Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures (And Awesome Panties).

I'm leaving to Cuba in less than 48 hours and I'm kind of freaking out because I haven't been there in almost four years and I'm excited to see my family but also terrified of the current political climate and batshit scared of having a cat served to me under the disguise of a steak filet so there! It's a nervous breakdown waiting to happen at any minute.I have a special sneak preview into the reason why this trip is happening for you guys tomorrow. My flight departs at 6:00 a.m. so I'm going to post the picture of "the bird" around three when I leave for the airport (if that's not dedication, then I don't know what is).

Also, I've finally accepted that Blogger's never gonna B.O.N. me (see below). Between all the damn taxi blogs and other nonsense they prefer, it's obvious I've been banned for good and Blogger doesn't appreciate my various attempts at sacrificing bunnies or killing chickens.So with this in mind I feel like I've exhausted all my options for a shot at famosity and will undoubtedly have to run the Miami streets naked which will cause me to get arrested and then I'll yell my web address over and over when the cameras zoom in on my lumpy naked body as they take me away in the siren- filled automobile.

Last night I was getting ready for a date but then decided to sell out because a) I'm just not ready to commit to anyone or anything except Kettle One and Buttercream cupcakes and b) currently all I want is someone who's great in bed which is really hard to find but seeing I'm giving celibacy a shot it was all sorta' pointless so I just ignored his calls and stayed home drinking champagne (for sure I'm getting hate mail for this).

Nevertheless I had my rollers done already and a mud mask on and champagne was flowing even though I said I wasn't going to drink so of course I sat on my couch with my three dogs and my mind started churning on how Blogger absolutely sucks for not B.O.N.ing me and Ricky Martin too for being gay and unavailable for sex-tape making and I was just so discouraged I got back on the internet and went on my favorite blog ever and was laughing my ass off at all the crazy shit she writes when all of the sudden!If you've been living under a blog rock lately then it's vital you know The Bloggess is the goddess of the blog world and she can just blow air your way and turn you into a unicorn or a bear or a zombie, depending on her whim. She has major pull in the blogosphere and is crazy funny. Or maybe she's just crazy. I haven't made up my mind on that just yet. Below is my letter to The Bloggess for help at famosity. And yes, I know the odds of her reading it are probably lower than Blogger B.O.N.ing me but fuck it, I've got nothing to lose.

A LETTER TO THE BLOGGESS

Dear Bloggess:

If for some miraculous reason you happen to read this, my name is Annah and I'm a big fan. Not the type that will hide-behind-the-bushes-in-your-front-lawn-and-wait-for-you-to-get-groceries-to-catch-a-glimpse-of-you-fan, but moreso the type that thinks you're a magical fairy who spits curse words and Valium instead of pixie dust and glitter because those last two things never helped anyone, wheras cursing and Valium always save the day.

I'm writing to you because Blogger is dead set on keeping my famosity in a jar and I really need to become an internet blogstar as soon as possible. The need was pretty urgent about a month ago but it has now exponentially multiplied since I quit my job and have no income and three dogs to feed.

Seeing that I've got rent to pay and a nasty Pay-Per-View addiction I have no money saved but! I do have a piggy bank with $212.55 in it and I'm more than willing to wire that money your way if you would feature me in your site as the creepiest fan alive who needs famosity to survive.

If my $212.55 are an insult to your awesome-ness then I'm sure this next thing will convince you to make me a star. I had a brilliant idea in regards to that dead whores' post from the other day. Seriously? Who cares if you never said "I'm awesome, what should I do?" This is a lucrative business deal waiting to happen and I'm not charging you anything for this soon to be patented gold mine! Here, I made these for you.

I know. It's pretty brilliant.


Also, I was thinking you can do a blog of the month award but instead of actually choosing someone you can have people bid on it like if you were the auctioneer at Sotheby's and the highest bidder would get the honor of a post on your blog. You can call it the "Break My Blog Award." Do you realize how much $$$$$ you could make off this? No, Bloggess. You have not chewed on the potential possibilities. Your ad could look a little something like this...
You can use that as your ad. Free of charge. Go ahead, take it.

Okay, I've rambled enough and it's time for me to pack so I can be on my way to eating cat steak with Castro.

Please make me a star, or at least send me a pin with your face on it.

Vodka Shots From Miami,
Annah

------------

Well guys, this was my LAST attempt at famosity. If this doesn't work out I'm going to overdose on rubbing alcohol.

Okay that's a lie. I have faith... Some shit needs to happen! If Tila Tequila can be famous all the while not knowing how to spell cat, then for sure I have hope.

Say a little prayer for me while I'm out in the communist capital of the world and since I won't post for a week, please please please don't forget me.

Attack Of The Ninja Liver

Considering the recent turn of events over on the work front, my friends have been particulary mindful about my depression and are working diligently to cheer me up 'round the clock which I've found mildly amusing but also incredibly heartwarming.

Oddly enough, my desire for alcohol has diminished slightly instead of sky-rocketing and I've been making a conscious effort to stay away from it for a hot minute. Mainly because I want to be able to write posts that make sense for you guys. Also because hangovers suck and I'm supposed to be looking for a job asides from chasing stardom. But mostly, because I want to be sober when Blogger finally B.O.N.'s me, if that ever happens.

This isn't a real post as much as it is a big fat thank you to all who've been so supportive of my recent demise and told me fabulous things like "You have Jesus!" and "Just drown in wine, you can do it!" And fuck yeah, Jesus is on my side and for sure I'm diving in a bottle of pinot this weekend.

Oh shit, wait.

There's no wine in Cuba... Gah, that means I'm going to have to drink that rubbing alcohol punch my cousin forced down my throat last time which sent me to the hospital and had me on a black tea diet for three days. If my ninja liver makes it this time, then for sure I'm bound for greatness...

The bestie Olivia took some time off her busy debauchery schedule while she was in Munich and sent me an email that put a smile on my face and hell yes I'm corny so I'm sharing it with you. She attached two pictures to the email and I opened them before reading and granted I was a bit confused by the first one.

That's me? What do you mean, that's me? I know it's been a tough couple of days but dayum I wasn't aware I looked like a dude. Let alone a white dude. Anyhow I opened the second attachment and read her email and it all made sense. Sort of.

I really hope there's some vodka in Cuba because seriously after this post I'm never getting B.O.N.'d... Not by Blogger, nor by Ricky Martin. Thank God I'm celibate for another 85 days.

Yes. I counted (don't judge me).

Update: I tried whoring this new post out on Facebook and I got this interesting little captcha. This isn't the first time Facebook tries to physically harm me, but what does this even mean?

p.s. Almost forgot! I did my first "guest post" over at my fabu friend Patty Punker's page on yesterday and it totally rocked. I didn't write anything, but I made drawings for her about peaches and blood and a bunch of other wonderful stuff that you'll be delighted to read :) Careful, she'll bite your head off if you piss her off.

Why anyone on earth would want me to draw stuff for their blog is an unsolveable mystery to me. No offense Pattylicious :)

Livin' La Vida Loca

This post was initially intended to be about penis heads (do not unfollow me!) but that's taken a second seat as life itself has been violently shoved to the forefront by a recent turn of events. Circumstances beyond my control compacted with a bout of delusion recently prompted me to do the stupidest shit the gutsiest thing ever and quit my job at the Church of Jesus Christ. I'd rather not discuss what led up to my rash and possibly stupid decision, but let's just say it was a long time coming.

People often react in a funny manner when they find out I work in a church and I must confess it kind of hurts my feelings, guys.

Then I get all offended and respond in the same manner every time:  

All jokes aside and truth be told, I've never known exactly what I was doing there. I mean, it was an interesting dynamic to see what goes on behind the scenes at a Christian church and I can attest to the fact that African-American Christians are the sweetest people on earth and they love cake as much as they love Jesus which makes them awesome in my book. What do you know? Maybe I just answered my own question and I worked at the Church of Jesus Christ because I love cake (and Jesus too when he's nice to me).

Anyhow, after making my decision to pull the quitting trigger and heading home in a daze, I found myself in that state of mind people often times do as they delve into the darkness that is depression and abandon themselves to the dumps. What the fuck am I going to do with this life of mine? I thought as I undressed in the shower and felt the tears threatening their downpour upon me. My mother's been hinting she'll disown my ass if I don't go back for my master's soon but I'm prepared to face that monster when the times comes because I hate school as much as I hate celery and trust me, that's a whole lotta' hate.

That Friday night, I thought a warm bath might possibly help bring me clarity, so I turned on the ipod into shuffle mode and got ready to battle the imminent tears. I soon discovered when the music started playing that this was no war for amateurs and the tears would be making their way out, like it or not. I was pretty close to winning the crying game when Michael Bolton had to come and fuck everything up for me!

Bruno just sat there watching me weep and howled along to the music as snot dripped out of my nose and my body shook in anger and dissapointment. If there's something worse than crying so hard spittle is shooting out of your mouth, it's doing it while you're naked and Michael Bolton is belting it out in the background while your dog looks all confused but decides to cry along too because "Hey, some shit must be really wrong." As I stood there drenched in snot and tears and spittle and water I couldn't help but marvel at the irony of it all. And then, as if Jesus Christ himself was mocking me from above:

And just like that, something told me that thing's were going to be alright, even if I have to endure some tough times prior to seeing the light at the end of the vodka tunnel.

Just don't give up on me guys! You are warned that maybe my posts in the coming weeks may not make any sense as I try to decipher this thing I call life (as if it wasn't crazy enough before the very real possibility of kicking it under a bridge ninja-style with my dogs). Famosity is still within my reach... *insecure shrug*.

Sidenote: If you don't understand the Ricky Martin reference in this post then you're going to have to read back a little. Grab a beer while you're at it (and one for me too because not only am I now poor, but also unemployed).

Update: ... It's been brought to my attention that Jesus Christ is now following me. Apparently he still loves me, even if I did turn my back on him. HALLELUJAH! Now I have Jesus and the devil on my side. If this doesn't catapult me to stardom, then I don't know what will.

Oh Mah Gah Mondays: The-I'm-So-Depressed-I'm-Giving-You-Guys-a-Bonus-Edition

Good morning my peeps! I've been stuck home all weekend pondering on life's choices and why we sometimes pick the paths we do (I know I'm getting all philosophical but you'll understand why on the next post) hence I didn't have the honor of hunting down your usual Oh Mah Gah Monday disaster with a bow and arrow and the courage of Robin Hood. It's all good though, because my fabulous ninja-in-training Lola went out this Saturday night and had a little too much fun getting me all sorts of disastrous pictures so it's only right I hereby knight her the "OMGM Superwoman: Official Defender of all Things Classy."

Anyhow, I don't even have to say what's wrong with today's Oh Mah Gah Monday winners because words wouldn't suffice and you guys are better at describing them anyway... Tomorrow's post may be a bit of a Debbie Downer (sorry!) but at least I can say that there's nudity AND Ricky Martin in it... so you might just enjoy it. Til' tomorrow my little vampires.

Just B.O.N. Me Already!

Lately, it's becoming more and more apparent to me that Blogger is out to destroy my chances at "famosity" by making a mockery of my Blog of Note attempts. I have asked them on repeated occasions to make me famous and they deliberately choose to ignore me, meanwhile picking blogs like this one and this one over my ridiculous, albeit slightly funnier, blogster. Now guys, please tell me what it is these blogs have that mine does not? Asides from misspelled words and lack of punctuation, that is.

The last choice hasn't posted anything in over a month! I mean, really?!? Her last post mentioned a tornado and hail so God knows where the heck she is, unaware she's been bestowed the fabulous Blog of Note crown meanwhile I'm here sacrificing chickens to get noted all the while Blogger ignores the shit out of me.

Below is a trail of the conversations I've had with Blogger via Twitter so you see the extent at which Blogger is laughing at my expense (yes, they're conversations and the fact they only go one way is a minor technicality).Here are the chickens I sacrificed for them. I'm a supporter of PETA so I can't actually kill any real chickens. It's the thought that counts, guys.

But do you guys think that Blogger cares? Nope. They could give three shits about me and my impending need for famosity or the fact that I'm too poor to eat real chickens yet I'm sacrificing twenty just for them.
Whatever. You lose some, you gain some. My wonderful new internet friend Sono made me some brownies yesterday and sent them to me via email which I thought was pretty awesome since they're absolutely delicious with none of the calories.

Take that, Blogger! I have yummy calorie- free brownies and what do you have? A blog about taxis and a bunch of dead chickens.

Facebook Is Out To Murder Me, But It's Okay 'Cuz I'm a Ninja Assassin.

You know how sometimes you're on Facebook and someone friend requests you but you have no idea who they are but you still add them because they're attractive or you're just an attention whore trying to get more readers on your blog so you can become famous and not have to make a sex tape with Ricky Martin against his will? Awesome.

A few months back this guy requested me and I agreed to be "Friends" even though I had no clue as to his identity and after I hit "approve" I immediately forgot who he was and then I moved on with the rest of my mad existence when some weeks later my little notifications' icon informed me that this dude had responded to some questions about me in a quiz and I was all curious to know how he answered because really, who the fuck was this person?
How would he know ANYTHING about me. So here's the quiz and how he fared in answering.
Then I thought it would be cute if I went on dude's page and left him a comment so all his friends could see that I existed and come to my blog and cyber stalk me eventually propelling me into inevitable famosity (not a word but soon to be).

And so I posted my comment and got back to life when I received this little gem in my inbox a few hours later.


You can't really appreciate the magnitute of my masterpiece in that email so here's the real deal.
I waited patiently for an invite to an official duel but she never replied, guys. And here I was getting all excited meanwhile filing my ninja sword.

Oh Mah Gah Mondays: Neon Edition.

One thing I definitely discovered (and loved) in Toronto was that as far as fashion was concerned, the more color the better. It was all about the brights up there in the land of waterfalls and to a budding fashionista, that was a breath of fresh air, considering Miami fashions tend to err on the boring borders of blacks, jeans, and too-tight tops.

Of course you have your bright fashions, and then, you have this.

Ay guys... I really hate having to be the evil witch of this episode and put her out there like that, but I just cannot let this sort of behavior go unnoticed. I want to, I do. But I can't. It's not that I have a problem with neon hair or anything, especially if you're in your teens, which this young lady most certainly was. It's just the combination of it all that was ghastly. The dress was two sizes too small, causing her little back fats to just pop out in a jarring manner that said, "Set me free!"

But let's face it, the real dealbreaker here was the hair. I mean, does it really have to match the dress so perfectly? She looks like she belongs in a Disney movie for rejects. I can so see unicorns and rainbows and cotton candy and an evil witch floating about her. Take a peek inside my brain's vision of this.

Happy Monday my kiddies (even if there's only ten minutes left of it).

Chronicles Of a Miami Memorial Weekend (Final Part): Recovering Crackheads And a Filthy Cockroach

Remember when I said I'd finish the last part of my Memorial Weekend saga in five days?

Well... that was ten days ago, so I’m obviously a liar. Or not good at keeping my promises. Either way I have failed to deliver the goods and I'm giving you permission to punish me as you see fit.

***Let me just point out that I think the worse possible acts of punishments come in vodka or cupcake form, because those things are awful and no one else should have to endure them, except me.

There's no sense in beating around the bush so here’s the end to the weekend that turned me into a vampire and made me lose all faith I had left in nighclubs, rehab, cheap vodka, ghetto men and their ability to kill cockroaches.

Whatever. Just read.
The fact that I even remember any of this is proof enough that I am beyond mortality. I'm on a whole other level right now, or at least my liver is.

After Saturday night's toilet paper and Taco fiasco, I slept a total of four hours and was awoken by the sound of my house phone (that fucking thing is going to drive me to drink) telling me there were two vampires in training waiting for me downstairs.
10:30 a.m. Lola and my buddy Sad are rushing me along to get ready for a day of "eating and drinking" somewhere in South Miami. I'm dragging some major ass all the while trying to make my hair do something that doesn't defy gravity, but once again, I fail. I throw on the first wrinkled dress I find, change purses and dash out the door to greet the troublemakers.
10:55 a.m. I ask Lola to please drive to McDonalds so I can buy ten cheeseburgers for my dogs, as it is obvious that today is not off to a good start and God knows when I'll be able to feed them again. Ten minutes later I'm upstairs handing out burgers when I realize those jerks at McDonalds gave me two cheeseburgers without meat! I can't just feed my dogs bread and cheese! What kind of a heartless person would do such a thing? I call bullshit.11:42 a.m. We arrive at Cheesecake Factory with the intentions of eating lunch and killing last night's major hangover with a carb overdose. Instead, we each have three drinks and munch with little interest on a few chicken quesadillas.

2:32 p.m. Knocking back some beers at a quaint little beer bar in Sunset Place called Cervezas. The walls here are covered with cheap cocktail art and signs that I just know are reading my mind. It's totally creeping me out.
6:10 p.m. I arrive home in a rush to shower and "un-cavewoman" myself before bursting through my door once again to go to Sunday happy hour with my buddy Elly.


7:22 p.m. Sitting at the outdoor bar of RA restaurant with Elly, drinking the most delicious mango margarita ever made by man. Only five dollars, y'all. Good til' midnight.



8:25 p.m. I seriously don't even know how I'm alive and kicking by now. You would think that by this point I would be peeling myself up off the floor and asking someone to bury me at the nearest grave site. But alas! That isn't the case. As I sip my second margarita, I'm completely clear headed and my thoughts are like needles, sharp as all hell.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.


9:05 p.m. My phone is ringing off the hook and people whose names I don't know just pop up randomly on the screen. There's a dude named Sidekick that keeps calling and terrifying me. Every time he calls, I picture the Karate Kid coming to beat my ass with num chucks.
I don't answer.
I just ignore, ignore, ignore.
9:30 p.m. My Blackberry alerts me that the best friend is calling.
Me: Hey hey!
Olivia: Oh my God I am in Vegas right now and you so have to get your ass up here.
Me: I have a job honey, remember?
Olivia: Why?
Me: Because some of us don't spend all our time traveling and partying.
Olivia: That was the most hypocritical thing you've ever said to me. Take it back.
Me: Okay, fine. But I work because I have bills to pay and three mouths to feed.
Olivia: They're dogs! They don't need to eat that much.
Me: I'm hanging up now...
Olivia: No wait! I called because I wanted to tell you something. Guess who I ran into?
Me: Jesus.
Olivia: No, that's you. You're the one who works in a church, not me. Guess! Guess!
Me: I don't have time for this!
Olivia: You're ex-boyfriend. Rafa! And we're all here at Rehab and this pool party is crazy and I've had like ten shots of tequila and you should see all these skinny bitches walking around here with their six packs, it's disgusting. Hold on a second he wants to-
Rafa: Why aren't you here?
Me: Because I hate Vegas.
Rafa: Who hates Vegas?
Me: Vampires.
Rafa: You should be here.
Me: I know. I would've been there had Olivia told me she was going.
Rafa: She said you hated Vegas.
Me: I do. Anyway I gotta run. I miss you. We all have to hang.
Rafa: We will. This isn't the last trip of the year I'm sure.
Me: I'm flat broke, but we'll see what we can cook up.
Rafa: That's the spirit! Olivia's drunk. I'm hanging up now. Talk to you later.
Gah... is it really only nine?

9:32 p.m. I'm sipping on something yummy and fruity when I hear a loud commotion a few feet away. Girls are shrieking loudly and pointing at a dark shape on the floor when I spot it, the biggest fucking roach I've ever seen. This was like, the Arnold Schwarzenegger of roaches, guys. It was just chillin' there on the floor, while four ghetto guys stood around it looking stupefied, as if they'd never seen a Palmetto bug before in their lives.Once I gain my composure and am able to utter words that don't sound like, hmph crrsk killim, I frantically yell at the guys to please kill the roach and put us all out of our misery. They just stand there, the pussies.
Taking matter into my own hands, I jump out of my stool and march over to the stupid roach, fueled by the courage that is Jose Cuervo.
I ninja chop the roach with my heel and the crunchy sound that follows assures me that yes, we are all safe.

I look up at the ghetto guys half-expecting to see relief on their faces, yet all they give me are indignant looks that scream, how dare you? They proceed to put a napkin over the roach and slowly step away from it. I was seriously hoping they'd hold hands and say a prayer, begging Jesus to please take this roach's soul into the eternal gates of heaven, but they didn't.
Twenty minutes later my friend Roxy calls and begs me to join her in South Beach for some salsa dancing. If you didn't read Part I, then all you need to know is this: South Beach is off limits on Memorial Day weekend. Even for me, that's too much madness. Roxy lives out of town and I have a hard time declining her invite, so what's a girl to do? On the way south, I make sure to pick up Lola and two flasks of cheap vodka, the only sidekicks I'm happy to see flash up on my phone.

11:12 p.m. It would be a futile effort to try and describe the madness that is South Beach once we arrive. If aliens landed on earth tomorrow and the apocalypse was taking place meanwhile vampires, ninjas and zombies all roamed freely, that's how it is right about now. Only that everyone is drunk. And happy. And possibly on drugs.

11:37 p.m. We arrive at a latin bar we love called Macondo ready to attack our flasks when...

Fackkkkkkkkkkkkkk.

Lola asks me if I'd like to take a few shots of our Exxon Mobile gasoline flasks prior to entering Macondo. Does she even need to ask?
And so we hike it up back to the car and brace ourselves for a few shots of the jet fuel needed to brave the night. Had we known where it would later take us, we would've never swallowed the poison in the first place.

Inside Macondo the music is jumping and there's Latin energy to spare. We dance for a few hours until the crowd is unbearable and way too many people have stepped on our feet and the bartender who's in love with Roxy has given us way too many rounds of free drinks. My mind is no longer sharp as needles. I can honestly say that at this point it's pretty dull, like pre-school scissors. Or something like that.
2:05 a.m. We've just left Macondo and are on our way to calling it a night when we pass Heathrow Lounge, a rock-star mega-club in its heyday that now only hosts VIP parties once in a blue moon. As we walk by the now empty club and it's glass walls, I spot two guys on the inside and smile, glad that in less than an hour, traffic permitting, I'll be in my bed. Once again I got a little ahead of myself, as those are not the plans the party gods have intended for me on this fine night. As we walk by, one of the guys behind the glass waves at me and beckons for us to come inside the club. I motion with my hands what I can only hope translates my confusion, meanwhile he continues to wave us towards the door. Lola looks at me and says, "Why not?"

And with this, we enter the emptiness that is now Heathrow Lounge with our two new friends, Christian and Stanley.
2:21 a.m. Heathrow is one of those rare places in Miami where the decor isn't overly trendy or tacky. In fact, it's grandeur is so breathtaking and its theme so original, it boggles my mind as to why it's not one of the most popular nightclubs in South Beach. Nevertheless tonight I get a private tour of a club I've wanted to come to for months, even if it is super dark in here and Roxy and I bump against robots and knights as we explore and take pictures, meanwhile Lola and our new friends mix free drinks behind the bar.
3:05 a.m. We've made the rounds of introductions and background checks over a few spiked energy drinks. It's becoming apparent that tonight I will get no sleep and tomorrow will be a sea of regrets and forgotten memories. Our new friends, Christian and Stanley, both work for this lovely establishment and have proven themselves to be quite the hosts. At this juncture it's obvious that Roxy has the hots for Stanley and Christian, has the hots for me.
As the conversation progresses, we learn that Stanley is a recovering crack addict who has just celebrated his 10th month sober. I give Roxy a look that says "project" but she pretends not to notice, giggling at his every word and nodding giddily when he asks her if she'd like a tour of the upstairs lounge. This leaves Christian, Lola and yours truly to our own devices. By this point Lola has picked a couch in which she's snoring blissfully, dreaming of unicorns and rainbows I'm sure (her two favorite things when under the influence).

Christian is sitting on the couch next to me and as my exhaustion washes over me, I ask him if it's okay to lay my head on his lap, to which he has no opposition. We talk for what seems like hours and the conversation flows easily, I allow my guard down in a manner I only do with close friends. It feels nice to just be able to talk to someone of the opposite sex without any expectations or hidden agendas. The conversation eventually flows in the direction of friendships and I ask him to tell me about his best friend.
"You promise you won't freak out if I tell you," he says, shifting a little under me.

"I promise," I assure him.

"My wife. She's my best friend."

I smile and squeeze his hand reassuringly. He says he would've tried hitting on me otherwise but he's a "one woman man." I tell him it's nice to know a normal person with values in this hell of a city and sink deeper into his lap, the roof above me shimmering with glow-in-the-dark stars. We continue talking with a newfound respect for one another and it dawns on me that it's been a long time since I've relaxed like this with a man, even if he is a married stranger. I lay on his lap and close my eyes as I revel in the comfortable silence, stealing a rare minute of relaxation in this whirlwind of a weekend.
A few minutes later, the sudden smell of marijuana permeates our space and I ask him if he knows where it's coming from, worried.

Christian: That's just Stanley. I'm sure him and your girl are having some fun up there, no big deal.
Me: I thought he was sober?
Christian: Yeah, from crack.

Oh. Well that explains it all.
6:07 a.m. We all emerge from the club and into the sunlight, drunk off our lack of sleep, new friendships, second hand marijuana smoke, and alcohol. Seeing that Lola's daughter is with her grandparents for the weekend, she drives us all to her place where we crash for the remainder of the morning. I am assigned Little Person's bedroom as my sleeping quarters and I think I get into bed after a few glasses of water.

11:35 a.m. I have a pretty strong aversion to the color pink, especially cotton candy pink, which reminds me of Paris Hilton and Pepto Bismol. It's only right that this morning, I wake up surrounded by a thousand shades of that same exact pink, wondering where in the hell I am and how I got here.
I groggily stumble out of Little Person's bed and check my phone, which only doubles the magnitude of my jumbled thoughts as soon as I focus on the screen.
I don’t even know what to say here. Who are these people?

And with this confusion I end my weekend. Partly because it’s morning time, but mostly, because I need to drink some blood before I die.