I feel like my life is this whirlwind of polar opposites and I'm just a little old pinball being bounced back and forth. Pro: I love the loud noises and I am a shiny & silver. Con: It's exhausting. And expensive.
I spend half of my time going to visit college friends in far away places, 1/4 of my time holing up in my apartment with cheap booze so I can afford these trips (which I really can't), and the other 25 percent discussing weddings with my high school friends.
My 3 best friends from high school are all either engaged or married. Although I am *super super* excited for them, the monetary responsibility I feel to toward these people gives me anxiety. They are the kind of friends you WANT to spend money on...not the bitch who invites you to her shower for the gift and then doesn't even serve mimosas. But let me tell you what really is the hardest part: trying to discuss shoes, flowers, and hotel accommodations after playing slap the bag for 48 hours on a ranch with 30 of my college friends, of whom 4 are married or seriously dating. As in 2 couples...
It's like a little angel/devil arrangement.
"Come visit me! Help me plan my wedding and catch up since we don't see each other as much anymore!"
"No! Come with me! We will drink boxed wine and jim beam straight out of the bottle and then burn shit in the bon fire!"
It's like some weird warped world.
And I only understand one of them.
Because I can't even find a date to take to the wedding, much less think about spending 60 years with that person, which is really probably more like 70 because my family lives to be old as dust.
Dust that existed when dinosaurs roamed the earth and cavemen dragged their wives by their hair, like every good man should.
In my humble opinion.
So let's just rewind to the actual lifestyle I get.
This actual slapping of the bag and bonfire extravaganza actually happened this past weekend in a little place I like to call San Saba.
It is the pecan capital of the world, and let me tell you, we checked out peCAN'T attitudes at the door and went balls (or nuts) out for the next 48 hours.
In a nutshell (hehe see how I did it again? see? see?), I've had a 2 day hangover and spent the 3 hour drive to Dallas holding back chunks of my sonic breakfast toaster.
To be honest, I tried to throw up in the gas station bathroom during a pit stop.
But I have a terrible gag reflex, and don't "do vomit," and I generally just find puking embarassing. Plus some bitch was standing outside the bathroom door and I got stage fright and then I realized there wasn't any soap and my wallet was in the car, so I would either a) have puke hands, or b) have to go out to the car, and that kind of physical movement was NOT kosher at the time.
The thought of the superbowl was a little much to handle, so I just ate every weird food morsel I could find in my apartment, because clearly ordering food, THE LOGICAL DECISION, never even occurred to me.
I turned on Teen Mom and was quite enjoying myself, pretending that my little post-drinking bloat and food baby was in fact a real live fetus.
Note: this was only funny to me because I was still a little drunk and I have participated in zero activities that could possibly impregnate me, including but not limited to:
a) offering my secret garden to some lucky seedsman
c) exploring Dallas sperm banks
d) channeling the Virgin Mary
Not to mention my extra-curriculars involve activities that would certainly not allow a child to survive inside of me.
Then my phone rang....for the 8th time that day.....from some 214 number I had never heard of and they WOULD NOT LEAVE A MESSAGE.
So finally I decide I am going to answer it.
[annoyed voice]: Hellooooo?
the FUCK? you have called me 8 times and then tell me to hold?
I should add to my faux pregnancy that I was quite irritable and not in the mood for telemarketers.
Um, hello. Is this Courtney [insert mumbling that starts with an S but sounds nothing like my last name].
Uh, yes. Who is this?
At this point bitch tells me I signed up to receive freebies for my baby at some website.
Is God laughing at me?
In a half choke/sputter/cough I tell her that I do NOT have children.
Then she says this:
Well are you sure this is Courtney?
Yeah I am pretty damn sure.
In fact, I am quite positive.
So kindly take me off your phone list, go hang yourself, and let me go back to my misery on the couch because you totally just ruined my Teen Mom experience.
There has got to be a hidden camera somewhere.