"Fuck!"
Yet, I somehow kept my cool; and by the way I was feeling, I would certainly call this feat a minor miracle. I took a deep breath and thought, "Stay calm, there's a solution to every problem." I sat down and informed my girlfriend on what happened. She could see I was visibly on the brink of spontaneously combusting.
She actually did a great job keeping me calm and offered to surf the web on her phone to look for a tuxedo/suit rental place near the airport. I have to give her brownie points for both keeping me calm and taking the initiative to make suggestions on dealing with the problem. All of this crap notwithstanding, we got through the flight feeling fine--crabby flight attendants and all.
Once we finally landed in Memphis, we took a shuttle to the Avis rent-a-car station. I somehow got a free car rental with my booking, so I guess that's one good thing. Now that we had transportation, we used the GPS on my iPhone to find a place that rents, measures, and tailors suits for use on the same day (that was fun). After trying on the suit and paying for it, we then drove the rest of the way from Memphis, Tennessee to Tunica, Mississippi.
The drive from Memphis to Tunica is the only thing that went relatively smooth. In fact, it was made so much smoother by the GPS. I highly recommend using one to everyone who's planning on taking any road trips. It truly saves you from so much aggravation. The GPS said it would take about 45 minutes to get there. I drove it in 25 minutes.
Feeling completely exhausted, we finally arrived about an hour-and-a-half before the wedding. Just enough time to take a nap and get our heads together for what would turn out to be a hell of an evening!
(...to be continued)
Showing posts with label adventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adventures. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Morons in Manhattan IV
(Continued from Morons in Manhattan III)
With it’s storied history, architecture (though much of it is disappearing), and inimitable culture, New York City truly seems to have a life of its own.
Walking the streets of Manhattan is, more often than not, an interesting and unique adventure—it always is for me anyway. I should clarify that when I write ‘walking the streets,’ I don’t mean the touristy, packed-like-sardines parts of the city.
Take Times Square for example. If you've ever been there, you know what I'm talking about. I can't stand being there for very long, especially during peak hours.
Fortunately for me, I’ve been to NYC enough times to know my way around almost as well as the locals do. Walking the side-streets or lesser-known areas which usually have relatively fewer people is truly a much better way to experience the city, rather than following the well-known paths that ultimately lead to over-crowded tourist spots.
Much like a blank canvas to a painter, Manhattan can be the perfect backdrop for you to create and discover a uniquely colorful, eventful, and sometimes unpredictable set of experiences—even if it’s only for a few days of your life every year.
For me, it could take a year (maybe even two) of living in Suburbia to cumulatively experience the kind of excitement and fun that I would experience after just one weekend in NYC.
I mean that literally; and honestly, it's not for lack of trying.
But as I’ve said before, the most important variable that makes New York City unique are its people, make no mistake about it. I'd be hard-pressed to name a more diverse city in the U.S. It's one of the many things that fascinates me about the city.
Much to my dismay, I don't reside there. Because of this, I always have a strong desire to suck the marrow out of the few days I’m there every year; which is why I usually pack each day full of activities.
The day we had breakfast at the café on 23rd Street was no exception.
In fact, the day’s itinerary was so jam-packed with things to do and places to see, I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to do everything I had wanted to do.
The itinerary I put together was very ambitious, but I definitely felt it was do-able.
This was the first time TD and his girlfriend had ever been to New York City, so I wanted them to experience as much of Manhattan as possible in the three days we were there.
Our first destination after leaving the café on 23rd and Broadway was the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It was a bit of a hike from 23rd Street, but we decided to walk as far as we could toward the museum to really take in and absorb the city on the way there.
As I mentioned, walking around NYC is one of my favorite things to do when I’m there. There's no better way to discover how great the city is than by walking around.
So I took us west on foot from 23rd Street, passing the Flatiron Building and continuing until we reached 8th Ave. Once we reached the corner, we took a right, going north into Chelsea.
From what I've read, Chelsea was once solidly Irish and housed a good deal of the workers who loaded/unloaded various warehouse peirs and truck terminals in the 1900s.
These days, I often hear Chelsea lightheartedly coined as a Gayborhood, due to its large gay population. The demographic or stereotype that I've often heard to describe the neighborhood has been that it's well populated with gym-toned gay men, affectionately referred to as 'Chelsea boys.'
Apparently, it's also become an alternative shopping destination, and the West Chelsea Arts District is home to over 370 art galleries and innumerable artist studios, making it a veritable hub for Modern Contemporary Art.
Anytime I’m the Chelsea area, I always think of the lyrics that Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows penned for a song named…you guessed it, ‘Chelsea.’
In fact, on our walk through Chelsea I began singing the lyrics to that song out loud in my best A.D. impersonation, which was, in retrospect, a bad idea.
“Never go to New York City these days…somethin’ about the buildings in Chelsea just kills me.”
Before I could continued, TD immediately rolled is eyes and began either mocking the song, or me (perhaps both), singing his own version of my butchered version.
“If he keeps singing this song now, someone please just kill me…”
Everyone within earshot were probably nodding in agreement with TD, thanking him for intervening in what was surely a horribly bad rendition of the song.
After a few death-glares from the people walking by me, I relented and spared my Chelsean audience from further torture.
With it’s storied history, architecture (though much of it is disappearing), and inimitable culture, New York City truly seems to have a life of its own.
Walking the streets of Manhattan is, more often than not, an interesting and unique adventure—it always is for me anyway. I should clarify that when I write ‘walking the streets,’ I don’t mean the touristy, packed-like-sardines parts of the city.
Take Times Square for example. If you've ever been there, you know what I'm talking about. I can't stand being there for very long, especially during peak hours.
Fortunately for me, I’ve been to NYC enough times to know my way around almost as well as the locals do. Walking the side-streets or lesser-known areas which usually have relatively fewer people is truly a much better way to experience the city, rather than following the well-known paths that ultimately lead to over-crowded tourist spots.
Much like a blank canvas to a painter, Manhattan can be the perfect backdrop for you to create and discover a uniquely colorful, eventful, and sometimes unpredictable set of experiences—even if it’s only for a few days of your life every year.
For me, it could take a year (maybe even two) of living in Suburbia to cumulatively experience the kind of excitement and fun that I would experience after just one weekend in NYC.
I mean that literally; and honestly, it's not for lack of trying.
But as I’ve said before, the most important variable that makes New York City unique are its people, make no mistake about it. I'd be hard-pressed to name a more diverse city in the U.S. It's one of the many things that fascinates me about the city.
Much to my dismay, I don't reside there. Because of this, I always have a strong desire to suck the marrow out of the few days I’m there every year; which is why I usually pack each day full of activities.
The day we had breakfast at the café on 23rd Street was no exception.
In fact, the day’s itinerary was so jam-packed with things to do and places to see, I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to do everything I had wanted to do.
The itinerary I put together was very ambitious, but I definitely felt it was do-able.
This was the first time TD and his girlfriend had ever been to New York City, so I wanted them to experience as much of Manhattan as possible in the three days we were there.
Our first destination after leaving the café on 23rd and Broadway was the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It was a bit of a hike from 23rd Street, but we decided to walk as far as we could toward the museum to really take in and absorb the city on the way there.
As I mentioned, walking around NYC is one of my favorite things to do when I’m there. There's no better way to discover how great the city is than by walking around.
So I took us west on foot from 23rd Street, passing the Flatiron Building and continuing until we reached 8th Ave. Once we reached the corner, we took a right, going north into Chelsea.
From what I've read, Chelsea was once solidly Irish and housed a good deal of the workers who loaded/unloaded various warehouse peirs and truck terminals in the 1900s.
These days, I often hear Chelsea lightheartedly coined as a Gayborhood, due to its large gay population. The demographic or stereotype that I've often heard to describe the neighborhood has been that it's well populated with gym-toned gay men, affectionately referred to as 'Chelsea boys.'
Apparently, it's also become an alternative shopping destination, and the West Chelsea Arts District is home to over 370 art galleries and innumerable artist studios, making it a veritable hub for Modern Contemporary Art.
Anytime I’m the Chelsea area, I always think of the lyrics that Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows penned for a song named…you guessed it, ‘Chelsea.’
In fact, on our walk through Chelsea I began singing the lyrics to that song out loud in my best A.D. impersonation, which was, in retrospect, a bad idea.
“Never go to New York City these days…somethin’ about the buildings in Chelsea just kills me.”
Before I could continued, TD immediately rolled is eyes and began either mocking the song, or me (perhaps both), singing his own version of my butchered version.
“If he keeps singing this song now, someone please just kill me…”
Everyone within earshot were probably nodding in agreement with TD, thanking him for intervening in what was surely a horribly bad rendition of the song.
After a few death-glares from the people walking by me, I relented and spared my Chelsean audience from further torture.
About ten blocks later, I started feeling thirsty.
I noticed there was a Duane Reade store up ahead, so I told TD and company I was stopping to get a drink, and they decided to wait outside while I went in.
Predictably, there wasn't anything exciting going on inside, except perhaps for the interesting sight of a girl wearing super-short, beige daisy duke shorts with big, brown girly-boots up to her knees.
After muttering, "Hmm, there's something I don't see every day," I walked to the counter with some snacks and a beverage whose contents I'd already chugged half-way by the time I reached the cashier. I fumbled through my pockets before finding some cash to pay the cashier, then headed for the door.
As I walked out with my plastic bag, The Diva asked, “What did you get?”
I was feeling playful, and responded in my imitation of gay character Anthony Marentino from the HBO Series, Sex and the City:
“Well, apparently there’s not an anal beads section at Duane Reade. So I settled for some pencils and soap.”
TD smiled and joined in with his own feminine lisp, “Oh stop it you filthy pervert, we can’t use those here anyway…”
“Oh yes I can, sailorboy! You just try and stop me!”
“You’re such a gyspy savage,” he retorted.
“Oh stop it, you sonofabitch!”
As we laughed in amusement at the fact that: (a) we're basically idiots, and (b) we would be great as gay men if only we could fix that whole being-into-chicks thing, the Diva listens to our light-hearted, lisp-heavy voice impersonations and looks on with a curious expression—as if she’d just discovered someone had pissed in her ice cube tray after having finished a cube-filled drink and crunching on a pee-cube unwittingly.
"Wow, you guys do that really well! Are you guys sure you’re not gay?” TD’s girlfriend asked, with one eyebrow raised.
TD and I let out hearty belly-laughs and I replied, “No, but since I think we fit into that metrosexual category, I guess that makes us sort of gay, in a non-gay way.”
“Dude, being metro is totally like being gay-light, or something like that…we’re totally gay!”
She paused, and a puzzled look came over her face.
“What’s a metro…” she began to ask.
I was about to roll my eyes at what I thought was another 'playing dumb' moment, when she stopped, smiled, and said, “Ha-ha, I’m just kidding!”
"Nice! You almost got me!" I said.
We all agreed that TD and I may not be hot enough to be allowed to be gay, got a good laugh out of it, and continued with the self-effacing jokes as we walked.
Yes, moments like this confirm our moronic dickishness, I know.
Anyway, much to my surprise, we made it about twenty blocks before Little Ms. Sunshine decided she needed to use the bathroom.
Again.
This time, however, I had a full bladder myself, and was glad to stop at a bathroom somewhere.
We looked around and there weren’t any places we could stop to use the bathroom where we were, but I did notice what appeared to be an upscale restaurant about half a block ahead.
I must hold my bladder quite a bit when I’m in town, because I've noticed I always seem to hold it until the last second when I visit, and by the time I decide to relieve myself, I’m pretty much at Pee Defcon 5.
So I devised a plan to have TD distract the hostess with questions, while I snuck in behind him to use their bathroom.
It was like taking candy from a baby.
I successfully made it past the maître d' and into the bathroom area with no one noticing.
As I opened the men’s room door, a pleasantly crisp, clean smell rushed to my nose.
It was a huge, very clean, lavish, marble-tiled bathroom.
I was so impressed, I stopped to look around and check things out. As a result, I almost forgot to unzip my pants and nearly pissed myself. But, I quickly snapped out of my stupor and huried to the urinal, barely getting the old boosh-canoosh out in time to do my business.
“Ahhhh!” I sighed, in relief.
Then I looked down towards my feet and noticed it. The coolest thing I’ve ever seen in a public bathroom.
“Oh man, sweet! This place rocks!” I said, out loud.
What’s the reason this restaurant rocks, you ask?
Splashguard on the urinal. That’s right.
And it was a marble splashguard at that.
Pretty snazzy I’d say.
I know I keep saying this, but sometimes it’s the simple things in life that impresses me the most.
I mean, how often do you see that, right?
Um, never.
At least not in the States, anyway.
I realize it’s probably strange to get so excited about a restaurant urinal, but I must say, this was a nice urinal. I'm talking the Holy Grail of Urinals my friends.
I noticed there was a Duane Reade store up ahead, so I told TD and company I was stopping to get a drink, and they decided to wait outside while I went in.
Predictably, there wasn't anything exciting going on inside, except perhaps for the interesting sight of a girl wearing super-short, beige daisy duke shorts with big, brown girly-boots up to her knees.
After muttering, "Hmm, there's something I don't see every day," I walked to the counter with some snacks and a beverage whose contents I'd already chugged half-way by the time I reached the cashier. I fumbled through my pockets before finding some cash to pay the cashier, then headed for the door.
As I walked out with my plastic bag, The Diva asked, “What did you get?”
I was feeling playful, and responded in my imitation of gay character Anthony Marentino from the HBO Series, Sex and the City:
“Well, apparently there’s not an anal beads section at Duane Reade. So I settled for some pencils and soap.”
TD smiled and joined in with his own feminine lisp, “Oh stop it you filthy pervert, we can’t use those here anyway…”
“Oh yes I can, sailorboy! You just try and stop me!”
“You’re such a gyspy savage,” he retorted.
“Oh stop it, you sonofabitch!”
"Wow, you guys do that really well! Are you guys sure you’re not gay?” TD’s girlfriend asked, with one eyebrow raised.
TD and I let out hearty belly-laughs and I replied, “No, but since I think we fit into that metrosexual category, I guess that makes us sort of gay, in a non-gay way.”
“Dude, being metro is totally like being gay-light, or something like that…we’re totally gay!”
She paused, and a puzzled look came over her face.
“What’s a metro…” she began to ask.
I was about to roll my eyes at what I thought was another 'playing dumb' moment, when she stopped, smiled, and said, “Ha-ha, I’m just kidding!”
"Nice! You almost got me!" I said.
We all agreed that TD and I may not be hot enough to be allowed to be gay, got a good laugh out of it, and continued with the self-effacing jokes as we walked.
Anyway, much to my surprise, we made it about twenty blocks before Little Ms. Sunshine decided she needed to use the bathroom.
Again.
This time, however, I had a full bladder myself, and was glad to stop at a bathroom somewhere.
We looked around and there weren’t any places we could stop to use the bathroom where we were, but I did notice what appeared to be an upscale restaurant about half a block ahead.
I must hold my bladder quite a bit when I’m in town, because I've noticed I always seem to hold it until the last second when I visit, and by the time I decide to relieve myself, I’m pretty much at Pee Defcon 5.
So I devised a plan to have TD distract the hostess with questions, while I snuck in behind him to use their bathroom.
It was like taking candy from a baby.
I successfully made it past the maître d' and into the bathroom area with no one noticing.
It was a huge, very clean, lavish, marble-tiled bathroom.
I was so impressed, I stopped to look around and check things out. As a result, I almost forgot to unzip my pants and nearly pissed myself. But, I quickly snapped out of my stupor and huried to the urinal, barely getting the old boosh-canoosh out in time to do my business.
“Ahhhh!” I sighed, in relief.
Then I looked down towards my feet and noticed it. The coolest thing I’ve ever seen in a public bathroom.
“Oh man, sweet! This place rocks!” I said, out loud.
What’s the reason this restaurant rocks, you ask?
Splashguard on the urinal. That’s right.
And it was a marble splashguard at that.
Pretty snazzy I’d say.
I know I keep saying this, but sometimes it’s the simple things in life that impresses me the most.
I mean, how often do you see that, right?
Um, never.
At least not in the States, anyway.
Anyway, about half-way through doing my business, I hear a guy walk in.
He walked over to the urinal at the opposite end of mine, and was rambling on about some nonsense, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it because he was talking like he had a sock stuffed in his mouth.
I thought he sounded a bit strange, so looked to my right and realized that he was simultaneously urinating, eating, and talking on his cell-phone.
At first, I cringed at how disgusting I thought this was, but then I shrugged it off and just figured he was just in a major hurry or something.
I finished my business, testing the slashguard's effectiveness, and I'm happy to report that it performed admirably. No Splashes.
Afterwards, as I was walking out, I thought about it and realized the difficulty of this feat, then thought to myself, “that man’s a genius!”
I immediately told TD about the guy in the bathroom, and his reaction was the same as mine.
“Dude, that’s pretty gross.”
“But you’re right, it is kind of impressive. I mean I’m imagining that now, and it would actually be pretty tough.”
“Ew, that’s disgusting!” said Ms. Wonderful, her face wincing in a way which indicated that the thought of this type of multi-tasking offended her delicate sensibilities.
Shaking her head in disapproval, she said, “You guys are actually impressed by this? That's not impressive, that's gross!”
TD replied, “Yeah, I mean it is pretty gross, I guess. But still...”
“I know you don’t have a penis, but stop to think about it. That's hard!”
“Ew! No thanks! I don’t even want to talk about it, much less think about it!”
Clearly, she was not impressed by his rationale.
I thought he sounded a bit strange, so looked to my right and realized that he was simultaneously urinating, eating, and talking on his cell-phone.
At first, I cringed at how disgusting I thought this was, but then I shrugged it off and just figured he was just in a major hurry or something.
I finished my business, testing the slashguard's effectiveness, and I'm happy to report that it performed admirably. No Splashes.
Afterwards, as I was walking out, I thought about it and realized the difficulty of this feat, then thought to myself, “that man’s a genius!”
I immediately told TD about the guy in the bathroom, and his reaction was the same as mine.
“Dude, that’s pretty gross.”
“But you’re right, it is kind of impressive. I mean I’m imagining that now, and it would actually be pretty tough.”
“Ew, that’s disgusting!” said Ms. Wonderful, her face wincing in a way which indicated that the thought of this type of multi-tasking offended her delicate sensibilities.
Shaking her head in disapproval, she said, “You guys are actually impressed by this? That's not impressive, that's gross!”
TD replied, “Yeah, I mean it is pretty gross, I guess. But still...”
“I know you don’t have a penis, but stop to think about it. That's hard!”
“Ew! No thanks! I don’t even want to talk about it, much less think about it!”
Clearly, she was not impressed by his rationale.
Can't say I blamed her.
I cut in and added, "You're right, I guess that is pretty nasty no matter how difficult it is; but the splashguard...the splashguard thing is pretty cool, you have to admit."
Both of them replied, in unison, "True, true..."
After the bathroom multi-tasker and splashguard conversations lost their novelty, we continued our journey, walking a few blocks more then turning on 40th Street, going toward 5th Avenue.
By the time we reached Bryant Park, we realized that we were starting to get behind on time.
So, to keep on schedule with the itinerary, we hailed a cab up to The Plaza Hotel, and walked the rest of the way from there.
When we arrived at the fountain in front of The Plaza, The Diva noticed someone dressed as the Statue of Liberty and wanted to take a picture with them, so we humored her and took the damn pictures, before continuing along the East side of Central Park for about 20 blocks until we finally reached The Met.
When you don’t live and walk in NYC all the time, you forget that 20 blocks is a bit of a hike if you’re not used to walking that much!
We sat for a few moments to have hot dog, the staple of any self-respecting New Yorker's street diet. TD grabbed my camera and took a photo of me and The Diva while we sat outside the museum.
When I looked at the picture he took, I noticed that an Asian girl to my right was 'what-the-fuck-ing' me with her face as TD took the picture.
Check it out, it's kind of amusing.
Anyway, after a few minutes we got our lazy asses up and started walking toward the museum.
As we approached the steps, we noticed a slew of rickshaw/pedicabs (those bicycle-carriage guys) to our right, lined up outside the museum on 5th Avenue, ready for action.
We laughed and dismissed them, all in agreement that using them wasn't really worth what they were overcharging—and besides “that’s too touristy,” we decided.
Famous last words.
I cut in and added, "You're right, I guess that is pretty nasty no matter how difficult it is; but the splashguard...the splashguard thing is pretty cool, you have to admit."
Both of them replied, in unison, "True, true..."
After the bathroom multi-tasker and splashguard conversations lost their novelty, we continued our journey, walking a few blocks more then turning on 40th Street, going toward 5th Avenue.
By the time we reached Bryant Park, we realized that we were starting to get behind on time.
When we arrived at the fountain in front of The Plaza, The Diva noticed someone dressed as the Statue of Liberty and wanted to take a picture with them, so we humored her and took the damn pictures, before continuing along the East side of Central Park for about 20 blocks until we finally reached The Met.
We sat for a few moments to have hot dog, the staple of any self-respecting New Yorker's street diet. TD grabbed my camera and took a photo of me and The Diva while we sat outside the museum.
When I looked at the picture he took, I noticed that an Asian girl to my right was 'what-the-fuck-ing' me with her face as TD took the picture.
Anyway, after a few minutes we got our lazy asses up and started walking toward the museum.
As we approached the steps, we noticed a slew of rickshaw/pedicabs (those bicycle-carriage guys) to our right, lined up outside the museum on 5th Avenue, ready for action.
After walking 30+ blocks, then walking around the museum for 2+ hours, my friends and I were feeling quite worn out.
By the time we decided that we'd seen enough of The Met, my feet were feeling sore, and I could tell everyone was feeling cranky, to say the least.
As we walked out of the museum, feeling both tired and hungry, we looked at the bicycle-carriage guys again and had an entirely different opinion of them.
We all gave in and did the tourist thing without much resistance, agreeing that we needed to get to our next destination as fast as we could, without having to walk there.
That destination being The Boathouse Restaurant in Central Park. With this in mind, picked the pedicab with the most sitting space, and off we went. The poor guy had to schlep all 3 of us.
As we walked out of the museum, feeling both tired and hungry, we looked at the bicycle-carriage guys again and had an entirely different opinion of them.
We all gave in and did the tourist thing without much resistance, agreeing that we needed to get to our next destination as fast as we could, without having to walk there.
That destination being The Boathouse Restaurant in Central Park. With this in mind, picked the pedicab with the most sitting space, and off we went. The poor guy had to schlep all 3 of us.
But, I must say, the ride was definitely worth it considering how old our fatigued and hungry thirty-something year-old bodies were feeling (The Diva being fourty-something, of course; just wanted to point that out simply because it brings me joy).
Plus, it was something we'd never done before, so while we were on the back of the bike, we rationalized it as a 'new experience,' instead of viewing it as a sell-out of our agreed upon anti-tourist principles.
Looking back, I guess it did contradict our agreement to not do tourist things, but what can you do. Sometimes, you have to contradict yourself.
As native New Yorker, Walt Whitman would've said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large...I contain multitudes."
Considering the fact that I'm basically a walking contradiction, I use that quote a good deal of the time to explain the things I do; and I'm fine with that. I'm kind of proud of it actually.
Especially when it means I can be lazy and take the easy way out.
There, I said it. Whatever!
All things considered, I would take the pedicab again. We did have a ton of things still left to do, so we would need to pace ourselves and conserve as much energy as we could save.
Afterall, The Boathouse Restaurant awaited our palates, but the last game ever played at Yankee Stadium that night was the climax of the day's itinerary!
Plus, it was something we'd never done before, so while we were on the back of the bike, we rationalized it as a 'new experience,' instead of viewing it as a sell-out of our agreed upon anti-tourist principles.
Looking back, I guess it did contradict our agreement to not do tourist things, but what can you do. Sometimes, you have to contradict yourself.
As native New Yorker, Walt Whitman would've said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large...I contain multitudes."
Considering the fact that I'm basically a walking contradiction, I use that quote a good deal of the time to explain the things I do; and I'm fine with that. I'm kind of proud of it actually.
Especially when it means I can be lazy and take the easy way out.
There, I said it. Whatever!
All things considered, I would take the pedicab again. We did have a ton of things still left to do, so we would need to pace ourselves and conserve as much energy as we could save.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Morons in Manhattan III
The twenty minutes that Ms. Wonderful spent in the bathroom were the most blissful twenty minutes I’ve experienced in a long time; but all good things must eventually come to an end—and that’s exactly what happened to my all-too-brief, drama free respite from Ms. Diva’s annoying yapper.
But alas, return she did, despite my wishing that she would either spontaneously combust in the bathroom, or somehow be magically teleported back to Puerto Rico, and out of our lives forever.
Unfortunately for me, my powers of wishful thinking go only so far.
I sensed her presence and I looked up from my plate to see the wondrous sight of Ms. Wonderful as she approached the table, staring at me with her disapproving, beady eyes and asshole-puckered lips—frowning as if I’d just forced her to take a bite out of a huge shit sandwich.
I rolled my eyes and looked away in sheer disappointment at the very unfortunate fact that she even exists, then I took a moment to prepare myself for as much brown-nosing as I can possibly bear without vomiting.
I instinctively lowered my eyes into the palms of my hands, rubbing them lightly, as if doing so would make her disappear from my sight.
No Luck.
She was still there as I looked up. I immediately slumped in my chair, thinking to myself, “Aw Christ, here we go.”
Trying to kiss her ass was about as easy and painless for me as trying to pass a marble-sized kidney stone after being dehydrated from drinking no liquids for two days.
In fact, I think I would’ve rather tried to successfully suck a baseball through one of those skinny little black cocktail straws you get in your drinks at Happy Hour.
I tried in vain for a few moments to think of a way to apologize without actually apologizing, so we could get through the day's itinerary in relative peace.
But alas, return she did, despite my wishing that she would either spontaneously combust in the bathroom, or somehow be magically teleported back to Puerto Rico, and out of our lives forever.
Unfortunately for me, my powers of wishful thinking go only so far.
I sensed her presence and I looked up from my plate to see the wondrous sight of Ms. Wonderful as she approached the table, staring at me with her disapproving, beady eyes and asshole-puckered lips—frowning as if I’d just forced her to take a bite out of a huge shit sandwich.
I rolled my eyes and looked away in sheer disappointment at the very unfortunate fact that she even exists, then I took a moment to prepare myself for as much brown-nosing as I can possibly bear without vomiting.
I instinctively lowered my eyes into the palms of my hands, rubbing them lightly, as if doing so would make her disappear from my sight.
No Luck.
She was still there as I looked up. I immediately slumped in my chair, thinking to myself, “Aw Christ, here we go.”
Trying to kiss her ass was about as easy and painless for me as trying to pass a marble-sized kidney stone after being dehydrated from drinking no liquids for two days.
In fact, I think I would’ve rather tried to successfully suck a baseball through one of those skinny little black cocktail straws you get in your drinks at Happy Hour.
I tried in vain for a few moments to think of a way to apologize without actually apologizing, so we could get through the day's itinerary in relative peace.
But after a few moments of that futile exercise, I just thought to myself, "Aw, screw it.”
“Why would I apologize?”
“For what?” I thought.
“For being direct and honest? I don’t think so.”
You see, the problem with me is, I have a Holden Caulfield-like dismay for anything phony; so not only am I very bad at pretending that I’m sorry when I’m not, I also can’t even stomach an attempt at coughing up some phony response just to play nicey-nice.
I’ll save that for puppies and children, thanks.
Maybe I’m just an ass; but at least I’m an authentic ass. And that, to me, is as sacred as any Holy Relic or scripture is to [insert pious, religious pilgrim of any faith here].
“Why would I apologize?”
“For what?” I thought.
“For being direct and honest? I don’t think so.”
You see, the problem with me is, I have a Holden Caulfield-like dismay for anything phony; so not only am I very bad at pretending that I’m sorry when I’m not, I also can’t even stomach an attempt at coughing up some phony response just to play nicey-nice.
I’ll save that for puppies and children, thanks.
Maybe I’m just an ass; but at least I’m an authentic ass. And that, to me, is as sacred as any Holy Relic or scripture is to [insert pious, religious pilgrim of any faith here].
You simply can’t buy or put a price on authenticity, my friends.
So, all of this considered, I decided to just say whatever I needed to say, and let the chips fall where they may.
“Listen, I really need to be as straight-forward as possible with you here. I’m not good at sugar-coating things, so I need you to turn down your girly sensitivities for a minute. This way I can say what I need to say without pissing you off—again.”
I cringed for a moment, thinking the ‘girly sensitivities’ comment would set her off, but thankfully it didn’t.
Her non-verbal cues and facial expressions, however, tightened up like someone who was anticipating a punch in the face, or like someone who knows they’re about to hear bad news.
“Um…ok” she said, reticently.
“So here’s the deal…”
“You and I clearly don’t get along and don’t have much in common” I said.
She nods in agreement.
“I don’t trust you, I think you’re way too pretentious, you have no sense of humor, you’re too judgmental, you act like a spoiled brat, and you take way too goddamn long to go to the bathroom.”
She sits back in her chair, a bit shocked at what I had said.
“I know that’s some brutal honesty for ya, but I’m just telling it like I see it.”
Before she has a chance to respond, I continue:
“That said, you’re here and that’s the reality of the situation. We’re all here for a few days, so I just need you to know that I’m a sarcastic person, and if I sense someone is being fake or disingenuous, I’m gonna call them out on it.”
“Capiche?”
Immediately after I said it, I regretted saying ‘capiche,’ since I thought the word would fly over her head and I’d have to explain what it meant.
But that’s not the word that threw her off.
“What do you mean disingenuous?” She asked.
“Note to self,” I thought...
“Don’t use anything above a fourth grade vocabulary around her.”
In as patient a demeanor as I could muster, I replied, “That means when I think your full of shit, I’m gonna point it out, and I’m most likely gonna be sarcastic about it.”
“When was I full of shit?” she asked.
“Um, you’re full of shit when you use your Puerto Rican heritage as an excuse for the fact that you’re simply not as cultured as you’d like us to think you are” I said.
“I mean, give me a break—my parents are from Hispanic countries too, but they know what a goddamn Yuppie is! Just say you don’t know, but don’t blame it on being Puerto Rican, because that’s bullshit.”
She smirks and looks down like a little kid who’s been busted lying.
“I guess” she says, reluctantly.
“Whatever, you know it’s true.”
“Remember the time TD and I were talking and he threw out that Moby Dick reference?”
“Yes.”
“Well, do you also remember that when we told you it was from Moby Dick, you asked, ‘What’s Moby Dick?’”
“Yeeeaah, and?” she replied.
“Great. She's yes-ing me to death now” I thought.
“So if you remember all of that, then how do you not remember that after we told you that Moby Dick is a book, you said, ‘Oh, well I’m from Puerto Rico, we don’t read books like Moby Dick there.’”
Smirking again, she says, “Oh yeah, I did say that. It’s true though…I think.”
“Ok. Welp, I hate to burst your bubble, but literature isn’t exclusive to people in the U.S.” I said.
“Believe it or not, people all over the world read literature, including those in Puerto Rico—which is, by the way, considered U.S. territory.”
“Well, I just never heard of it” she replied.
“So, just say you’ve never heard of it then” I retorted.
“When you blame your ignorance on being from Puerto Rico, you basically insult the intelligence of all people from Puerto Rico” I said.
“Not only does it piss me off when you say that, but you sound like a complete idiot.”
“Alright, fine” she replied.
“If I stop saying that, will you stop picking on me?”
During all this, TD motioned to the waiter for the check, and it arrived just before we finished the conversation.
“I haven’t been picking on you any more than I would anyone else…”
I paused for a moment, then replied, “Ok, well maybe I have.”
“All I ask is that you stop trying to be a bullshit artist.”
“I think I can deal with your pain-in-the-ass-ness for a few days if you can cut down on the bullshit” I said.
“Ok, I’ll try.”
So, all of this considered, I decided to just say whatever I needed to say, and let the chips fall where they may.
“Listen, I really need to be as straight-forward as possible with you here. I’m not good at sugar-coating things, so I need you to turn down your girly sensitivities for a minute. This way I can say what I need to say without pissing you off—again.”
I cringed for a moment, thinking the ‘girly sensitivities’ comment would set her off, but thankfully it didn’t.
Her non-verbal cues and facial expressions, however, tightened up like someone who was anticipating a punch in the face, or like someone who knows they’re about to hear bad news.
“Um…ok” she said, reticently.
“So here’s the deal…”
“You and I clearly don’t get along and don’t have much in common” I said.
She nods in agreement.
“I don’t trust you, I think you’re way too pretentious, you have no sense of humor, you’re too judgmental, you act like a spoiled brat, and you take way too goddamn long to go to the bathroom.”
She sits back in her chair, a bit shocked at what I had said.
“I know that’s some brutal honesty for ya, but I’m just telling it like I see it.”
Before she has a chance to respond, I continue:
“That said, you’re here and that’s the reality of the situation. We’re all here for a few days, so I just need you to know that I’m a sarcastic person, and if I sense someone is being fake or disingenuous, I’m gonna call them out on it.”
“Capiche?”
Immediately after I said it, I regretted saying ‘capiche,’ since I thought the word would fly over her head and I’d have to explain what it meant.
But that’s not the word that threw her off.
“What do you mean disingenuous?” She asked.
“Note to self,” I thought...
“Don’t use anything above a fourth grade vocabulary around her.”
In as patient a demeanor as I could muster, I replied, “That means when I think your full of shit, I’m gonna point it out, and I’m most likely gonna be sarcastic about it.”
“When was I full of shit?” she asked.
“Um, you’re full of shit when you use your Puerto Rican heritage as an excuse for the fact that you’re simply not as cultured as you’d like us to think you are” I said.
“I mean, give me a break—my parents are from Hispanic countries too, but they know what a goddamn Yuppie is! Just say you don’t know, but don’t blame it on being Puerto Rican, because that’s bullshit.”
She smirks and looks down like a little kid who’s been busted lying.
“I guess” she says, reluctantly.
“Whatever, you know it’s true.”
“Remember the time TD and I were talking and he threw out that Moby Dick reference?”
“Yes.”
“Well, do you also remember that when we told you it was from Moby Dick, you asked, ‘What’s Moby Dick?’”
“Yeeeaah, and?” she replied.
“Great. She's yes-ing me to death now” I thought.
“So if you remember all of that, then how do you not remember that after we told you that Moby Dick is a book, you said, ‘Oh, well I’m from Puerto Rico, we don’t read books like Moby Dick there.’”
Smirking again, she says, “Oh yeah, I did say that. It’s true though…I think.”
“Ok. Welp, I hate to burst your bubble, but literature isn’t exclusive to people in the U.S.” I said.
“Believe it or not, people all over the world read literature, including those in Puerto Rico—which is, by the way, considered U.S. territory.”
“Well, I just never heard of it” she replied.
“So, just say you’ve never heard of it then” I retorted.
“When you blame your ignorance on being from Puerto Rico, you basically insult the intelligence of all people from Puerto Rico” I said.
“Not only does it piss me off when you say that, but you sound like a complete idiot.”
“Alright, fine” she replied.
“If I stop saying that, will you stop picking on me?”
During all this, TD motioned to the waiter for the check, and it arrived just before we finished the conversation.
“I haven’t been picking on you any more than I would anyone else…”
I paused for a moment, then replied, “Ok, well maybe I have.”
“All I ask is that you stop trying to be a bullshit artist.”
“I think I can deal with your pain-in-the-ass-ness for a few days if you can cut down on the bullshit” I said.
“Ok, I’ll try.”
I was tempted to reply with a Yoda reference from the movie Star Wars and say something like, "There is no try, only do!" But instead, I opted for something a bit more tame.
“I guess that’s all I can ask for” I replied.
Feeling relieved, TD pays for the check in cash, and we get up to leave. She put out her hand to shake mine and says, “So, we got a deal?”
I look at her hand, and in jest, I scoff at the gesture.
In a loud, obnoxious voice, I recall one of my favorite episodes of HBO’s Entourage and say, “Nah! No hand shaking on this one, we gotta hug it out bitch!”
We all laughed, the mood was light again, and were finally able to leave our little Café on 23rd Street and start our much anticipated Metropolitan adventure.
“I guess that’s all I can ask for” I replied.
Feeling relieved, TD pays for the check in cash, and we get up to leave. She put out her hand to shake mine and says, “So, we got a deal?”
I look at her hand, and in jest, I scoff at the gesture.
In a loud, obnoxious voice, I recall one of my favorite episodes of HBO’s Entourage and say, “Nah! No hand shaking on this one, we gotta hug it out bitch!”
We all laughed, the mood was light again, and were finally able to leave our little Café on 23rd Street and start our much anticipated Metropolitan adventure.
(continued from: Morons in Manhattan II)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Morons in Manhattan II
With the consequence of our 6 hour romp at Playwright’s manifesting itself in the form of a piercing headache the next morning, I placed the palms of my hands on my temples and squeezed my head, in hopes that it would alleviate my agonizing pain.
"...but, in any case, that's alright...I’m pretty sure it stands for Young Urban Professional."
(continued from Morons in Manhattan)
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Morons in Manhattan
Not long ago while on my last visit to The City, Tricky Dick and I ditched his high-maintenance diva of a girlfriend and walked a few blocks to Playwright’s Pub on 35th Street.After a few hearty hours of carousing like we were members of Motley Crue in 1989, we decided to partake in Last Call and closed the place down.
I recall TD and I toasting the last drink triumphantly, as if we’d somehow won some kind of Last Man Standing contest. Judging by the fact that we were the only two dickish drunks still sitting at the bar, I suppose we did.
With severely inhibited judgment and full bladders, we’d forgotten to relieve ourselves before departing on our stroll back to the hotel.
TD couldn’t hold it in, so he decided to release the hounds and open the urinary flood gates on the side of the street while trying to sing the song ‘Islands in the Stream.’“Islands in the stream…that is what we are…nah nuh nah nuh nuh…hm huh hm huh huh…”
Meanwhile, it occurs to me that it’s not too late for the cops to be patrolling.
I’m not sure why it is that I always end up being the sole voice of reason among the drunks I know, but that's my job. I suppose someone has to do it, but I sure as hell wish it wasn't me.
“Dude, go piss over in there, by that wall. If the cops see you, you’re going to jail!”
“Er, okay.”
Meanwhile, I turn my head and what do I see...an NYPD patrol car at the red light at the end of the block.
“Oh shit dude, Five-O!”
I thought for sure we were going to jail.
As if he’d done it a million times before, he somehow cut off his pee-flow in mid-stream and calmly started walking. As if everything was normal!
Once the squad car had passed, he whipped out the old tally-whacker again and finishes.
I was astounded.
In fact, I was in such amazement at this feat that I almost high-fived him. But, then I quickly remembered where his hands had just been, so I simply fist-bumped him and praised him heartily on his talented prostate and bladder control abilities.
As for me, I didn’t feel my bladder act up until we stumbled to about 33rd and 5th, but it was still manageable enough to avoid the pee-pee dance that holding it in too long sometimes induces.
By the time we got to the hotel around 3AM, however, I was damn near close to pissing myself!
Now, the Latham Hotel is old and was designed with Old-world European style shared bathrooms and an elevator that’s so damn slow it must still work on an old hand-crank and ropes or something. I didn’t realize this fact until after I’d screamed a gaggle of obscenities in two languages while slowly ascending in the elevator.
To make matters worse, TD decides to rip a continual, twenty second, putrid fart that was so bad it made my eyes water. The kind that smells so bad, you'd think something crawled up his ass and died.
This is the stuff of nightmares. Oh, the misery.
After what felt like an eternity on the non-air conditioned, hot box of an elevator, I scurried toward the room, terrorizing the halls on the way there, and nearly ripping the door off its hinges.
After what felt like an eternity on the non-air conditioned, hot box of an elevator, I scurried toward the room, terrorizing the halls on the way there, and nearly ripping the door off its hinges.
I frantically put the key in the lock and open the door, when it finally hits me.
"There’s no fucking bathroom in here!"
In a panic, I tear out of the room and locate what looks like it might be a restroom door. I try to open it.
To my horror, it’s locked.
In complete disgust I shout at the top of my lungs, “Are you fucking shitting me!”
Of course, it’s TD’s goddam girlfriend in there. Did I mention she literally takes at least 20 minutes every time she uses the bathroom?
Well, she does.
Every time we make plans to go somewhere, we have to plan in an extra 20-40 minutes for bathroom breaks. I shit you not. I don’t know what the hell she does in there, but if it weren’t for the fact she does it even when it's just her and TD, I’d think she does it just to piss me off.
"There’s no fucking bathroom in here!"
In a panic, I tear out of the room and locate what looks like it might be a restroom door. I try to open it.
To my horror, it’s locked.
In complete disgust I shout at the top of my lungs, “Are you fucking shitting me!”
Of course, it’s TD’s goddam girlfriend in there. Did I mention she literally takes at least 20 minutes every time she uses the bathroom?
Well, she does.
Every time we make plans to go somewhere, we have to plan in an extra 20-40 minutes for bathroom breaks. I shit you not. I don’t know what the hell she does in there, but if it weren’t for the fact she does it even when it's just her and TD, I’d think she does it just to piss me off.
Anyway, after nearly kicking the door in, I run back toward the room loosening my belt.
“Motherfucker!” I scream as I hurry back toward the room. I’ve had it, and I’m about to piss in the nearest garbage bucket or drawer I find.
The door is open in the room and as I’m frantically scurrying towards it, TD shouts, “Dude, there’s a sink in here!”
With the unmitigated glee of a sea-sick landlubber who just set foot back on dry land, I scurry into the room and relieve myself in the sink.
It was utterly euphoric.
“Ahhh!” I muttered in relief.
Shortly after that, the drama faded away along with our consciousness, and we all fell asleep.
The next day, I woke up to the sounds of Big Bertha, a single A/C unit that sounded like an old Buick with a broken muffler, with Tricky Dick’s beastly snores in the background. I closed my eyes to try and go back to sleep, but the symphony of noise pollution proved too distracting.
Shortly after that, the drama faded away along with our consciousness, and we all fell asleep.
The next day, I woke up to the sounds of Big Bertha, a single A/C unit that sounded like an old Buick with a broken muffler, with Tricky Dick’s beastly snores in the background. I closed my eyes to try and go back to sleep, but the symphony of noise pollution proved too distracting.
Wondering if she were going to explode at any moment, I laid there for a few moments listening to Big B’s loud, vibrating, low-pitched lament as she labored intensely trying to keep the air in the room cool.
As I lay there next to Big B, trying to find my happy place, The Diva, Miss Wonderful herself, wakes up. She proceeds to brush her teeth and wash her face in the sink that I had showered with yellow joy the night before.
Granted, I rinsed it off and all – but still, the satisfaction of knowing what had transpired in that very spot the night before was enough to make me smile with contentment.
In fact, it seemed so right that I felt all warm and fuzzy inside; it was as if justice had somehow been administered on my behalf, and I was more than satisfied about the karma of the situation.
And so, at the hands of this reckoning, I drifted back into the type of deep, hard sleep that a narcoleptic xanax addict would have after a three course meal.
As I lay there next to Big B, trying to find my happy place, The Diva, Miss Wonderful herself, wakes up. She proceeds to brush her teeth and wash her face in the sink that I had showered with yellow joy the night before.
Granted, I rinsed it off and all – but still, the satisfaction of knowing what had transpired in that very spot the night before was enough to make me smile with contentment.
In fact, it seemed so right that I felt all warm and fuzzy inside; it was as if justice had somehow been administered on my behalf, and I was more than satisfied about the karma of the situation.
And so, at the hands of this reckoning, I drifted back into the type of deep, hard sleep that a narcoleptic xanax addict would have after a three course meal.
The price of having to hold the urge to urinate to the point of discomfort: a few minutes of torture with a side of temporary insanity.
Seeing the miserable, judgmental girl who is trying to break apart your friendship with your buddy use the sink you relieved yourself in the night before: Priceless.
Once again, sometimes it’s the little things in life you appreciate the most.
Seeing the miserable, judgmental girl who is trying to break apart your friendship with your buddy use the sink you relieved yourself in the night before: Priceless.
Once again, sometimes it’s the little things in life you appreciate the most.
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