So I could comment on the fact that I haven't posted in a long while, but I am 90% sure nobody noticed.
I could also comment on the fact that it's a new year, but guess what! Just because you're writing a /11 on your checks in stead of /10 doesn't mean that latina stripper you banged last weekend won't end up pregnant and knocking on your door next month. Speaking of which, Pablo, you're late on your child support and Katarina needs her cavities filled.
Anyway, in stead I choose to introduce the internets to my defining experience of 2010:
A warm winter night is not entirely rare in this bi-polar city of ours, and I begin my journey on one of these wonderous evenings. When I think of Broadway St. I picture strippers, dirty homeless men, dirty rich men, and basic shady 1970s pornography type environments; so when a friend asks me if I'd like to attend a soiree amongst this havoc of course I'd enthusiastically shake my head yes until I feel dizzy. Turns out he meant the other side of Broadway, so my bright yellow hot pants with pink sequins on the butt pockets, sparkley blue bra and see-through white top were just a little inappropriate for the high society birthday dinner at an $80,000,000 mansion. ($80,000,000!) Thankfully I had my Marry Poppins purse handy and pulled out just the right outfit for the occasion.
The house was monstrously gorgeous, so my boredom with the general attendees was satiated with tall ceilings, large garden, and a breathtaking view of the bay (thankfully it was a clear night). I had never had a martini before. Living in The Mission usually provides for some great beer bellies. After about 3 martinis I was finally ready to take my eyes off the inanimate objects around me and have myself a pointless conversation. My victim was a tall man with an epic mustache and soul patch (that is what that little patch of hair under the bottom lip is called, right?). After the initial "I like your facial hair" conversation, we got to talking about the armpit hair and epic stench that came along with it on this woman standing right in front of us. After about an hour of this nonsense, he got a little creepy. He started rubbing my shoulder, just casually mostly. That's when I started to notice he was a bit of a close talker. You know the type, don't you? The people that stand way too close while they talk? I was once told I am a close talker, but I must disagree! I found that comment to be quite insulting. Maybe I am. Who knows. Tell me if I'm too close while I'm talking, and then I'll know. Is it too close when your noses are touching? That's my favorite.
Anyways, the dude really liked to talk about how young I look, which is an entirely too obvious topic for me. Seriously stop it. I don't give a shit if I look like I'm 16. Get over it. Dude (which is his name for the purpose of this, seeing as I don't remember it) asked me if I was having fun. I replied with an unconvincing yes, to which he informed me there was something he wanted to show me. Now I am the kind of person that imagines the worst outcome of a situation before agreeing to it. As I was standing there, 4th Martini in hand (they were pretty tame), I imagined him taking me outside and whipping out his penis and telling me to touch it, which I don't, and he then proceeds to rub it against my dress as I walk back inside. He follows me, completely naked now, picks me up and throws me over the ledge. Seeing as we're only 2 stories up, I don't die, but my leg is broken and back hurts like a bitch. I try to get up and run, but my fucking leg is broken. My phone fell out of my pocket into the Jacuzzi (which is massive for an $80,000,000 home). Dude comes down stairs and pulls me by my hair into a damp cave covered in moss where he then turns into Gollum and eats my face off while making horse noises. My mother asks, "How did she die?"
This, of course, is not what happened.
I grabbed my friend Greg to check out whatever it is Dude wanted me to see. I made sure to watch for any change of facial expression to my decision to bring Greg along, but there was none. Dude still looked giddy and wide-eyed. I couldn't decide if this was comforting or even more creepy. He lead us to a door, which beheld stairs behind it. Walking down floor after floor (this is an $80,000,000 house, by the way. Did I mention that?). Finally we came to a large room that smelled like BBQ, piss, and laundry in one tantalizing perfume (in stores this June). This room had no windows, and an armored door featured in the middle of the far wall. Fuck. I'm dead. Gone. Bye bye.
Greg and I looked at each other and mouthed at the same time "WHAT THE FUCK?!" Dude opened the armored door, walked in, turned on the lights, and asked us to come forward. Greg was hesitant, but I figured why the hell not? We've come all this way, and I'm fucking curious about how sick this dude is! It could be like a fucked up TV show in real life! (which means I was scared shitless and my feet gained a life of their own as my head screamed WHAT THE FUCK). I looked around first, admiring the giant red ball in the corner, frayed rope hanging from the ceiling with a tire that doesn't seem to be for swinging, seeing as it was pretty shredded. 3 giant trash cans laying on the floor atop inconspicuous red stains was a great comfort to us.
We walked forward as Dude walked out
with
a
fucking
baby
LION!
"You can play with it!" took a whole new meaning in my fucked up imagination.
I could also comment on the fact that it's a new year, but guess what! Just because you're writing a /11 on your checks in stead of /10 doesn't mean that latina stripper you banged last weekend won't end up pregnant and knocking on your door next month. Speaking of which, Pablo, you're late on your child support and Katarina needs her cavities filled.
Anyway, in stead I choose to introduce the internets to my defining experience of 2010:
A warm winter night is not entirely rare in this bi-polar city of ours, and I begin my journey on one of these wonderous evenings. When I think of Broadway St. I picture strippers, dirty homeless men, dirty rich men, and basic shady 1970s pornography type environments; so when a friend asks me if I'd like to attend a soiree amongst this havoc of course I'd enthusiastically shake my head yes until I feel dizzy. Turns out he meant the other side of Broadway, so my bright yellow hot pants with pink sequins on the butt pockets, sparkley blue bra and see-through white top were just a little inappropriate for the high society birthday dinner at an $80,000,000 mansion. ($80,000,000!) Thankfully I had my Marry Poppins purse handy and pulled out just the right outfit for the occasion.
The house was monstrously gorgeous, so my boredom with the general attendees was satiated with tall ceilings, large garden, and a breathtaking view of the bay (thankfully it was a clear night). I had never had a martini before. Living in The Mission usually provides for some great beer bellies. After about 3 martinis I was finally ready to take my eyes off the inanimate objects around me and have myself a pointless conversation. My victim was a tall man with an epic mustache and soul patch (that is what that little patch of hair under the bottom lip is called, right?). After the initial "I like your facial hair" conversation, we got to talking about the armpit hair and epic stench that came along with it on this woman standing right in front of us. After about an hour of this nonsense, he got a little creepy. He started rubbing my shoulder, just casually mostly. That's when I started to notice he was a bit of a close talker. You know the type, don't you? The people that stand way too close while they talk? I was once told I am a close talker, but I must disagree! I found that comment to be quite insulting. Maybe I am. Who knows. Tell me if I'm too close while I'm talking, and then I'll know. Is it too close when your noses are touching? That's my favorite.
Anyways, the dude really liked to talk about how young I look, which is an entirely too obvious topic for me. Seriously stop it. I don't give a shit if I look like I'm 16. Get over it. Dude (which is his name for the purpose of this, seeing as I don't remember it) asked me if I was having fun. I replied with an unconvincing yes, to which he informed me there was something he wanted to show me. Now I am the kind of person that imagines the worst outcome of a situation before agreeing to it. As I was standing there, 4th Martini in hand (they were pretty tame), I imagined him taking me outside and whipping out his penis and telling me to touch it, which I don't, and he then proceeds to rub it against my dress as I walk back inside. He follows me, completely naked now, picks me up and throws me over the ledge. Seeing as we're only 2 stories up, I don't die, but my leg is broken and back hurts like a bitch. I try to get up and run, but my fucking leg is broken. My phone fell out of my pocket into the Jacuzzi (which is massive for an $80,000,000 home). Dude comes down stairs and pulls me by my hair into a damp cave covered in moss where he then turns into Gollum and eats my face off while making horse noises. My mother asks, "How did she die?"
This, of course, is not what happened.
I grabbed my friend Greg to check out whatever it is Dude wanted me to see. I made sure to watch for any change of facial expression to my decision to bring Greg along, but there was none. Dude still looked giddy and wide-eyed. I couldn't decide if this was comforting or even more creepy. He lead us to a door, which beheld stairs behind it. Walking down floor after floor (this is an $80,000,000 house, by the way. Did I mention that?). Finally we came to a large room that smelled like BBQ, piss, and laundry in one tantalizing perfume (in stores this June). This room had no windows, and an armored door featured in the middle of the far wall. Fuck. I'm dead. Gone. Bye bye.
Greg and I looked at each other and mouthed at the same time "WHAT THE FUCK?!" Dude opened the armored door, walked in, turned on the lights, and asked us to come forward. Greg was hesitant, but I figured why the hell not? We've come all this way, and I'm fucking curious about how sick this dude is! It could be like a fucked up TV show in real life! (which means I was scared shitless and my feet gained a life of their own as my head screamed WHAT THE FUCK). I looked around first, admiring the giant red ball in the corner, frayed rope hanging from the ceiling with a tire that doesn't seem to be for swinging, seeing as it was pretty shredded. 3 giant trash cans laying on the floor atop inconspicuous red stains was a great comfort to us.
We walked forward as Dude walked out
with
a
fucking
baby
LION!
"You can play with it!" took a whole new meaning in my fucked up imagination.
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