i like runnin' on E.

My blogspot brings all the boys to the yard and they’re like, I follow your blog. Damn right, they follow my blog.

It’s ok. Calm down. There’s no need to vomit. I am back.

Yea, it has been a while. I know, I know. I would go on about how my life is so incredibly busy that I haven’t had time to sit down and put some really offensive thoughts to canvas, but let’s be real. That is a lie.

I do nothing with my life. Jealous? You should be. Don’t worry, kids. This lack of productivity isn’t exactly forced upon me. That’s right. I’m American. Let freedom ring. I make my own decisions. When I have the opportunity to do something of worth or perhaps chance upon a prospect that entails the betterment of my life or that of others, I run. Run? Ok, you caught me. I lie. You say potato, I say pathological liar. No big deal. That’s right, fellas. Mythomaniac nightmare, right here. Sad… and just when you thought you had found your dream girl.

I kid, I kid.

Disclaimer: Reading this and following me on Twitter may be a bit redundant, but you are just going to have to play the cards you are dealt, my friends. I am not that insightful of a person so repetition is inevitable. Sorry, dawgs.

If you were to ask me what I have been doing over the past couple of weeks, I would reply, "Nothing." You may think this is me being vague to avoid engaging in conversation, however you would be... well, ok. You would be right. Still though, my answer is valid. Between job interviews and catching up on all episodes of NCIS, CSI, Gossip Girl, Power Rangers, Glee, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, The Hills, iCarly, What I Like About You and every other series that has ever been saved to our DVR... my life has been one big piece of white bread.

Yea, I don’t know. Let’s pretend white bread is a euphemism for some really explicit term. I’ve had to dial down my language to accommodate the comfort level of my recent company, so any and all creative punch lines and punny remarks are in deficit. Ok, so back to my fast paced lifestyle. Most of my friends are busy with work/class, residing in other cities, out of the country or currently blacklisted. (You know who you are.) Due to this incredible spike in hang out options, I have put a lot of effort towards befriending the new couch in my living room. Corner cushion. Reclining capabilities. Pull-down cup holder. Personal prop for any object that I choose. Dude, totally best friend material. I love props.

This lack of human interaction should be a great way to get some important work done, but to be honest... I am just not that responsible. I am firmly committed to testing the boundary between procrastination and failure. For the good of all studentkind, of course. You are welcome. No, I don’t have actual homework to do, but seeing as how NC Delta feels that parties do, in fact, come before academics, my priorities are a bit dyslexic right now. You can’t party like a Pi Phi unless you’ve got some accredited pushover failing her classes so she can find a venue and some dimwitted bus driver that shows up on time to make your alcohol filled night magical. Just saying.

Let's see. What else is there to say? Ah, yes. Life updates. Of course. Since you all care so much. Seeing as how I can't think for myself between the hours of 8pm and 12pm, I asked a couple of you that have been requesting this what the post should entail. One of you replied, "Your lyfe." Thanks, Anne. Another one of you responded with a nauseating, "Live. Laugh. Love." Hilarious. You may think it's weird that happy proverbs and optimistic sayings that serve no purpose aggravate me and tickle my gag reflex, but there is no need for your ridicule. Instead of spouting back something about that boy you like and his inability to form complete sentences, I will take your advice. Boom.

Live.

Ocean Isle is a beast of a city.

• For three nights in a row a limousine has been parked outside the local bar and grill. Talk about rock star lifestyle. Soft-shell crab sandwich aside, apparently a night out isn’t a night out until you’ve got Larry and his kick ass stretch limo takin’ you home.

• Sippin' sizzurp in your ride? So not illegal. This is the beach. Keep on with yo purple drank. The police officers are make believe and their handcuffs are made of chocolate.

• Over the course of the summer, I have trekked this entire island by foot. I thought running in Shelby was bad. (Don’t worry. It still is.) However, OIB doesn’t have much more to offer a girl. Every time I tie my shoelaces, I weigh my options. You leave our road and turn left? Houses. Pavement. Sand. You leave our road and turn right? Houses. Pavement. Sand... Water tank. Hell yea, right side. You always win. I would cross the bridge and see what the roads leading to Shallotte have to offer, but I have dignity. You people with your weighted belts and adrenaline hustling across the bridge, I hope you trip. I don’t drive straight. Sorry. Your family’s loss.

• My family eats at the same three places for just about every meal… for the past 20 years. Why? We are lazy. Does this get tiresome? Yes. Do I make it worse by ordering the exact same thing every time we go? Yes. Do I do this to be difficult? Get off me.

• To the waiter at Roberto’s last tonight: Really? My solemn expression that lasted from my drink order to the request for a to-go box wasn’t an attempt to appear deep in thought or anything of the sort. That? Yea, that was bad attitude. I smiled when I thanked you for your services. I saw you walk over to your bartender friend. I watched the two of you look me over and discuss. There is a mirror next to the bar, dumbass. When the chef came over to talk to us, you thought you had struck gold. I’ve never seen a server run to a table so fast in my life. Wrong dude. They are friends. He has known me since I was four. My personality and input were out of respect, not compassion. You stood there with your side glances and winks. Ew. You see that man sitting right there next to you? Yea, that’s my dad. His name is Ed. He doesn’t play. Although I am sure you could whip me up a mean side salad and list off every dressing known to man, I think I’m going to have to pass. While, “So… you come here often?” was a really great ice breaker, it is still a no. One, authenticity is kind of a requirement of mine. Two, oh my god, just.. no.

• If a sign denotes that a street is only meant to hold traffic headed in one direction and one direction only, disregard it. This is the beach. Golf cart rules override any law ever made. Driving two streets down just to come right back to successfully reach your destination is a waste of time. This directional rule should only be followed by outsiders. Who are the outsiders? Well, probably you if you have to ask.

• Your house has a sign in front of it that says NO TRESPASSING. I say that is crap. This is the beach. You have a good location. As long as I have use of my legs, I will walk on your property. Thank you.

• I have worn the exact same outfit every single day for the past six days. I have only showered once. I am unsanitary. Hygiene isn’t exactly a priority of mine. Justification? This is the beach. I don’t really have an excuse when I do this in Raleigh, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to survive.

Laugh.

I'm not funny, but other people are. This is where the Twitter overlap may come into play.

• Everyone should watch Last Comic Standing. It will make you a better person. North Carolina, represent.

• Comedy has gotten better since Obama came into office. Legitimately.

• My father and Tupac share the same birthday. Yea, present tense on both. That’s right. Live strong, my brotha. You too, Ed.

• Tim Peeler is currently our hometown hero. Ok, not really at all. More like the laughing stock of the nation, but what’s the difference? Speaking of Tim Peeler… He called Bonnie. This needs far more explanation and background than I ever want to give, so next.

• Bonnie is a hermaphrodite… oh, wait. I mean, hypochondriac. Her latest concern? Tourette’s. Fortunately for me, this is not a joke.
  
  • I would just like to clarify that Bonnie is, in fact, not a hermaphrodite. Since I am sure the two of you that read this were severely concerned over this issue after reading it, I just wanted to put your minds at ease. Bonnie is a lady... a fine, fine lady. We have no hints of androgyny in our family. I was trying to type the term hypochondriac when I accidentally spelled out hermaphrodite. This is in no way, shape or form a depiction of Bonnie's character or quality of life. This is my mistake. It was not an intentional display of irrational thinking or a statement made to offend her or anyone else. I am just a horrible person that puts humor and my own enjoyment before anything else. I hope you understand.
    

• On a brief trip to The Dollar Store with Bonnie, we encounter a girl. This girl is wearing a bikini. As in, just a bikini. Bikini girl is making her way through the store, picking up her dollar priced necessities when I begin to follow her around in attempt to photograph her great style. Although a visible retardation or age group of 12 and below would have validated her ensemble, the car keys in her hand nullified both of those exceptions. After the photo opportunity was deemed unsuccessful, we rationalized that it was just The Dollar Store… so really, she was more dressed for the occasion than we were. Credit where it’s due. Later on, we make our way to the neighboring department store. Among the rows of rompers and matronly dresses, who do we see? You guessed it. Bikini girl. Dear bikini girl, you are not Tara Reid. I don’t care what your illegal boyfriend told you was ok. Clothes are necessary. Please leave Belk.

• My skin is in really great condition. By really great condition, I mean that my acne can be compared to that of a 15 year old boy who can’t recognize his own voice. I walk into the kitchen of our beach house to greet my grandmother. First thing I hear, “Well Stephy, your face ‘bout looks worse than mine does.” I mean, that’s cool and all. Too bad her face skin is still raw, oozing and miserably healing from cosmetic surgery. Twins? Oh, totally.

• I am standing in line with my grandparents at a local seafood restaurant. Some people call it a restaurant. I call it a tiny cellar of sweat and grease. Fried food doesn’t taste any better when you are eating it with people that you love. I’ve tried that approach. I got nothing from the experience but indigestion. Anyway, this place is tiny. When you wait, you wait in a single file line that wraps around the teeny little brick hut. Personal space is lacking and everyone feels the need to buddy up to the people around them. One, if I really felt the need to socialize with strangers, I would have shown up wearing a name tag. Two, I am listening to your conversations so I know for a fact that you are listening to mine. Right when silence has fallen upon the group of people around us, my grandfather touches a scar on my face and oh so loudly says, “Where’d you get that scratch on ya face? Ya boyfriend give you that?” I respond, “Excuse me, what?” Hoping I had misheard and/or he would have realized his remark and quickly changed the subject. Yea, about that. So not the case. “Yea’d ya boyfriend get too rough on a date ‘n scratch you?” Oh ok, then. He really did say it. That’s cool. I didn’t want pride anyway.

Love.

My Baby by Lil Romeo. Download it. Amy Brown knew what was up when I was 13.

• Some people change history just by being themselves. Zac Efron is one of those people. You think I’m joking.

• James Jeffery and his drumsticks. Yes, please. Context? Not important.

• Crafts, love. Art is such a big part of my world. This isn’t supposed to be profound at all… I’m just saying it has kind of consumed the majority of my life. Up until the past couple of years, my summer months have been loaded with craft projects and glasses filled to the rim with creative juice. However, as I have gotten older, I am pretty sure any and all of my artistic ability has diminished. I mean, the ideas and intentions of making great pieces are still alive, but there seems to be a huge problem of brain-eye-hand-canvas coordination. I would trade a significant portion of my soul to be able to manifest the images and designs I have in my head right now.

• If Cristiano Ronaldo’s haircut didn’t hint at a rattail, I really feel like things could work out between us.

• I like my men like I like my laws of gravity: invisible and hard to break. Don’t think too hard on that one, I don’t know what it means either.

• You want a legitimate answer? I have told you the same thing about fiftyleven times yet you still nag as if I were hiding something. No, I was serious. Yes, that was an honest response. The more you ask me, the more I want to strangle both of you. If you like him so much then you should date him. Totes. Who cares about the age difference or the concept of a friendly overlap? I don’t mind and neither does the state of North Carolina. You could so do this.

• Ohh… him? I mean, yea he was cute… in a sort of developmentally disabled way. Of course he is attractive, as if I would show interest in anything less. I have standards. He met many of them… numerous times. Oh, you too? No worries. I mean, yea. I would probably get tested. Just to be safe. You can never be too sure. Have you seen his friends? Ouch, them too? Dang. Did you use hand sanitizer? Ok, good. No, no. Really. No hard feelings. I'm fine. Don't feel bad. He will inevitably end up living with a woman who raises white mice for experiments. Oh, totally. I mean, he says that now, but they’ll have like nineteen kids. Pregnant is the new fat. It's all the rage.

• I know friends that have died from monogamy. It’s an insidious painful disease. We are children. My friend is still learning her vocabulary about that kind of stuff, yet people our age are procreating like rabid creatures. The world is going to end in 2012, but I don’t really see that serving as a legitimate excuse. If anything, it should be a deterrent. When everything falls apart, I’m going to be looking out for number one. Sucks for those having to look out for number one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight and dog. I’m just saying.

• Ok, about us. I know. We've talked about this like twice now. That was two times too many for me. I mean.. I want to care about you, it's just that my therapist hasn’t exactly taught me how to feel empathy yet. Maybe one day. Until then, if you could just like... not touch me. Yea, that would be great. Thanks.