Berry & Nana

2 perspectives when talking for an extended period of time: the talker, and the impatient listener. Ever have that feeling where you're listening to somebody talk on and on and on and the only thing you can think about is something slightly related that you want to bring up, but you can't get a word in? Happens to me all the time. I frequently end up on the other end of this spectrum as well: the talker. Whatever it is I'm talking about is just so extremely interesting, and I'm aware of this, so I have to keep going. Obviously everyone cares tremendously about whatever it is I'm talking about. Only thing worse than waiting for someone to break for a breath to get a word in, is being the person that's waited on to stop talking. Eventually the impatient listener is going to interrupt with their own story, and when that moment arrives, how awkward and disappointing does that feel? Very much so, I must say.

Pi

A spoonful...

Measurements:
A spoonful of cough syrup- the amount in which would remain in the spoon after jogging with it
A spoonful of mintchip ice cream- the maximum amount that would stay piled atop a mound while carefully eating in a calculated pattern that will allow for the ice cream to be savored without loosing any sugary deliciousness.

Shenanigans of a newly aged 20 year old

I had a spectacular hazing into my twenties. As always, my day was abnormal, left much to be desired, and stumped me on the inner-workings of our dear departed universal thought glands. Despite the stigma surrounding birthdays, it felt like a normal day. I didn't get laid (which some may argue is not normal for dear Drea, but hey, I haven't gotten laid in a couple months, my friends), I drank heinous amounts of sparkling bitter alcohol by the name of beer, elected to play a game I'm not good at and continue to remind everyone playing that I am not good at it, drunkenly played on a play ground, and stole a watermelon from Safeway. What? Yeah. Haters gonna hate.

It began with brunch in the Mission at Andalu where I got Huevos Rancheros, because fuck it, I wanted Huevos Rancheros; I always want Huevos Rancheros... constantly in need of Huevos Rancheros. Somebody please get me some Huevos Rancheros! Mind you, I say Huevos Rancheros with a deep, sultry Mexican accent to further my exemplary appreciation for huevos rancheros. They were a'ight. The waiter said somebody complained about the salsa but I ordered it anyway, and hey, it tasted like fucking salsa. They don't bring you bread to start, they bring you fucking donut holes. Sold.

The rest of the day was pretty mediocre and not worth spewing out upon my blog canvas. Later in the night I got frustrated with the amount of people that didn't come, or even call me or text me or fucking facebook me a "hey, you're awesome!" or "It's your birthday, right?" Yeah. Fuck those guys. So I called up my home-girl and went on a drunken adventure through the blanket of night to squeeze out one little drop of memory from this failure. "Lets stop at Safeway, I wanna get you something." says Laurent; though when we got there, the fucking store was closed. There was a box of watermelons sitting outside. One left with me.