Tagged: birthday

Happy Birthday (to me).

Internet, I am hungover. 

Which, given the fact that my 24th  birthday was yesterday, is hardly surprising.

No, sorry, I can’t lie. I didn’t even drink (that much) yesterday. Unlike the year before (and before and before and let’s be honest, before). Truth is, I’m getting old, internet. Let me explain.

Things That At One Point Interested Me That I Have No Interest In Now:

  • Drinking a lot just to get drunk, for no particular reason.
  • Feeling the need to finish alcohol, no matter how terrible it tastes/ full I feel/ drunk I am.
  • Making up crappy excuses to get out of things I don’t want to do.
  • Wearing makeup.
  • Putting effort into being popular.
  • Pretending to like people I hate.
  • Eating McDonald’s.
  • Gin and tonics. Also, Goldschlager. Also, shots.

Things That Now Interest Me That I Had No Previous Interest In:

  • Being clean.
  • Organizing things.
  • Quinoa.
  • Saving money.
  • River Monsters.
  • Whiskey.
  • Interior decorating.
  • Honesty.
  • Work.
  • Ordering delivery food.

Things That Interested Me In College That Still Interest Me:

  • Cooking shows.
  • Ramen.
  • Netflix.
  • Pablo Neruda.
  • Libraries.
  • Tattoos.
  • Learning how to speak French using the smallest amount effort possible.
  • Teeny tiny bottles of things.
  • Sleep.

Truth is, I’ve done a crap load of growing up over the last year or two, and it’s weird and scary and I don’t quite know what to make of it. I mean sure, I like who I am and where I am much better than who I was. Old me was, quite frankly, a bit of an ass.

However, at the same time, I know it’s just going to keep happening, and I don’t like thinking about who I could end up being. Am I going to be some too politically correct to use the term “crap load” on her on blog? Will I still have a blog? Am I going to end up in a hippie nudist commune? There’s totally still a lot of time for me to lose what few, few marbles I have left and join a hippie nudist commune. At least by then weed will probably be legal (although it will still be objectively gross in every way).

Birthdays always make me a little introspective, internet. How about you?






Fiction Friday #10- The Rules.

Hey internet. It’s my pater’s birthday, so I don’t have time to write the riveting end of Cabinets for y’all today. Enjoy this piece instead. Remember to hop over to Facebook and join my blog’s Facebook page for updates and extra fun times and whatnot.

Now if you’ll excuse me.

hnw cassandra dance gif

You know how I do.


These are the things you cannot talk about when you are a beautiful woman.

You cannot talk about how frequently you are aware of being the most attractive person in the room. You must refrain from mentioning to people that you are aware of other women’s jealousy, that men let their eyes linger on you, and that you are often the center of an unwarranted competition.

When other girls complain about their flaws, you cannot talk about your deeply rooted insecurities, how often you feel like it is simply your duty to look good around the clock. Even if you are not a model, you will spend hours everyday in front of a mirror obsessing over every perceived flaw, use every cream and ointment on the market to hold on to your youth and perfect skin.

If you are pretty, talking about your insecurities is considered fishing for compliments. Referring to your own beauty is considered vain. You will be besieged by both well-intentioned people and jealous bitches telling you to eat more, but you are not to tell those bigger then you to eat less. A lot of the well-intentioned commentators will assume you have some sort of eating disorder. The others just want you to get fat. You will not be allowed bad hair days. If you are not perfectly put together everyday, men will be unreasonably annoyed and women unreasonably happy about it.

Eventually, you will encounter rich men who will use the confidence that money brings them to court you, and other, lesser competitors, intimidated, will fade away. At first, this will feel new, exciting, and empowering, but these feelings are only temporary. Eventually, with the knowledge that you have no marketable skills, no money, and only a few precious years left of your youth, you will marry a man you do not love. You will be aware that you are only valuable to him until you are no longer the prettiest girl in the room. This fact will haunt you.


These are the things you cannot talk about when you are a rich man.

Your frustration with the assumption that you did not earn your money.

How servers will treat you with sniveling deference to your face to get a good tip, then complain about you behind your back.

If you use the priority line at the airport, people waiting to check-in to coach will glare at you with seething hatred. This gets to the point where you either board late on purpose, or hide behind the Sky Mall catalogue when they pass by your first class seat. If you mention this off-hand to someone who has not had this experience, they will somehow assume you’re an asshole.

You will never have an honest conversation with someone about how fancy restaurants overuse truffle-oil just because it’s expensive.

If you are rich, people will tell you to give your money away. If you do this, you will inevitably choose the wrong charity. If you do not, you are considered a greedy, conceited person. Your friends will secretly hope that you pay for them at expensive places, but they will get upset if you actually offer.

People will tell you to volunteer in a soup kitchen, because being rich means that you don’t understand poverty. This is especially true if you grew up having money, even if you were one of those kids who desperately tried to hide their parent’s wealth. If you are lucky enough to have your parents pay your way through school, your peers will secretly think you’re a spoiled, incapable brat. If you pay for your kid’s college tuition, people will tell you this is somehow ruining their ability to survive in the real world. If you have money, you are never allowed to feel like you deserve it.

You cannot be seen eating a hot dog from a street vendor because your rich peers will make fun of you behind your back and speculate if you are going under. You can never tell anyone how much you hate spending time with other rich people, but after discovering how much resentment your less wealthy friends secretly have for you, you will end up spending more time at the country club anyways.

Eventually, you will encounter beautiful women. They will flock to you because you are rich and they have no skills other than being pretty. Because your friends all have pretty wives, you will feel the need to acquire one of your own. You will try to pick the least vapid option. You will invariably be disappointed.


If you are both beautiful and rich, you are no longer allowed to have any problems.


If you are beautiful, rich, and really nice, everyone will assume you are faking one of the three.

The Mental Breakdown- Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday part 2.

This is a followup to yesterday’s post, which was written in quite the haphazardly, slapdash fashion. If you haven’t read it yet, I suggest you do that first, to avoid confusion.


…catering headquarters. I was, for obvious reasons, in a bit of a state at that point, and there wasn’t anyone left except for one poor kitchen boy, who took one look at me and got the hell out of my way. I realized I was going to be late for this meeting I had to go to, so I threw things back where they belonged, reparked the stupid, honking big van, and sprinted to my car.

I definitely sped down to the studio. I think if I passed any cops they could probably sense the crazy that was happening in my car, so they got out of my way.

Got to the studio, 5 minutes late. Varenka unlocked the door for me and let me in and I run into the room and sit against the wall.

Do you ever have those moments where you’ve been running around all day and you just stop and sit down and all the sudden all you want to do is go to sleep? That’s kind of what was happening to me, but I’d had three cups of coffee at work (it’s free! Yay!) and so I had exhaustion jitters. I was semi-falling asleep against the wall, but I couldn’t get my hands and feet to stop jerking. It wasn’t so much like I couldn’t sit still as that my extremities were twitching. During this semi-serious conversation about changing your life. We’ve all been there, right?

I’m pretty sure at this point I may actually be dying, but I pick up the packet of paper I’m given and flip through it in an attempt to look like I’m paying any sort of attention. I seriously couldn’t tell you what we talked about if my life depended on it. I think cucumbers were involved? I don’t know.

The meeting ends. Sprint home. Get changed. I actually had time to play through one song before I headed down to the gig. I also realized I hadn’t eaten in about 8 (9? 10?) hours, so I slammed a Lean Cuisine (Santa Fe rice and beans, nummers). Then I realized it was Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday and she told me to look cute and wear heels, so I rechanged into a dramatically less comfortable outfit, ran to my car, and sprinted (sped) downtown.

So I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I sort-of play in a band aka a duet aka my friend who is in an actual, real band lets me sing with him sometimes. I play the ukulele, because I am a giant cliché. My friend (let’s call him Captain Apollo) basically has to coddle and cosset me into doing this, because I apparently have no problem talking to giant groups of people, but I would rather pull out my toenails than sing in front of people in public places.

Captain Apollo talks me through soundcheck, and we get everything set-up and then I go drink what is rapidly becoming my regular pre-show order of a Labatt Blue and a shot of Jameo.

At this point my friends show up with Scarlett O’Hara, and I realize that I’ve neglected to properly prepare them for the atmosphere that is this bar (let’s call it the Battlestar). So they walk into the Battlestar and they’re all prettied up and Varenka is wearing actual, real live pants which is an extremely rare event for her, and we’ve all got heels on and whatnot, and this is one of those divey-er types of dive bars where the average clientele have knuckle tattoos and you’re almost encouraged to draw obscene things on the wall. It’s bit of a surreal moment, and they’re all looking a bit deer-in-headlightsy, even Rory, who rocks a poker face like no one else I’ve ever met.

However, I have no time to comfort them because just like that Captain Apollo is summoning me to the stage. I play my 7 song set-list, which went pretty okay, and get off the stage, and the girls are raring to get out of the Battlestar, like, yesterday. So we rush out of there.

We wander around for a bit and end up in my least favorite bar in town, which is apparently pretty heated on a Thursday because It Is Bumping.

And that’s when I just lose my head.

I think I’ve done a pretty decent job at explaining how Thursday was just a bit of a shit-show for me thus far. So imagine, if you will, coming fresh from the day I’ve had with barely any time to sit down, let alone take my foot off the gas pedal, and getting immediately thrown into a club packed full of sweaty strangers who are trying to rub up on you and chat you up and buy you drinks. It was not pretty. Varenka and Scarlett ended up getting tequila shots which I did not partake in as I was driving, and they seemed to be immediately okay with the situation. I backed myself up against the wall and clung to my Red Bull vodka for dear life.

I think I lasted about twenty minutes before I had to get out of there, internet. I was about to have a breakdown that would rival any toddler you know. Imagine a five-year old just had to pick up all her toys and eat brussel sprouts for dinner and then her brother gets a bigger slice of cake than she does. That was me. I was tired, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, emotional and I. Just. Couldn’t.

I lit outta there like a race horse on speed, people.

Moral of the story?

There is none.

The Disney Power Hour aka the Roof Peeing Adventure.

I realized I’ve written posts about a lot of the “worsts”. Worst dates, worser worst dates, terrible birthdays, my asshole cat being a douche, all that jazz. Today I’m going to shake it up and give you a best. Or, if not a best, at least a very, very good.

It was my friend’s 24 on Friday, and we had one of the Best Nights Ever.

Let’s call him Eric Bana.

Eric Bana lives in an apartment in a massage school that used to be a mental hospital. It’s very castle-y looking, with all these crazy spires and towers and whatnot, and it smells like shea butter and eucalyptus.I’d never been there before, so I got pretty lost driving out to this place. It’s out on a hill on a pretty hard-to-find road. It’s totally the coolest apartment I’ve ever been to, is what I’m saying.

I get there and Eric Bana promptly announces that we’re going to do a Disney song power hour with Genny Cream. I’d never done a power hour before, so this was a new and exciting thing for me. It also turns out that I am a disturbingly spot on jukebox for Disney lyrics. Eric Bana and I absolutely sang around to almost every song. It was pretty beautiful. The gang had a very touching moment to “I Will Show You the World”.

So 60 shots of Genny later (61 because I did I double shot to The Aristocats because that movie is my JAM) someone decides that we needed to go up to the roof. Elaboration- the boys wanted to pee off of the roof, because they were drunk and boys are gross and have a weird desire to pee on everything. So we go up this crazy spiral staircase thing with all these creepy little empty side rooms that were once used for mental hospital purposes and I’m starting to feel like I’m on Ghost Adventures or some shit. Eric Bana’s good friend and roommate Ryan Gosling is leading this tour and he keeps pointing out the window and telling me about parts of the building he has climbed up and peed on, like he’s an OCD squirrel with the bladder of a hyperactive French Bulldog.

Eventually we get to the top of the building and go out on the highest tower, where there’s a plane landing light and all sorts of cool weather gadgets, and we are easily 6 stories up, and Ryan Gosling climbs out onto this skinny little ledge outside the barrier and has a wee, and all the boys agree this this is an optimal peeing spot, because, I reiterate, boys are gross.

Then we went back downstairs and Eric Bana and I had a fake lightsaber fight and we all went downtown and spoke in really badly affected British accents for like an hour and drank Jameo-ginger and everything was wonderful forever.


Of course the next morning I was terribly hungover and The Cat decided to creep under my bed and meow really loudly for an HOUR while power farting, and I really just wanted to be miserable and hide under the covers but the room smelled like a dung beetle’s family reunion.

I hate that cat.

The Tale of Taco Tuesday.

Varenka wants me to write about her birthday, which happened on Tuesday. She turned 22.

Huzzah Varenka.

This is not a picture of Varenka. This is a baby goat jumping over a log. Don't worry about it.

This is not a picture of Varenka. This is a baby goat jumping over a log. Deal with it.

On paper, V had the perfect birthday celebration planned out. We were going to go to yoga (as we fitness fanatics do), then to a food place for Taco Tuesday, then to a whiskey tasting night. She was going to provide the friends and the entertainment. I was going to provide the excessive sarcasm and inappropriate that’s what she said jokes.

Yoga was yogic. Nuff said.

Enter Taco Tuesday.

I should note that I’ve been living in this town for upwards of 10 years now and that I consider myself a townie. I could name for you offhand at least 5 local swimming hotspots of questionable legality. I have been on the roof of almost every major building downtown. I could give you a brief but detailed history of the 6 restaurants that have occupied a certain building since I’ve lived here (all of them were various Asian cuisines, oddly enough).

However, there is wide swath of ground here that townies dare not go while school is in session, for perched on the top of the hill like a vulture is a major university that has, like a dying wolf, latched its jaws onto my hometown and refuses to let go. A school that swells our modest population by almost a hundred thousand people and turns our usually deserted streets into cramped traffic jams held up by idiotic freshman running across the road to class, with a thriving Greek community that makes a habit out of knocking our mailbox out of the ground and has a curious fondness for adopting Saint Bernards.

To avoid confusion, let’s just say that I live in Westeros and that this university is the King’s Landing. It’s technically a powerful entity that controls a lot of what goes on here, but it’s a stuck up pain in the ass a lot of the time.

If you don’t watch Game of Thrones, you’re irrelevant and you can make up your own analogies.

Anyways, there’s a bunch of bars near the university I never go to because they’re crowded and annoying and hip and full of people far younger and smarter than I am. So I had a good amount of trouble even finding where we were supposed to be. The joint was a tacky, moody hole-in-the-wall named after a famous dead guy who murdered a bunch of people, because common sense can pipe the fuck down, apparently.

We get there and enquire about the tacos. Apparently they are 75 cents each, but only after  10:30. It’s 7. We’re not going to wait for it. We order off the regular menu. There’s 8 of us, so it takes a while to get our food. Meanwhile, a bunch of random middle-aged people dressed in slacks and button downs are causing a ruckus at the bar… getting shitty… at 7pm… on a Tuesday. This proves to be more sad then entertaining.

The food comes. Varenka ordered a burger with sprouts and guacamole on it. Her boyfriend Rory also got a burger of some sort. I got a depressing looking pulled pork sandwich that was definitely neither fresh nor homemade.

It was bad. Like, really bad. But I choked it down on the promise of drinking to be had. Varenka ate hers and claimed her stomach was upset about twenty minutes later. No one was surprised by this information.

We end up going to get Pepto-Bismol in a sad little Quickstop that absolutely hasn’t been mopped since the start of the semester. Most of our gang takes some. Then it’s off to whiskey night.

None of us had been to this thing before, so we didn’t quite know what to expect beyond, I don’t know, drinking whiskey. We go into this posh like restaurant and are handed a pretentious little menu and are told to wait until 9 to go downstairs, which means we have to wait for half an hour pretending not to watch people out on first dates that are not going well.

Eventually they let us go down into the posh cave that is their basement. It is way too hipster for my liking. There is a man that looks like the guy from Portlandia sitting near me. Someone was wearing a fedora. It was awful.

We are told it’s going to be 16 bucks for the evening and that we were going to be tasting four 1 ounce pours of “infusions”. The first was a jasmine tea gin (hello? whiskey night? no?) that smelled like someone poured nail polish remover on a bed of roses. It tasted about as good.

There’s an hour of this. The pour girl is blathering on about tannins and proportions. At some point Varenka goes and pukes up our rancidly awful dinner. Rory does as well. I drink approximately none of the crap they offer me and note with dismay that I don’t get service down in the hipster dungeon. The bacon infused whiskey in every way resembles bottom shelf booze with lard poured into it. There’s a hops whiskey that is essentially a terrible IPA in a shot of lukewarm Jameo. They close with a cinnamon sherry that is admittedly good BUT IS NOT ACTUALLY WHISKEY. FALSE ADVERTISING.

My soul died.

Never again, internet.