Birthday Blog

Okay -- I wrote this many many months ago, in anticipation for the one year anniversary of my blog (this was before I abandoned it for half a year.. but any excuse to celebrate!) which explains the fervent devotion in my tone even though this is only my third post in the last six months. It also explains the nicknames, which I don't use anymore (I just got tired of making them up), and the friend I'm talking to, with whom I'm no longer in touch, much less partaking in drunken arguments with. But everyone deserves a birthday, no matter how belated, so --

Happy birthday, blog! I love you. One year ago today we started on this long, windy (as in twisty, not gusty) journey into my self-indulgent pratterings and here we are, 365 days later, going strong.

Oh? What's that, you say? You want to know how much I love you?

Fine, here is a birthday anecdote.

Once upon a time, mere weeks after your creation, I was drunk and having an argument with Tando (also drunk). As often is the case with drunken happenings, I can't quite recall the details. I do know that it was late and we were outside and there was yelling (possibly on my part) and throwing of beer cans that weren't quite empty (also on my part, maybe) and a lot of using swear words because they make me laugh (it's starting to sound like I was the only one having an argument here). In any case, after a lot of me stomping dramatically around in an intimidating fashion and defying Tando to bring up even one example that would support his cause, he cited you. And that totally shut me up. Because I had no idea he knew about your existence, let alone read you.
"W-what?" I stuttered. "You read my blog?"
"Yes?" he replied, looking confused, probably because he suddenly wasn't having to dodge flying aluminum or urging me to be quiet before the police come.
"How do you know about my blog?" I pursued.
"It's on your facebook," he said, confusion not alleviated in the least.
"Well, I didn't think people would actually notice it--"
"Then why would you put it on there in the first place--"

This was not what the argument was about.
"Anyway," he said, trying to steer us back on track, "on your blog you specifically say that --"
I put a hand on his arm and looked at him so seriously he interrupted himself. "What?"
"Did you like it?"
"Yes," he said, exasperated, "but--"

And that's about as much as I remember because I tuned him out after that and started thinking about you, and how great you are because you have always been there for me, through thick and thin and drunken, irrational posts and sober, irrational posts, and just everything. And I love you. Happy birthday, blog.

It Was Really Just Good Clean Fun

I am Mentally Incapable. It's Confirmed.

Oh man, I don't even know where to begin. Well actually I began by totally deleting the link to this blog off my facebook because that is just the kind of entry this is going to be.

So it all started with me wanting to go home for Chinese New Years. I'm pretty sure this was the catalyst because two things happen whenever I go home:

1. I get drunk the night before.

2. I have a lot of difficulty at the airport the next day.

I guess I don't learn lessons.

So on Thursday to cap off a two week period of midterms/fundraisers/dipping stuff I'm not allowed to eat in chocolate for five hours in one sitting/essays I got really drunk. I'm not going to go into details about the depths of my inebriation, but suffice to say it is a good thing I made that rule about wearing pants (or at the very least leggings) to parties way back in freshman year because I'm pretty sure at some point in the night I was not in total control of my limbs.

But this isn't really about the impressive amounts of cheap vodka I consumed or how I lost in semis in the beer pong tournament despite my amazing explosion shot to win the previous game or how around 2 AM I decided to play DJ and Maaron yelled at me for trying to put on old P. Diddy songs.

This is about the dangers of the morning after. So listen carefully, kids. You'll want to avoid the mistakes I made.

First of all - I'm not going to mince words - I looked like shit Friday morning. I had gotten home at four AM and by the time I showered (I have to shower before I get into bed no matter how opposite of sober I am - yes I am the epitome of hygiene) and dragged my dizzy self into bed it was god knows what time. And since I had a flight to catch at 1:30 I had changed my work hours that day to 8-11 and if you know me at all you'll know what a rough morning I had by the fact that I WORE GLASSES. Yes. Out in public.

The whole day was actually really comical in that kind of hazy, hungover, oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening way.

Let's list them:

1. The glasses thing. Trust me, it was serious. On top of that I was late because have you ever tried to wake up at seven after two hours of sleep while hungover? Then you understand why I didn't have time to put on make up or consider what to wear because I ended up in a pair of shiny red pants (I actually like these pants, and I totally wronged them with the rest of my outfit), this completely non-matching cream top and my Prolit sweatshirt. And purple moccasins. I basically looked like the personification of a hangover. Before I left I looked in the full length mirror by my front door and could only shake my head.

2. I had to bring my luggage to work since I was leaving straight from the office. I also had to bring the crushgrams that my co-workers bought for me. And I am so sick of hearing about them from the fundraiser that I don't want to explain but basically it was a six pack of glass soda bottles. Which I precariously balanced on my rolling suitcase while walking the four blocks to work. In my glasses. It felt like some sort of strange and strenuous dream.

3. Luckily my work is awesome so everyone sympathized and gave me different bits of advice on how to not die but THEN. Oh my god. This is kind of complicated but basically what happened was that Tando came into the office for the first time since he stopped working there, and I don't want to get into details but I was SO MAD that the one day I come into work looking like shit he happens to have an errand up at the office. When he came in through the door I lifted my head from its resting place on the table and was like "Jesus, please tell me you are joking," but nope. And I'm not saying that I look gorgeous when I step into the office everyday but I definitely don't usually look like a TellyTubby got drunk and threw up and the puke put on glasses and became me. And it's not like I'm trying to impress anyone but seriously. Talk about adding insult to injury.

4. Did you know airports had terminals? Well me and my hangover didn't. I'd never taken any airline other than Southwest from LAX, and Southwest is at terminal 1 right next to the security. So since I was already checked in for my United flight I was like "oh I'll just get off at Southwest because I'll be closer to security." Uh WRONG. United is at terminal 7. I was so confused. I literally had to text Arrow because I was like WTF WHERE AM I? And because he is the best friend a hungover girl can ask for (and has a strangely comprehensive understanding of the LAX floorplan) he directed me to the right place. It's not interesting enough to go in depth into but let me just tell you a shuttle was involved. That was how far I was from my flight.

5. The shuttle went to the ARRIVALS section of terminal 7. And there was this one other middle aged guy on the shuttle who got on and off at the same stops as I did (which helped because I was like oh hey I'm not the only one who makes these mistakes, and this guy doesn't even look hungover so he soberly made this mistake) so I started following him and he KEPT LOOKING BACK worriedly at me. I mean I was looking a mess and probably had on a pretty grim expression because I was wondering if I would miss my flight and also mentally vowing to never drink again but still after the fifth time he looked back I was starting to feel like an old-person stalker. Which didn't really help.

6. I made it to my gate in the nick of time. My flight was delayed. For two hours. My laptop and phone both ran out of batteries so I couldn't tell my dad when I was taking off. I had to pee but I couldn't because they loaded us onto the plane and THEN announced the delay. (I don't like airplane bathrooms.) I sat behind a crying baby.

Oh and on my way to the Flyaway shuttle I was telling Mango how I will never ever drink again and he gave me a baleful look and was like "you always say that. but you always do again" and I was like "oh this must be what it's like to be an alcoholic parent."

And that was my Friday. Happy Chinese New Year's everyone.

The Sequel.

So if you're wondering how a bad day can get worse, wonder no more.

Apparently I've forgotten that Mango is not the kind of person one goes to to be comforted because I went over to his place last night. This is the first conversation we had:

Me: It's been a crappy day.

Mango: Aww, is it because they canceled your class?

Me: No, it's becau--

Mango: Yes it is.

Me: What? No it's not.

Mango: Yes, I know it is.

Me: No, I could not care less about that class.

Mango: Yes you could.

This is the second conversation we had:

Mango: Remember that time I blocked you on AIM?

Me: Uhm, no...

Mango: Yeah it was an accident but I totally forgot about you until a few months later when I was like "hey Carolyn hasn't been online in a while" and I checked and you were blocked and I unblocked you and you were there.

Me: Great.

This is the third conversation we had:

Mango: Where's Laycon?

Me: At my place. (The rest of) my apartment invited him over for dinner.

Mango: Why don't they ever invite us?

Granted that was a valid question but a really shitty pep talk. And then after that he got into bed and promptly fell asleep and it was just all so depressing that I wanted to kill myself. But instead I went home and got in bed because I heard that sleep is like temporary death and I figured it would be a safe reprieve when one does not have the proper drugs is not yet ready for the real thing. And that was around 8 o'clock which would explain why I'm up at seven.

And you know how they say things look better in the morning? That is incorrect. And to make things weirder I woke up with these mystery scratches all over myself so either a cat snuck into my bed or I rolled over a razor blade while I was sleeping. I guess that's the problem with temporary death -- when you wake up you still have to face the scratches.

Non-Suicidey Things.

So last night Stuffin made an observation about how I mentioned suicide in my last three blog posts. And I feel very contrite about this because suicide is no laughing matter, and while I may joke about things like how I might have a drinking problem or at the very least some anger issues, suicide might not be as socially acceptable to write about in so cavalier a manner. Although I would like to point out that if I were really anywhere near killing myself I wouldn't be broadcasting it every other day, so this is really more a cry for help. Speaking of which, I haven't exactly received any concerned phone calls from you guys. It's like you're encouraging my suicidal thoughts. So really I think you're at fault here, not me.

In any case, though, I will try to focus on non-suicidey things. And what is more non-suicidey than life? Even better, new life. That's right, I'm pregnant. No, totally kidding. What I'm actually talking about are the two little additions to my apartment in the form of the Y's pet mice. Unless you are my landlord, in which case I'm talking about ice cream. Boy, I love ice cream. Also, when are you going to fix our kitchen sink?

So the Y got these pet mice because we recently had some mice-drama, which I may have to tell you all about another time because I think there are still legal issues pending over that whole debacle. But the end result is that we have these two mice sitting in a nice little plastic cage in our living room, and they are tiny and adorable and everyone spends hours cooing over them and counting their poops or whatever and IT FREAKS ME THE EFF OUT.

Okay, it's not that bad. I mean I'm pretty fond of creatures, but to be very honest with you I'm kind of more fond of creatures that acknowledge my existence. Like if I had a puppy that ran up to me whenever I came in the front door and fetched me milk tea when I'm studying (it's a super genius puppy) I would name it Archibald Hamilton III and love it. But for things like turtles and mice that are really really small and don't know what a human is, it kinda freaks me out to have them nearby. I don't mind them in the wild. Like when I went to Hawaii and saw fish while I was snorkeling I was like "oh cool fish!" and then I left it in its natural habitat (the Pacific Ocean) and it left me in mine (the cookie shop around the corner from my hotel) and we were all very happy.

But now the little unaware-I-exist animals have entered my apartment and I'm nervous. After all the Y went through I definitely did not have the heart to tell her she can't keep her critters here (although I did draw the line at the bedroom; I don't want to wake up and find the mice staring at me in a curious but cruelly careless manner--that's how mice stare, fyi) but I have a few reservations.

First, critters smell. Even puppies smell, which sucks. The only puppy I've ever met that smelled good was this little five month old one that had never been outside his owner's mansion and who had puppy cologne in the bathroom. But all other animals have a smell that I'm not really excited to have wafting through my living room. I'm hoping that the mice are small enough and that the Y loves cleaning cages enough that this won't really be an issue.

The main problem I think is the scratching. I CAN'T TAKE THE SCRATCHING. I'm sitting in the living room as I type this and the cage is on the end table behind me and every so often there will be a loud persistent scratching sound and I think "oh god I hope the mouse doesn't scratch its way out and end up in my hair" and it went on for so long that I turned around to say "stop it" but then I noticed the sound wasn't even from the mouse scratching, it was from it drinking from that little ball tube water drinky thing that little animals have. And so I felt really really guilty about telling it to stop drinking because I don't want it to be dehydrated, but another part of me felt like "oh my god it's going to make that sound every time it gets water?" and then I get a headache and need to rehydrate myself. With vodka.

Good Luck to Those Who Plan on Reading This in its Entirety.

So I know I've been saying this a lot lately, which at some point might get worrisome, but please don't expect anything I write in this post to make sense. If you have to blame my incoherence on something, try this: I've just sung along to "Breathe" by Taylor Swift like thirty times on repeat (which has driven all my friends out of my immediate vicinity) but it's weird because I'm not really like empathizing with her lyrics or anything. I mean, it's a sad break-up song but I haven't gone through a terrible break-up in... a long time. Which I think might be it. I'm not saying I want some guy to waltz into my life and stomp on my heart until he makes heart-wine, but to be totally honest, I'm kind of bored out of my mind.

And when I get bored terrible things happen. There are really only two outcomes. One is that things continue this way until I throw a huge tantrum and freak everybody the eff out and people start putting me on suicide watch because I'm dressing in all black and muttering ominously about "fate's cruel games" and brandishing the knife a little too enthusiastically when I'm cooking. Okay, that might be kind of an exaggeration. I don't really like wearing black. Nor do I cook, for that matter. Anyway the more probable result is that I do something kinda big and drastic in the hopes that it will change my life, which it usually does not.

Example A would be my tattoos. So yeah, I have these tattoos. They're actually really tiny for the dual reasons that I'm poor and also that I freaked out when the tattoo artist was like "okay I can extend it but then it'll go across your ribs and that will hurt more" and I was like "whoa there buddy, I'm already letting you jackhammer your needle into my skin, let's not get carried away onto the bones" and he was like "you're the one who wanted them bigger" and I was like "that's what she said" and then it was awkward because I had to take my shirt off and lie in this strange position for thirty minutes while he inked me. Also, I bled. I had no idea blood was involved. Luckily that kind of stuff doesn't freak me out. Like, I'm cavalier about it to the point where I'm like "hmm I want to watch a movie this weekend. I should go donate some blood so I can get free movie tickets" and then I attempt to do that and fill out all the paperwork ("are you a male who went to Eastern Europe and had homosexual relations between the years of 1975 and 1985?") and then the doctor pricks my finger and tells me I don't have enough iron to qualify for life-saving because my body is retarded and then I have to pay for my movie ticket so no one wins. Except the movie theater I guess.

Anyway, I have tattoos because I was bored and I was turning 20 and I was like "jesus christ I'm going to be twenty years old and I haven't done anything with my life (this was before I went on my adventurous little trek through Europe)" and I figured I should do something like go to South America and hike through the rainforest but humidity makes my hair all frizzy so instead I took the bus to Venice beach and paid some guy to permanently alter my body. So that's one example.

The aforementioned Europe trip was another. I was in my second year in college and I was like "oh god I'm so bored with my life" so I signed up to go study abroad but I had to apply like a few months before the program began and in the interim I got bored again and that is why I ended up planning myself a three week trip through some of Europe's must-see cities.

And the time before that I cut off all my hair so that it was the shortest it'd been in at least ten years.

And then I did a few things in between those things that are not really suitable to be made common knowledge but the point is all these temporary distractions are all good and well and sometimes even permanent but they don't actually change my life. Which is why I'm bored again, and trying to think of ways to distract myself. My default when I'm not feeling creative is usually just cutting my hair even shorter, but for some reason I've been getting a lot of compliments on my hair lately. This is puzzling to me because whenever I look in the mirror my immediate reaction is something like "oh my god why does my head look like a beach ball?" but who am I to argue with the public's opinion? Okay, so it's like three people but you know what, I am considerate of everyone's feelings. So instead of cutting it I'm thinking of dyeing it purple.

Or going to Vegas. That would be really awesome because I just watched The Hangover and now I really want to go back. This is weird, because I don't want to experience any of the things the guys in the movie did, but I really just enjoy visiting a city where "wasted" is an acceptable condition to be in while strolling through public. Actually, it might still be frowned upon (I remember stumbling with my friend through a shopping area of a hotel and passing by these little kids on vacation with their family and loudly whispering "we are setting a terrible example. KIDS DON'T BE LIKE US") but as far as I know I wasn't arrested so it's still better than most other cities.

Okay so it's one in the morning and I just wrote like thirty paragraphs about how freaking bored I am of my life so if anyone should be put on suicide watch it's probably you, since you got all the way down here. So I will do you a favor and end this by saying: black is not a good color on you.

What Work Ethic?

Hello. I was home all alone today, because even Iz has a part time job right now. It's actually a pretty sweet deal: she tests hardware products at the company where our dad works for 8 hours a day and gets paid $12/hour. I had the same job for a few summers in high school; it's as boring as it sounds but the pay is relatively decent. And plus our dad buys lunch.

So even though I worked all summer I haven't saved up much, thanks to rent and food (my aversion to cooking is really very financially crippling) and little side trips to Vegas. For a while I considered asking my dad if he could get me a few hours in the lab alongside my sister, but two things changed my mind.

The first was my mom telling me that she thinks the lab manager would have to cut another temp's hours in order to create the extra position for me. I may be poor but I am not poor enough to have to snipe jobs away from other, potentially poorer workers. I have more integrity than that. Plus it would be easier to just steal from orphans.

The second was that, if you recall, I was kind of hungover the day I got home, which would explain why I slept for like seven hours from mid-afternoon to early evening. By the time I dragged myself out of bed to go rummage in the fridge (I'm a lovely, attractive human being, I know), my mom had already been wondering what was wrong with me for a good half hour.

"You're so tired," she said, hovering over me while I searched for juice (in vain, apparently no one in my family believes in beverages because I always come home to a fridge full of water and despair). "Working full time in LA must have exhausted you. You can rest for the next three weeks. No need to work anymore."

Her tone brooked no argument and I was hardly in the condition for a show down.
"Sure," I said, giving up both my desire to quench my thirst and any dreams of augmenting my now-nonexistent income. "Can we get juice?"

Which is why I felt very unproductive a few hours ago lying on my yoga mat while the instructor crooned, "Now just relax.. let go of all the stress of the day.. all the busyness of the world... our worlds are so hectic, just take this time for yourself.." And then I felt kind of like an imposter, because while all the other people around me were trying to loosen up after a day at the office and emptying their minds and letting in light and energy and compassion or whatever, I was actually kind of annoyed because honestly? Yoga was the most stress I was going through that day. Not that it was actually stressful, but it's hard to do anything with less stress when what you've done all day is alternately eat candy, watch tv and marvel at the wonders of memory foam. And then the instructor said something about taking a walk down your throat until you reach a private beach (seriously) and it was so disturbing that I blocked out her voice entirely and started thinking about school and and then I got kind of stressed out. And my back hurt. So I think yoga was bad for me.

In conclusion, I need a job, my house needs juice, and my yoga instructor needs some better 'relaxing' imagery.

Why I'm Not a Phone Person. Or a Listening Person. Just Read This.

If you ever feel like you are talking to me but I am not really listening to you, don't be offended; it is because I use up my entire year's worth of listening ability in three weeks at home.

Let me explain. If you've ever met my sister, you might think she is the reason. But my mom is exactly the same. Having them around is like having two machine guns constantly going off except that instead of shooting bullets they are using words. Sometimes I'm not sure which one is worse. Kidding, I love my family. I might love them more if I invested in some ear plugs though.

No, I'm sorry. I know I got half this trait. I'm like a balance of my parents. Sometimes I won't tell you anything and sometimes you can't get me to shut up. Anyway, when my dad calls me our conversations last for four minutes max, unless he happens to get a business call on the other line and I have to wait for like minutes before either he comes back and says "hey, I have to take this, everything's okay with you? Okaygreatbye" or I get bored and hang up. When my mom calls, I have to clear my schedule for the next thirty minutes. At least. This is why I tend not to pick up her calls when I'm at work, in class, about to be in class, or studying. Or watching a tv show. Or movie. Or talking to my friends. Mostly I just call her when I'm walking somewhere or if I get left home alone. It's a pretty good system and usually works, unless my mom goes into Helicopter Mode and (as when I didn't pick up in Vegas) freaks out if I ignore a call. This often leads to text messages like this one from Iz while I was still in Vegas:

Hi moms worried call her back

Yeah, I didn't. Mostly because I read it at like 1 in the morning and was out of my mind drunk and I was like "wtf is this" and then fell asleep.

Or this one a few days later when I was taking a nap and ignored another call:

Mom asked me if anything is wrong with you and I said no.. And then she's like if somethings wrong you have to tell me >:O hmm?? And I was like there's nothing I dunno!! And she sighed a big one

And then later that night my mom reinforced the message with a text of her own:

Hi, baby, i wish you are doing good, if you got any problem, must let me know, ok? Love you!

And of course the whole "love you" thing stabbed me in the heart like a stake of guilt, so when I replied I was very, very assuring and only slightly annoyed as evidenced by my heavy use of exclamation marks, though I did soften it with a smiley:

Hi mommy, I'm fine!! Stop worrying! Just my last few days here so I'm seeing all my friends before I leave :) ok? See you soon!!

But I mean it was effective, because I got this in reply, and no phone calls for a good 12 hours or so:

Ok, that's good. Yeah, i think i worry too much. That's mom! :)

I guess it's kind of cute. And it's not like I totally ignore the calls on purpose, sometimes I just don't have the energy for the time and active listening this kind of phone call neccesitates. I hate talking on the phone but I guess my mom and sister don't have that problem.

But I totally went off course. My whole point is that as much listening as I need to do with them while I'm at school, it's a thousand times worse at home. Because there's two of them. And I think sometimes they team up on me.

For example, when I got off the airplane, Iz talked for like two hours straight. I'm serious, we went to get a late lunch and I'd already finished my pho (no easy feat, I was hungover and hadn't had a real meal in like 48 hours) and she still had a full bowl because she was way too busy chattering to eat. One of the things she told me about was how my mom had left watermelon slices in the sink overnight the other day by accident, and the next morning there were ants. Don't ask me the point of telling me that, the content of all our conversations are similar to this. But my point is my mom just came over (like literally five minutes ago) to tell me the exact same story. I'd given up trying to be polite about five years ago and whenever the beginning of a story sounds vaguely familiar, I try to quickly interject with "oh yeah, mom/Iz (depending on who's talking) told me already, haha!" This hardly ever works though, for example, this time my mom was like "oh, Iz told you? hahahah!" and then proceeded to retell the story in her own way, which was basically not very different from Iz's way. There are only so many ways to tell a story about watermelon slices in the sink.

And sometimes it's worse. Iz also told me a little 'story' about Poops' Chinese name and how hilarious it was that he wasn't sure what exactly it was and my mom spent like thirty minutes puzzling over it. Then when I got home, our mom attempted to tell me the same story, and Iz was there too, and I was like "oh yeah, Iz told me already, haha!" except before my mom could even have a chance to consider not telling the story, Iz said "ooh but I don't think I told it right! tell it again!" And of course the story was exactly the same.

Do you SEE what I have to deal with?? So yeah, if you're talking and I'm not listening, blame my family. Just don't try to talk to them about it. You'll never get off the phone.

One Liquid Diet to Another

So in the last two weeks in LA I've managed to save a lot of grocery money with one simple but brilliant solution: don't eat. Yeah, I know, I don't know why I never thought of it before. Well, I do know why, it's because my body has a weird little thing where it wants food all the time. But I've found a way around that: drink a lot of alcohol.

It goes like this.

Day 1: Drink a lot. Be too drunk to eat.
Day 2: Be too hungover to eat anything.

Repeat.

It works pretty well and it's gratifying not only because you save so much money but also because you get to be drunk a lot. The downside is that you also have to be hungover a lot.

Which brings me to a question. What is a hangover anyway? Recently I've had the sneaking suspicion that I get them but I can't really tell. My only symptoms are that everything feels really vague and funny and I keep wanting to dance. It's a lot like being drunk, actually. Drunk and on crack. Also, I always wake up really early the next day and my brain is all energetic but my body is like "nah I'm just gonna sit here and chill" which is also explains the whole not-eating thing even though I'm usually starving the next day.

Now, just to prove I'm not a total alcoholic, I'm going to switch topics. I'm at home now. Which means I spend most of my spare time sleeping (I have a memory foam mattress topper and it is my best friend here) or listening to my sister talk (not recommended for readers at home) or wondering if I went back in time because my parents are treating me like I'm seven, and I'm 21, right? Right?!

Anyway I have three weeks at home this summer and absolutely no plans so I'm going to go on a liquid diet. No, not that kind, the other kind. Something with juice I think. I researched it a while ago but apparently alcohol does not enhance the memory. Basically you drink a lot of this special cleansing juice for three days to a week and then you come out the other side like fifty pounds thinner and with all the toxins flushed out of you. I expect greater results because if I get all the alcohol-related toxins flushed out of me I would lose more than fifty pounds. Just kidding. Not really. Maybe?

Anyway my motivation for this cleanse has everything to do with my winter trip. This Christmas break my family is going to Taiwan to visit relatives and here would be a great time to reflect upon what happened the last time we did this:

Uncle, who has always been known as the 'chubby one' ever since he was little; in fact, when we were small my mom would refer to him as 'chubby uncle' to distinguish him from our five other uncles, upon coming into the room and seeing me for the first time in like five years: Oh my god! How did you get so fat?!
Me: WTF

That's pretty much an accurate recounting, except instead of saying "WTF" I just cried a lot and he felt bad and tried to apologize but I still haven't forgiven him and if I don't lose thirty pounds before December I'm totally not going to see him. I mean when you are a teenage girl (I was like 17 then.. this was very damaging to my psyche and if I have ever done anything to offend you you can blame my uncle for messing me up when I was trying to develop mentally and socially) and your fat uncle calls you fat then well that is enough to put a person off a semi-tropical island forever.

Jesus, what is this post about? If you didn't understand any of this don't blame me, I don't either. Blame it on the vestiges of this morning's hangover, or the really fuzzy 4 hours of travel, or listening to my sister talk for two hours over lunch, or drifting in and out of sleep between like 3 and 9 PM, or just the shock of living somewhere where I get told to turn my music down.

I need a drink.

10 Things I Learned in Vegas (Mostly About the Properties of Rum)

1. Rum will fuck you up. Bad. Seriously, you will be drunk for seven hours and then black out for like a day and a half and wake up back in your own room feeling weak and having trouble typing when you try to update your blog.

2. This is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, you had a great time in Vegas. If only you could remember it. Did you even go? Whatever. Someone had a great time. It was probably you.

3. When you go to a Vons in Vegas on an alcohol-buying expedition (because waiting for a cocktail waitress to bring you one vodka tonic at a time is too time consuming, even if it is free) and type in your rewards number and the check-out guy asks how you pronounce your last name and you say "Wang," he'll snicker but you can't do anything about it because he's probably part of the Vegas mob, like those guys who beat up that cute guy in the movie 21.

4. In the rare moments that you are sober you and all the friends you are with will think that there needs to be some excuse to drink excessively, so you will all drive around in the 100 degree Vegas heat looking for a sports store to buy ping pong balls for beer pong, and after two hours you'll finally find a Wal-Mart and get them, and then you'll go back to the hotel room and start taking straight shots of rum and suddenly no one can find the ping pong balls, much less have enough coordination to rearrange any furniture.

5. And you will all be so messed up you forget the ping pong balls in the hotel room the next day, and on the ride home you'll wonder if you're in a stoner movie.

6. If you work in an office that also happens to contract out a nice older gentleman who doesn't mind hanging out with a bunch of drunk kids, then you will get to hang out in his Four Seasons hotel suite, which is apparently at the top of the Mandalay Bay hotel, and you will be so impressed by the view that you start drinking until you can't see it anymore.

7. Also Four Seasons hotel suites have a total of three (count 'em, three!) sinks, and if you fill these along with the ice bucket full of ice, then you will have enough cold space to store a bottle of rum and 32 cans of beer.

8. And between the four of you, you will finish 21 cans of beer in an hour and a half, although that's not really a fair way to break it down because you only had four, and one guy had like fifteen, but that might not really be his fault because according to sources the next day you kept opening beer bottles because you liked the sound when it popped, and you'd drink like two sips and pass them to him.

9. Apparently public drunkeness is not a crime in Nevada. And neither is walking around with uncovered alcohol. And this is good because you've found out that when you're drunk you totally don't need food and can get by on one real meal and roughly 300 shots of rum. It's practically like you made money by going to Vegas.

10. You love Vegas.