sup.
things i am loving: fernando. princess by vera wang. ankle boots. khloe kardashian. twitter. my spring 2010 schedule. being done with idl FOREVER. red velvet cake with baby kerrys homemade cream cheese icing. tasty world. my kiddies at biblioteca pinewoods. charter on demand. guac. bedrock. diet dr pepper. flannel. AVATAR.
I will refrain from going into my love for avatar for those of you who have yet to see it. Not because I am afraid of giving away anything, but because if you haven't seen it you will most definitely judge me. You will probably think I have spiraled into a deep depression and should be on suicide watch, but I can assure you that neither of these things are true. Let's just leave it at this: if you have yet to see avatar, you must see it. MUST. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. RUN, don't walk, to your nearest cinematic venue. NOW.
It has come to my attention that pre-nursing is not my calling. As I was sitting in my first Childhood and Family Development class, the professor began to list off the topics that we would be covering over the course of the semester. She began to list off subjects such as child rearing, family counseling, mate selection. WAIT. MATE SELECTION?? I looked around the class at the 100+ girls on the verge of creaming themselves at the prospect of being taught how to get their MRS degree without the trying task of actually having to obtain a degree. It was at that moment that I be came so fully at peace with the idea of purging pre-nursing from my life. The professor went on to tell us how many emails had been flooding her inbox of prospective students that couldn't enroll in the class because it had filled up so fast. I could not wait to get as far away as possible from that perfectly coiffed woman and her army of bimbo TAs. And so I did. I went straight home and dropped that "class" from my schedule, along with my short-lived dream of becoming a nurse. Chadios medicine. Helloooo rando liberal arts degree and misguided optimism about life after college.
Please do not take my lack of blogging as a lack of awesomeness in my life. My life freaking rules, rest assured. A couple of examples, completely gratuitous:
-NYE: the new year was rang in with party sneaks, lbds, and andre. and rum and vodka and white wine and beer, but who's counting? I woke up in the morning with an assortment of clues as to what had happened the night before. For one, I was in bed with Betsy. Score. I did not drunkenly invite any penises into bed with me. Next, I couldn't gather enough saliva to swallow. Although my head was suggesting that I had perhaps been in a three-car pile-up or a freak train accident, I felt it was safe to say that drinking was to be held accountable. Upon standing, I suddenly was in desperate need of a receptacle to catch fluids. With my head engulfed in porcelain, it was made clear that I had only consumed clear liquids. I took this as a good sign. When I regained my strength, I exited the bathroom and was greeted with an array of neon stickers along the living room and dining room walls. Definitely a clue, but I couldn't quite place my finger on the origin of 1979's new wall art. The beverage fountain was still full of cheap white wine, so I couldn't have drank too much of that. NICE! The kitchen was covered in a carpet of bar tar. Legitimate bar tar. In my kitchen. I knew exactly what that clue meant--1979 throws badass house parties!! I discovered more clues when I went to change out of my dress.. party wounds: two twin bruises the size of golf balls on either side of my lower back, one the size of a tennis ball on my left thigh, and a debatably broken nose. Easy--these clues all point to BADASS NYE! Nancy Drew ain't got nothing on this.
-CHARLIE WEEKEND: THE WEEKEND THAT COULD. Tasty world was host to the perfect storm of eurotrash and rage on Friday night, and of course we were at the heart of it all. I am a sexy bitch. Charlie is a sexy bitch. We were fist pumpin like champs and we lived happily ever after. Saturday night 1979 hosted a rousing round of edward forty hands, the game where everybody wins. Somewhere between finishing the forties and wine pong, I morphed into that girl. After passing out at the dining room table, Scott carried me to my bed. I rallied to play catchphrase LIKE A CHAMP but then passed out on the couch. I woke up on the OTHER couch, wishing helplessly that the hangover fairy would bring me a diet coke and brush my teeth.
And the countdown has begun: 26 days until the princess turns 21. Oh my gaga.
peace love and avatar
