Thou shalt always keep a bottle of bubs on hand for special occasions. Or Wednesdays.

I'm relatively organized. I buy Birthday cards months in advance (I'll admit that I might be single-handedly keeping the Post Office alive and I'm ok with this.), I know exactly where my missing sock is hiding in the floordrobe (wardrobe + floor) that is my bedroom, and I keep all of my important paperwork in one place, clearly labeled. So, I grab the folder marked "CAR STUFF" and set it out so I can take it with me in the morning to complete my errand. On a whim, I open the folder to check that everything is there and low and behold, I find a sticky note that reads:

You lost the title.
Don't forget to get a new copy.

Things I learned while waiting my life away at the DMV:

• I really need to get my bangs trimmed, I almost fell asleep because they were serving as blackout shades.
• The speed in which a woman says "nothing" when asked "what's wrong?" is inversely proportional to the severity of the coming storm. Shout out to the couple across the room that decided to turn everyone's morning into an episode of Maury.
• Beware of the toddler running around like an escaped convict and handing people soggy cheerios. By the way, where is your mother?! 
• This child will throw up all over the waiting room floor.

This is just the classiest DMV that you ever did see. Honestly, I underestimated the amount of vomit a little person can projectile. I won't get too graphic, but I will never be able to eat applesauce again. I finally make it to work a whopping 3 hours later and I don't think I've ever been more relieved that my office smells like absolutely nothing. Other than the occasional waft of cigarette smoke/aroma of a forest fire from the emergency exit that people sneak out of, my office is usually smell-less.

This is surprising because the fire department/paramedics make appearances here at least once a month. You'd think that something exciting was going on, but that's never the case. That doesn't mean all the women will suddenly stop congregating at the window, fogging it up like children on Christmas morning to watch the first snow, it's more like a stake out post, hoping to see a shirtless fireman. Not just because they're shirtless firemen, but also because it's the middle of the week and we're all run down and desperately hoping for a pick me up of sorts.

When we reluctantly fail to witness anything close to a cast member on Dancing With The Stars, we start a message about our favorite childhood tv shows, sending youtube clips back and forth. From this conversation I had an alarming realization that Mr. Roger's Neighborhood might have greatly influenced my fashion tastes... I love a good grandpa sweater. Not a grandpa IN a sweater, I just realized that I own a shameful amount of cardigans. Now, I'm the youngest in my office, so things get interesting when I start naming the shows of my childhood. Mainly because I start singing the entire Duck Tales theme song and no one can relate. And then I get patted on the head like "awww shucks" when they've run out of "participation" ribbons.

Another childhood classic: Wishbone, one of my favorites. Of course when you give your opinion there is always someone that has to be negative and make remarks like, "I don't get it" and "That looks like a dumb show"... really? He's a dog and he's well versed in classic literature, and I'm sure he is smarter than you. Please keep talking.

What changes the tune of this conversation is the fact that Wishbone was actually filmed close by in Allen, also near where Barney was filmed (Now a printing company that I've been to several times for work - some useless DFW trivia for you). My coworker went on to tell us how sad it was for the community when Wishbone died. All three of us that actually know the show and it's awesomeness are reminiscing when my coworker casually starts in on how Wishbone died around the same time as Lamb Chop.

Nobody told me that Lamb Chop died!

That was the first time that I cried at work.

I didn't CRY cry, I just teared up a bit. It was a shock. I'm not proud of this.


No. Second. I lied.


The first was when an old boss decided to basically Salem Witch Trial me at every opportunity. The one time she gave me a compliment, "Nice skirt.", I immediately spun around to make sure she hadn't set it on fire as she walked by. I refuse to turn this into a tell-all for how evil this woman was, but she really made it difficult to love her like Jesus would. People with that much hate probably need more love than they're willing to let people give. She's gone now, we turned the sprinklers on and she melted.

No, seriously.

The boss that replaced her is heaven sent, an actual human being, and hilarious on business trips to Chicago. Yes, the one where we got lost in the city, hours before our flight home. Her remedy for calming nerves is to tell me the plot for "Adventures In Babysitting" while I audibly start praying for salvation and a road that doesn't lead us farther into the Southside of Chi-town.

By the way, trying to get to Soldier Field from the main highway is impossible. It's like a revolving door: exit too early and you smack into a wall of false hope and glass. Mainly the false hope bit. But you get to drive right past the road that DOES lead to the stadium. Exit just a little too late and you're cursing at yourself as your destination flashes before your eyes. And it's not an easy fix, either way you're left with no other exits to turn around as you're forced to endure the spin cycle around the city until you can try again. And fail again. Add one more try for good measure. Nope, missed the exit again. Spin cycle complete.

Want the drug lords of the windy city to think that you're a cop running patrol over their area? Miss that exit three times in 15 minutes and then see what kind of looks you get in a Prius. Damn you, Judy Garmin.

What up, segue.



Paper Thin Hymn by Anberlin old and new, this band can do no wrong by me.

Dear guy at Chipotle with the Power Ranger's ringtone: You are my soulmate.

I eat at Chipotle more than I would like to admit, but alas, here I am, professing my love anyways. I drive past the same one every day on my way home from work, and it's all too convenient to just pop on in and grab a burrito the size of a small child.

As for the Power Ranger business? This is the fourth time in the last year that I've stopped in my tracks because I've heard this damn ring tone. If it's the same person or a very loyal fan following in the North Dallas area, I have no idea. But I support it.

Long story short, my kindergarten boyfriend was the red ranger and I was the pink ranger and e v e r y day we would sit by each other on the school bus and talk about the Power Rangers episode we watched the day before and then what we thought the episode would be about that afternoon. Fascinating, I know. Then on Fridays I would kiss him. And we had the same favorite Van Halen song. We really had everything going for us... I think he had a mullet. Never mind.

When it comes to being dorky and owning it, I support this. Hell, I encourage it. That's not to say that this doesn't backfire a great many times. Men of the world that think it's OK to use song lyrics as pick up lines: It's not.

Stop it, or else I'm going to start using my favorite new rendition of your pick up line against you, "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but I'm on bath salts, and you look tasty." Did I lose you? Yes? Kind of? Too soon?

I've come to recognize that there is this strange phase that happens when you start to LIKE like someone, and that we've all (probably) experienced this in some form or fashion. Sometimes it's just nerves or maybe you're taking dating advice from Night At the Roxbury, I don't know. It's not the real you, it's the goofiest and most annoying side of you that you know. I hope.

This theory has been proven wrong many times, so I'm not declaring it in a medical journal that the jerk you met at a bar will drop the act and turn into Jim from The Office. He won't. He might. Don't count on it. I'm more so talking about the awkward phase that can turn you into a total goober in front of a the object of your affection: laughing way to loud and far too often at a joke before it's even told, doing that thing with your mouth half closed and making that clicking noise while winking, using cheesy pick up lines that are songs my 13 year old sister wouldn't even touch and just using pick up lines in general.

This phase is different and unique for everyone, sometimes you recluse when you're usually outgoing, sometimes you act like a monkey at the zoo trying to show off but falling out of a tree instead etc. I find that most go for the show-off route, which in turn makes me revert back to the equivalent of my kindergarten nightmare where I punched Mitch in the playground maze.

It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.

Yes, that is a quote from The Naked Gun. Sadly. THIS, of all the sappy romantic comedies and tragic love stories, has resonated with me over the last couple of years. I guess I look at love as one of those uncontrollable forces of nature that can come from any direction at any point in time. So, with that I applaud everyone that's found the person that you just want to be around all the time in any way that you can.


Dear Chipotle,
I don't know how to quit you.


Pachuca Sunrise by Minus The Bear

If at first you don't succeed, redefine success and celebrate your victory in a Snuggie.

The roomie and I have adopted a motto: I will if you will. This is one of the strongest bonds of bestfriendship ever created.

Feel like going to a party? I will if you will
Want to eat a dozen donuts? I will if you will
Let's plan a trip to Fiji, who needs a savings account anyways? I will if you will

Looking/acting/being ridiculous and having someone on your team being just as ridiculous with you automatically makes you feel better. Sadly, it doesn't always make you any cooler, in fact, it hardly ever does.

With that, I'm going to make a very bold statement in support of Snuggies. Never have I ever had so much fun making fun of a blanket with sleeves, but the time has come, and now I must have one. You don't have to tell me, I know Snuggies are as big of a joke as the WNBA, Smart Cars, and sporks. Let's be real here, sporks?! Who got rich by creating an eating utensil just for a grapefruit? Hmmmmm?! Anyways, the Roomie and I had a long running Snuggie joke and it lead to me finally buying one for part of her Christmas present.

We then decided to list all of the things one can do in a Snuggie:

• Eat an apple!
• Read the mail! (Every daily function becomes amplified when donning a Snuggie)
• Make a pizza! (This was a terrible idea, the oven almost turned into a Snuggie inferno)
• Wear it backwards like an open-face robe! (Please do this alone in your room)
• Put your feet in the arm holes and wear it upside down! (This is frowned upon)
• Hide tissues in the sleeve like grandma!

We decided that the Snuggie was awesome. So, we're on the couch, about to start a movie, the Roomie sitting comfortably in said Snuggie and myself curled up in my blanket. Then, menu screen comes on, and by sheer proximity, I'm the designated remote grabber. Of all the gin joints. It's balls to the wall cold outside of my blankety cocoon. Try and follow me here: It's as if you're in a hot tub, in December and 1 of the only 3 valid reasons for ever leaving a hot tub in December happens:

1. You have to pee
2. You've turned into soup
3. Pizza guy is at the door

You raise just an inch of your body out of the water and suddenly the Artic tundra is gripping at your flesh, threatening you with death. You can feel the fierce winds of the blazing chill stab at your skin and envelope you into a frosty hell. Suddenly, you hate every decision you've ever made that lead you to this very moment that you are without a Snuggie. THAT is what it's like to have to take off a blanket and reach for the remote.

The Snuggie is also useful when you want to get out of a situation. As in, the guys want to grab dinner, but we feel like staying in and eating popcorn followed by spoons of peanut butter right out of the jar. So we reply back, "Sure thing! We're wearing Snuggies! See you in 10!" Suddenly we're uninvited to dinner and we can resume the fabulous life. We don't have to make up excuses like "Busy. Having a staring contest" or "We're cleaning the carpets" - that one is an actual excuse we've used. If you met our friend... Thor, we'll call him, you'd understand why we have some... unique "House Rules".

House Rules:

• Use a coaster or die
• No shoes on the carpet or else you have to remove an article of clothing... probably your shoes
• Must put lime in Corona or put Corona back

There are also a few Unspoken Rules:

• Don't let Amanda participate in a rap battle
• Or skateboard
• Or climb a tree 
• Always share your alcohol
• Always share your pineapple
• It is perfectly acceptable to be late to dinner if you're watching Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles

This is a non-judging Snuggie.

Times like this I'm happy to live with my best friend.

The General Specific by Band of Horses

It was always strange to me how "this little piggy" didn't have separation anxiety

One day, the little sister, Delaney, and I were driving down the street when we saw a very old man pushing a wheelchair and in it was a very old woman. He was in trousers and a button up cardigan, buttoned all the way up to his nose hairs, and she had a pink shawl around her shoulders and a cute little basket weaved hat with a flower in it. Just like every old couple should be. Yes. Delaney and I both go, "Awwwwww" and then we continue on our drive.

It's kinda quiet, she hasn't decided to blast a Katy Perry song just yet, so I take this moment to lay some sisterly bonding down. "Delaney, when I'm old..." she's already cracking up. To her, me being 22 is OLD. Like ancient. And it's her favorite thing to tell me that I'm 40.

She's 13 and she thinks she can get away with it. Well, she can't. Today I came prepared,
"When I'm 90, you'll be 81."
She stops laughing, "That's not cool."
Ha Ha. I continue, "When I'm 90, and you're 81, will you push me in a wheelchair like that?"
"Uh, sure... of course."
"Good. I'm going to wear a bikini so I can get sweet grandma tan lines."
Delaney finally stops laughing, considers this and holds out her pinkie finger towards me, "Fine." she says.

Then we do the handshake that she created when she was 3. That is why I love my little sister. Yes, there are millions of other reasons, but this one I'm documenting. For sentimental reasons and mainly so I can remind Delaney that I have proof.

Just a few minutes ago we skyped before she had to go to bed, and when we turned the cameras on we busted out laughing because the first thing we saw was that we were both rocking the crazy pony tail, sticking up in the air, every which way and eating pizza. We're more alike than I feared.

Delaney has been my own personal Barbie doll since the moment she was born. With two younger brothers, I was practically bargaining my skip-it and beanie babies for a little sister. Telling God I'd never boil cabbage and use the water to convince my brothers it's blue Gatorade... again.

I like unassuming and creative forms of revenge.


Me: You have a Twitter?!? What for??
D: So I can see what Justin Bieber is up to.

Of course. Why didn't I think of that. I've been using Twitter for the wrong reasons, clearly.

I've had a Twitter for a few years now, I got one when I was living in China as another way to tell everyone about my adventures. This didn't last too long, as I had a Chinese cellphone with me and it lacked certain capabilities (smart phones were just beginning to show their uprising). So there's a whole 10 tweets from that period of my life. I come in and out of phases of utilizing Twitter. And by "utilizing" I mean that my posts consist of mainly hockey, food, Harry Potter, and the painful burden of being a big sister.

Like taking Colton to Studio Movie Grill, where you order food while you watch a movie at table with reclining chairs. We get there early and Colton looks around, and I already know what he's about to do... "What happens if I press this button... ?" the smirk across his face is insane as he lets his pointer finger hover over the call box for when you need to summon your server. Well, the lights are still on in the theater as people are still filing in and finding seats, people sit to my left and Colton's right, this doesn't phase him. Colton looks at me, and I'm struggling to say anything because 1- I already know the joke 2- I know he's been dying to say this for ages, given the opportunity, and 3- It's funny. Colton smiles at me and quietly (not really that quite) shouts a terribly botched gurgle of accents and then sharply draws his pointer finger down, directly on to the call box button. He then looks at me, my hand over my forehead in dismay, and he says very matter of factly, "I just blew up Africa,". I'm trying not to laugh and encourage him, but he adds, "and if our waiter takes any longer I'll detonate Guam while I'm at it!  ---- Oh heyyyyyyy, I was just saying I'd like a hamburger." Perfect cue for our waiter to show up.


Then Colton said something about the people sitting next to us smelling like soup, which I thought was absurd, until I realized he was right. And then the soup lady opened her mouth and her voice sounded exactly like what celery would sound like if it could talk, so we had to move down a few chairs. Of course, this meant that Colton had to press the "new" call box button... same waiter... less amused.

I can't take him anywhere.


Lily Two by Matt Pond PA is one of those songs that I keep coming back to, year after year.

Don't worry, the spider is smaller than you. Yeah, so is a grenade.

I had a realization while at the grocery store earlier this week, and no, it wasn't that I'm too old for Fruit by the Foot, because I'm not and quite frankly I don't give a damn if I am. I'd like to see you pry the box from my hands.

I realized that I only have 2 phone numbers memorized. TWO. And then my mind went racing through all of the scenarios that any normal, sane individual would and it finally landed on this alarming scenario: If I was kidnapped and somehow able to spastically flail around and either A) injure the kidnappers B) free myself or C) injure myself and then the kidnappers feel sorry for me and let me go out of pity - and make it to a phone, I would be forced to call either my mother - which would suck because 1. She would freak out and that would make me freak out even more and then we'd cry. Or 2. She wouldn't answer. Not on purpose, but because the woman leaves her phone on silent for decades in the depths of her mom purse amidst the crayons and crackers. Honestly, we're all 13+ so crackers don't do much to calm my nerves anymore... but yes... I do want a peppermint... And then when she realizes that her phone has been blowing up, she calls back the second I set my phone down and walk out of the room. Then I miss the call by last ring (Hello? HELLO?!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?! So, there's option A. Mom and solid reasoning why this option is flawed.

Then there is the dreaded option B) An Ex Boyfriend. There are plenty of other people I'd rather call to come save me/kick ass/find my little brother Colton and have him come kick ass, but unfortunately, it's been pointed out to me that I do not have Jack Bauer, Bear Grylls or The Fonz's phone numbers. And only one of those people actually exists.

Please do not send old Kiefer Sutherland to free me, that man still scares me from his vampire days in The Lost Boys.

So, I would call the Ex and I'm sure he'd come save me and then I'd say something snarky, per usual, once we're safe and on the run. Like suggesting that he could use his ears to fly us to safety... then he'd probably threaten to take me back to the kidnappers himself. There isn't an option 2 to this scenario unless he chose to bring my brother and in that case our adventure home would probably resemble a mash up of Kangaroo Jack and Homeward Bound...

And that's what I was thinking about whilst at the grocery store in the produce section, deciding on whether or not to get raspberries or blueberries for breakfast tomorrow. I chose both.

It might just be me, but I enjoy going to the grocery store. Some how everything can be solved when I go to the grocery store. Everything that I need at that particular point in time is right there. Unless, it's midnight and you need something from the pharmacy, then you're screwed. But seriously, everything is organized with signs to guide you, it's the least stressful chore there is. That's not to say that things can't go wrong, just because you write it on a list doesn't mean that it magically jumps into the basket or makes it off the hood of your car because you left it there when putting the groceries away. I'm referring to the box of Fruit by the Foot that caught your eye and the decision to eat one before even starting the car. I'm good at making grocery lists that never actually make it to the grocery store.

Oh, and rambling about absolutely nothing of any significant value.


Make Believe by The Graduate

To the noisy boys that live above me: I'm about to go all kinds of Mr. Heckles on you

Right now, all I can hear is a poor man's rendition of "Smoke On The Water" intermingled with a drum solo by Animal of The Muppets. I'm convinced. It can be a sunny Saturday afternoon, 9pm on a Friday, or my personal favorite, 3 am on a Tuesday morning and the "music" never dies. After several hours of this racket, when I'm full of violent rage, I'm tempted to go upstairs and give the noisy boys that live above me a piece of my fist.

Then I realize that I'm in pajamas, it's chilly out, I can't locate any shoes within a reasonable distance, I have no makeup on and my hair is up in a ponytail like Cindy Lou Who - this combination will in no way convince the opposite sex to do ANYTHING. Yes, I'm going to use my God-given, womanly charms and possibly some homemade cookies to sway them to give up music and video games and join monk hood. I don't care if they're playing Christmas carols for orphans, I will personally remove every single one of their fingers to get the music to stop.

Although, I wouldn't be surprised to walk over there and find that they've been reenacting every scene from Blackhawk Down. Or they're peg-legged and blind while trying to play Dance Dance Revolution and Rock Band at the same time. I could go on. And I will, it sounds like they're doing this. Yes, I've seen every episode of Friends, so the amount of correlations shouldn't surprise you.

Once upon a time, I told everyone to rejoice because I had purchased a TomTom and would never again get lost in downtown Dallas/Austin/Houston/my own neighborhood again. After many unfortunate car rides and one particular call to my father from the corner of Malcom X Blvd and MLK Ave. in downtown Dallas, I retract that statement of celebration towards TomTom and the feeling of hope that it so wrongfully gave me. First of all, there really needs to be an "Avoid Ghetto Route" option. Secondly, I'd like it if TomTom had the decency to tell me when it was going to wimp out and stop holding a charge so I can NOT be directionless while traveling through what can only be described as scenes from The Warriors. I could be driving through Munchkin Land and TomTom would find a way to lead me down the most dimly lit, sketch back alleyway with crack whores and gangsters.

I finally got tired of yelling at TomTom and throwing it into the backseat of my car, so 2 years and 4 TomTom's later... I traded in for a Garmin. GPS systems are entirely too cheeky for their own good. So here we are, Garmin is chilling out max with me in the car, and for the sake of setting the HOME feature, I type in my address... I type in my address... I AM typing in MY address, right?! I'm now yelling at my Garmin, Judy Garmin, and it has the nerve to tell me that my home address doesn't exist. Simply nonexistent. I either live in The Twilight Zone or the end of the world is upon us.


When the World Ends by Dave Matthews Band I guess I should hate this song after all these years... but I don't.

Two situations in which I second guess myself: One way streets and confirming passwords.

I haven't posted in awhile because I've been... reading Harry Potter.

Gasp. Yes, I know, I was one of those that said I didn't want to read the books/watch the movies. Why? It just seemed like a huge band wagon and I wasn't interested then. You have a time machine? Go back and kick 3rd grade Amanda. Actually, ouch, please don't.

This late-in-life Harry Potter obsession is both good and bad: Good - I now have all of the books in my possession and there is no waiting around for YEARS to know what happened next. Honestly, you people are stark raving mad to read a book, wait a year for the next part and have to re-read the one you just read to remember what the eff is gong on. I really don't handle suspense very well, clearly. Bad - Harry Potter and Hagrid just went to Diagon Alley! Why am I so excited?! No one else is in this boat with me! Everyone has already stayed up until midnight for every movie premier and owns the collectors edition of the finished book series.

I want to be a wizard and I'm all alone. I'm predicting that my social life will flat line for the month of March. Plus, the "little" brother just told me that Harry Potter is really 3 ducks in a man suit...

On to the real point:

Someone ate a hot dog in the office today and I almost killed them.

Let me explain.

In February, roomie and I were invited to a Mavs vs. Clippers game by one of our good guy friends who received free tickets at work. Now, I have basked in the glory of free stuff from work, my Dad would get free bottles of whiskey, bacon-wrapped steaks, and hockey tickets all the time from vendors, clients and bosses. If you were ever wondering how a little girl raised in the suburbs of Dallas came to have undying love for The Dallas Stars, then this is not that story. I did, however, write that entire story, when starting this story. A massive paragraph later I realized that I was completely off topic with no way to turn the ship around, so I copied and pasted it into another post for another time.

Mavs vs. Clippers, shall we? Our friend didn't exaggerate about the great seats he had: center court, a ways below the suites, the best seats I've ever had at a Mavs game. It's looking like a pretty good night until in walks the 3 Stooges. I should start off with the smell. Imagine all of the hot dogs ever created and every foul condiment imaginable in a vat of liquid fat, steaming on a hot summer's day. I smell it first then I see it: onions, mustard, relish, chili, mayo, and radioactive sludge are all dripping from the mound of hotdogs that are walking down the aisle. And it sits right next to me. I gag. Roomie is to my left, and the woman with a bucket of hot dogs is to my right.

I've decided to give up breathing.

I haven't eaten a hot dog since I was 5. To most people, hot dogs are just a normal part of any American sporting event, but they make my stomach churn. So, still not breathing, now holding my cup of beer to my nose. A short but beefy male with... wait for it... KNUCKLE TATTOOS follows her on over. He sits down next to her and throws his arm around her, which is now directed towards my face. What do his knuckle tattoos spell? "PAIN". Literally. The 4 fingers needed to make a fist have the letters P-A-I-N on them. Knuckles sits down next to the Hillshire Farms hot dog woman who is now licking her fingers of the mustardy lava and making me wish I had a hazmat suit for the amount of carnage she's creating. Then, she mistakenly grabbed my beer and upon realizing it wasn't hers, she put it back into the holder. No harm, no foul, right? Wrong. Mustard paw prints all over my cup.

In walks the final piece of this backwoods motley crew and sits down next to Pain. This Neanderthal has got to be the sole reason there is a choking hazard warning on the bag that holds the McDonald's toys. He decided to whoop and holler every thought, nay, SOUND that his tiny hamster wheel of a noggin could churn out.

"HOOPTY HOOPTY HOOOOO! GO MAVS GET THAT BALL AND SHOOT IT! SHOOOOOOOOT ITTTTTT! AWWWW YOU MISSED IT! BUT IT'S OK! TRY AGAIN! HEY I HAVE A CAMERA ON MY PHONE! I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THAT I HAD A CAMERA ON MY PHONE!" This is the direct quote. No embellishments, no ad-libbing, those were the exact words that cemented his fate as the most hated man I've ever encountered at a sporting event. And that includes being seated next to drunken Flyers fans. (Go Stars)

While I was enduring my own ring of hell, the roomie was on Khloe Kardashian lookout. With Lamar Odom on the team, she knew Khloe was at every game, and just for funsies she scoped her out. Well, Hot Dog woman overheard us and asked us if we had found Khloe. What was I supposed to do? LIE?

YES. I should have lied. I politely pointed a few rows down and said that was her behind Kidd Kraddick, which it was. The chain of events that followed made my soul quiver. Hot Dog tells Pain and he tells the biggest idiot in the world: The Neanderthal. This man finished 7 beers before half time and never had a thought he didn't share with the world. He doesn't miss a beat in his rant with this news, "SHOOOOT IT! SHOOOOT IT! DON'T MISSSSS ITTTT! KHLOE I LOVE YOU! KHLOE MARRRRRRY MEEEEEEEEE! KHLOEEEEEE OVER HEREEEEE!" The roomie turns to me and says, "I blame you." And I did too.

I snap. Something in me tells me to shut this man up because they might stop the game, tazer him and when he's done convulsing he's going to point to me and let everyone know that I told him where Khloe Kardashian was sitting. I just know it. And I might have hoped for the first part. Now, I've been giving him the "don't pass go, please go directly to hell eyes" all night, (when Pain isn't looking, of course) and yet he shows no signs of shutting up, getting any smarter, or dropping dead.

I turn to him and calmly say, "They're going to kick you out of the game.", which he hears, and acknowledges with a "saaaaay whaaaaat?" look on his face, like he can't believe I'm actually saying that to him. Hell, I can't believe I'm actually saying that to him. The other people around us are yelling for him to shut up, and all the while he's trying to process every single morsel of backlash that's coming his way. So in the chaos I add, "If they don't kick your ass out, I will." which I might have said under my breath, quietly, so that only the guy behind me heard. He gave me a fist bump. Awesome.

That was the game. We won, we laughed, we cried when the woman ate hot dog off of her shirt. Go Mavs.

Then I decided it was safe to breathe again.

Lights Out, Words Gone by Bombay Bicycle Club