Punctured

Mommy and Daddy are going to kick my ass.

Remember when I mentioned that my piercer is retiring out of the business? Well, when my sister told me that she wanted to get a couple of piercings, I suggested that she go to the guy I go to.

Now, remember when I mentioned that I think I’m done with getting piercings? Well it didn’t last long.

The temptation was too strong and knowing that at the end of this month my piercer was going to be gone I figured that I’d get some piercings too.

I was set on getting a double eyebrow piercing and a vertical labret, but only if there were retainers available so that I don’t get shitted on at work.

When we got to Adorned I found out that they only had one retainer so I had to figure out what the hell I was going to do. Because I’m sort of lame and wasn’t willing to get the typical single eyebrow piercing, I decided to wait on the vertical labret and took my chances on the double eyebrow and hoped that if I strategically placed my hair in front of the piercings my work wouldn’t notice the one eyebrow barbell.

And holy hell it hurt. The first one wasn’t so bad, but it’s always the second one that hurts to most (why the hell didn’t I remember this when I got a double nostril piercing?).

My sister was by far the calm one. She wasn’t shaking or clamming up the way I was. “It’s just a needle.” she said. Yeah, a sharp needle that goes in one end of the skin and out the other.

My parents are in Edmonton attending a wedding for the weekend so I figure that I have a few days of survival before they find out I got more crap done to my body.

If my mom reacts the same way she did once she found out about the other piercings and tattoos I got, I’m going to be very busy cleaning the shit off the ceiling.

Revolving Stage Takes All, Eeediot.

Too busy.

Can’t talk.

Second last working day before holidays.

But can I just say?

Last night, I lost more brain cells than I ever have aside from drinking. How so?

You’d understand if you watched the first two seasons of Ren & Stimpy. Straight. Three DVDs. Or as my friends Char and Dave would put it: The Ren & Stimpy-a-thon.

HAPPY HAPPY. JOY JOY.

Ack. Die.

Much later in the night, three more friends joined in the Ren & Stimpy-a-thon after they returned from the Tool concert. That’s right, folks. Last night was the Tool concert. The one that I was supposed to attend but got stupidly drunk the night before tickets went on sale.

I was harassed.

“TOOL WAS FUCKIN AWESOOOME”

“HOLY SHIT, MAYNARD ROCKED”

Me: SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Although I may not have seen Tool in concert last night, I did get to rub it in their faces that I did see them the last time they came and during that concert I got to see Maynard perform on his own personal revolving stage. Can these guys say the same for them? No. I win. Sort of.

Darcy, though, was kind enough to give me his liquor wrist band. I was grateful for that.

Don, on the other hand, was warned numerous times that if he didn’t stop bragging about the concert that he was going to get a good beating.

That eeediot.

Okay, seriously. No more Ren & Stimpy for me for at least another year.


Edited to add:

Right now, at work, we’re hosting Slam City Jam. We’re talkin’ Tony Hawk, ramps, music, the works.

We’re also talkin’ skateboarders. Everywhere. I am melting as you’re reading this.

Too Much Sexyback

Geezus. Horrible, horrible, flashback.

It’s happening again. See! Notice!

I’m at the final stages of Bust it Hardcore During the Last Week (aka busting my ass at work so I can go on holidays without freaking out). Things haven’t been overly pleasant thanks to the new booking system we got a few months ago. If I’m not mistaken, I would have sworn that the Upper Hand mentioned that this new system would make things easier. Well, Upper Hand Sir, IT HASN’T. Not for me, anyway. I still have plenty more to do, at work, but I’m definitely making progress.

Aside from work, my friends and I have been getting together quite a bit lately because a friend of ours is moving away to Kelowna, BC, for school. Why. Why are these people leeeeaaaving?! My God, soon I’ll have to pack my bags and move just to keep up with the trend.

So last weekend (Friday and Saturday) was another Drunk Fest, and this coming Saturday will be too. It truly is amazing how I can manage to still pull off the Drink My Face Off and Stumble into Bed at 3:30 a.m.

Saturday the 19th, was when I really fell through the cracks. My friend (Cammi, the friend that will be leaving Calgary for beautiful Kelowna) and I went to a bar downtown where we were joined by her older and younger brother, my sister and three other friends. I’d like to point out that anytime we are out with Cammi’s brothers, there will be plenty of free drinks and shots. Plenty. The bar we went to was not that great. In fact, we hated it. But we stayed and tried to make the best of it. The music, however, was great, except for the fact that the DJ played a selection of songs over and over again.

Totally off topic, but I figured I should write this down so that in years from now I can read it and either a) kick my own ass or b) ask myself, “What the hell were you thinking?”

The reason we stayed at the crappy bar was because Cammi’s cousin, a nurse at the Children’s Hospital, was attending a Doctor/Nurse/Thingy at the bar. My friend Cammi invited me along and, well, I went because, HELLO! DOCTORS!

I did come close to being picked up by one doctor until I quickly turned him down. The reason: He kept trying to be “funny” or “cute” or some bullshit like that and kept calling me a name that isn’t my name. In fact, I loathe the name. Nah, it wasn’t Miss Bitch or anything like that, but it was Angelina – the name I hate second to Angela. That’s right folks. The gig is up. Where the fuck did AJ come from any way? Seriously. I picked AJ because I was afraid that an ex-boyfriend would find me or my current at the time. I think over time I’ve stopped caring; as long as no family or relatives find me, I’m okay.

Just for the record, I have never in my life gone by the name AJ. My cousin, when he was younger went by AJ; those were his initials. Interestingly enough, those are my initials too. I feel like Darkwing Duck, about to come out of disguise.

ANGELICA, for the love of God, IT’S ANGELICA. Not Angelina, not Angela. I hate when people think that Angie (what I really go by in my mysterious real life) is short for Angelina or Angela. Gag.

Doctor: *busting out all the flirtatious moves* So, what’s your name?
AJ: Angie. *busting out flirtatious smile*
Doctor: Oh, Angelina!
AJ: Uh, no. Angelica.
Doctor: Angelina! *wink*
AJ: An.gel.i.ca. *scowl*
Doctor: Nooo, I think it’s Angelina! *nudge*
AJ: Ugh. Moron. *walks away*

And so ends the pointless, off-topic, story.

By 3:00 a.m., and after hearing the DJ play Justin Timberlake’s Sexyback four times, the bar patrons were finally getting kicked out. Cammi left with her brothers, while I went with my sister and three others. I don’t remember a whole lot by this point, but after waking up at 4:30 p.m. the next day, and seeing these items around my place, maybe I can make some sense of what happened after we left the bar.

Well, at least I know I ate some form of food after getting home.

What.the.fuck.

After I spoke with my sister on the phone, she informed me that I had taken this sign off some billboard-type thing. In my drunken rampage, I managed to reach up and swipe the sign as the three other people with us followed in my steps (One of these people being a sixth grade teacher. That’s right, folks, this gentleman we were with was a sixth grade teacher that swiped a smaller sign.).

I seriously hope that one day when I have children, they never find out these wild stories about their mom. Maybe when they’re about to celebrate their 30th birthday I will let them in on a few adventures I’ve had.

When my friend Cammi called me later on Sunday to see how I was doing, she was quick to point out that I didn’t sound too good.

Cammi: Hey Ang, how’s it going?
Me: Uuuugggghhhh. Deaaath.
Cammi: Uh, you don’t sound so good.
Me: Thanks.
Cammi: Yeah, I’m not feeling so good either.
Me: Good to know that I’m not suffering alone.
Cammi: You know what it was, right?
Me: What?
Cammi: It was too much Sexyback.

And too much Sexyback it was.

Zoning Out Through Headphones

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that headphones are heaven sent. They provide sound for listening to music, etc. in the privacy of your own ears, but they also provide a wall between you and others around you. Now you’re thinking: Is that a good thing? Or are you implying that’s a bad thing?

For me, it’s a good thing.

More times than most, I like to keep to myself when I’m in public without someone I know being with me. I have had far too many experiences with strangers coming up to me and trying to start a conversation; including the time where, out of my own pure stupidity and mistakes, managed to meet my future (and currently ex-) stalker (yeah, we won’t get into that).

I have found that by wearing headphones, people tend to leave you alone. Sure, most of you probably have realized this by now; it’s not that hard to understand that yes, with headphones on, people will leave you alone. Unfortunately, there are some people out there that don’t follow this.

Allow me to let you in on a secret: Sometimes, I wear my headphones (plugged into my Ipod… not just headphones alone, ‘cause like, what the hell, eh?) and I’m not listening to any music. I will stick those earpieces in just so it looks like I’m listening to music and hoping that I’m not making it too obvious that I just want to ignore weirdos. This system, however, has backfired on me numerous times.

The latest failure involves a co-worker. Sure she’s nice and friendly and all that jazz, but personally, I find her obnoxious. She’s one of those people that when I see walking up to me, I start to develop a twitch in my eye and I hope that a vehicle will suddenly strike me. Not completely serious, but you get the idea.

In the mornings, we usually end up taking the same train to work. I avoid eye contact and make myself look occupied by “listening” to music or pretend that I am taking a short nap on the train (yes, completely serious).

You know what? This always fails. She always tries to make her presence known by waving her hand right in front of my face or if I’m “napping” she will flop her damn ass right beside me and sits so close that her friggin’ body is practically caressing mine.

You just don’t do that. I cannot stress that enough.

This morning was no different; except for one thing…

I was listening to music. I felt the need to be serenaded by Justin Timberlake. As I’m in a half daze, imagining that Justin will have me nekkid by the end of the song (mmmmmm), I was rudely brought back to reality when she decided to stand in front of me and start talking to me, WHILE I STILL HAD HEADPHONES ON.

It took what little inner strength I had to not say: I’m sorry, but do you see these? (hold up headphones) When these are in place, DO NOT, FOR THE LOVE OF JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, INTERRUPT MY WILD FANTASY.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish listening to the song.

The Moral

Okay, I got one now.

Haaaaa!

‘Kay, this is going to be good.

Ready?

The moral of the story is: Always keep your fingernails cut short. You’ll never know when your finger may end up in someone’s eye.

Teeheeee.

Alright, that one sucked too.

Living the Pirate Dream: The True Story

At nineteen years of age, I had lived out the dream of many young children and porn stars. I was a pirate that then converted to getting cum shots in the eye.

For real.

Okay, not quite.

Before you all get excited at the thought of pirate porn and go skimming through this post to get to the good part (seriously, I was totally kidding about the pirate porn) I’d like to start off by writing that my feet, my precious, pretty feet, are extremely sensitive and I will act out in a violent rage if you try to touch them. With this being said, let’s move on to Living the Pirate Dream: The True Story.

One evening, back when I was 19 years old, I was hanging out in Fucktard’s (aka Jason #2) room. He was a cruel man with cruel intentions for that evening. Being well aware of my Do Not Touch My Feet or Die Rule, he decided that it was all a bluff and felt the need to test out this rule. He attacked. Like a lion to its prey.

I immediately panicked and started screaming bloody murder. You would think that he would have stopped after I started to throw punches to his head and proceeded to aim for his balls, but no, he had a goal and that was to torture me.

Finally, after about 10 minutes of this, I managed to kick my feet away from his grubby hands and I wrapped my right arm around his neck (also referred to as The Super Choke-Hold) and used my left hand to grab his arms to hold them back.

This backfired on me.

As he was trying to escape my death grip, he swung his left hand around hoping to pull my right arm away from his neck. This resulted in him missing my arm and landing his finger in my eye.

Instantly I pulled away, started screaming profanities and whimpered, a lot.

The pain I felt was not the typical, “Ouch. I just accidentally poked my finger in my eye. Oh wait… okay, it feels better now.” Rather, this pain was much sharper and did not subside.

After the eye stabbing happened, I tried for hours to open my eye. It watered constantly and the pain had become unbearable.

I was unable to sleep that night and still my eye refused to open. The pain, my God, the pain. Instead of falling asleep, I was up all night crying because I could not imagine what the hell was wrong and why it hurt so much to the point that I wanted to rip my eye out.

Because I couldn’t sleep, I was able the see a doctor early in the morning. By this point, my left eye (the victim) was swollen shut. The doctor’s office was about a 15 minute walk from my house but because I couldn’t see out of one eye and horribly enough it started to affect my good eye (my good eye had begun to swell slightly and I was only able to open that eye a minimal amount) it took me 30 minutes to get to there. What I should have done is gotten a ride to the doctor’s office. Thankfully for me, I was not hit by any vehicles especially considering I was walking around blindly.

As I sat in the doctor’s office, with one hand clutching my left eye and the other eye barely open, I hoped that I would not be deemed blind; otherwise, Fucktard was going to be fucked.

The doctor finally came and he had to pry my left eye open. He took one look at it and said that I needed to see a specialist, immediately. The doctor phoned my dad and my dad was on his way to pick me up.

When I got to the eye specialist’s office, they had all been prepared to take me in right away. The eye doctor was a very nice gentleman and asked me a lot of questions regarding what happened. I was a little uneasy to tell him the story because seriously, “Yeah. My boyfriend stabbed me in the eye with his finger and apparently he doesn’t know how to cut his fingernails, or something.” After I told the eye doctor a not-so-detailed version of what happened, he was very sympathetic and abruptly told me to never let my boyfriend live this one down. I agreed.

Because my eye was swollen shut, the eye doctor forced it open and put in these magical, eye numbing drops. In a second, I was able to open my eye and everything was wonderful. Until he examined my eye and told me what was wrong.

Doctor: Oh… It seems that when your boyfriend poked your eye, his fingernail must have ripped your cornea.
Me: RIPPED?!
Doctor: In fact, every time you blink, there is a piece of your cornea that is still left intact and it is flapping up and down.
Me: *trying not to cry hysterically*
Doctor: What happens, when the cornea is damaged, it causes the eye to swell to the point that it is unable to open; basically, what happened to you.
Me: *trying to push aside the thought of ripping Fucktard’s cornea out of his eye*

In order to allow the eye to heal, I was given an eye patch that was plastered to my face with medical tape. (Side Note: I’m allergic to medical tape. After the patch came off, I was left with a temporary scar on my forehead and the side of my face) The eye patch was to remain on for a week and at which point I was to return to the eye doctor’s office to have the eye re-examined.

Having the eye patch was incredibly embarrassing. Every where I went, I got strange looks from people. It was also difficult to do regular things because my vision was completely thrown off.

When I saw Fucktard that night, his mom freaked out at him. She took one look at me and was concerned.

The mom: Oh my God!! What happened??
Me: *re-tells the story*
The mom: *look of shock and disgust*
The mom: JASON *MIDDLE NAME* *LAST NAME*! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?!$#$%^*&

A few days later, I decided to get drunk. This was a very, VERY bad idea.

In the drunken stupor, we (friends, etc.) figured that it’d be cool to draw an eye on the eye patch. Now, picture this for a second: Eye patch. Drunken idiots. Black, yellow and red felt markers.

The outcome of this was a round eyeball, coloured in yellow, with red veins. It was the freakiest thing ever.

When I got home, my sister took one look at me and ran away screaming. She couldn’t look at me for days. I’m not even going to get into the reaction of my parents, strangers and the eye doctor.

After a week, the eye doctor took off the pirate patch, examined my eye and told me that it had fully healed.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

But.

During this process, my eye had dried out.

He wrote down the name of a cream, that I could purchase, that would help with this problem.

Firstly, this cream, for a tiny tube, was fucking expensive. Me = NOT impressed. Secondly, this cream (please note: cream; not eye drop) was to be put in my eye every hour that I was awake. This routine was to be kept for two months. At that point I would have to go in for another check-up with the eye doctor and I continued this routine for a year.

Every time I went to put the cream in my eye, I had to wait a minute before wiping the excess cream away. Because I had to do this every hour, every day, for nearly a year, it became known as AJ Going for the Cum Shot. Because in all honesty, that’s what it looked like.

Years later, my eye is still doing fine. There are days, however, when I would still get a sudden pang of pain in that eye, but I’m going to assume that it’s normal.

The moral of this story: If you want to live out the dream of a pirate turned porn star, just touch the feet of someone who has specifically told you not to.

What the hell, that wasn’t even a moral, but it sure is useful information to give out on career day at school.

The Demotion

There are quite a few things I recall, when growing up, that really shaped the person that I am today.

Back in the 80s, when The Beastie Boys released Fight for Your Right, I would run around the house screaming the words. My parents despised The Beastie Boys after that. I still love them. Then there was Faith No More. I was quite intrigued by this genre of music and all I ever wanted to do was rock it like there was no tomorrow.

I’ll spare you the details of my punk rock, grunge and goth days. But I would like to point out that sometimes, flannel should be worn only on lumber jacks or at home with no one around. And sometimes, fishnet stockings shouldn’t be worn on your arms. And maybe, dating a guy with liberty spikes that have been dyed every colour imaginable was cool at the time, but not when you realize that “every colour imaginable” included snot green. (What the hell was going through my mind during these years?)

I constantly have friends and strangers ask me, “How is it that you have all these piercings and tattoos when you’re afraid of needles?” To be honest, I’m not sure of the answer myself. I am horribly afraid of needles and to this day, I still cry when I get a flu shot. But, I do know when my admiration of piercings came into play.

When I was 11 years old, a tiny sixth-grader, I was at the mall with my family when I saw Him. He was without a doubt older than me, probably in his 20s, but it was lust at first sight. But what caught my eye was this piece of metal attached to his lip.

“My God!” I thought. “Who hast bestowed this gorgeous creature amongst us?!” (Hah. Okay, it was more like, “OoooOooH! Pretty boy!”)

That piece of metal, attached to his lip, was a lip piercing. And I felled in love.

At that point, I only had my ear lobes pierced, but now I wanted more… More… MORE! Throughout the years, after He with Hot Lip, I continuously asked my parents if I could get another piercing, even if it was only another ear piercing. They always replied with a no. My mom firmly believes that people with piercings and tattoos are part of a gang and that they only mean trouble. My dad is beyond religious and firmly believes that the human body is not meant to be tampered with. I believed that it’s my body and if I wanna make it pretty with piercings then g’damnit I will do so! But not until I was of legal age at 18 years old.

A month after I turned 18, I told my parents that I was going to get a piercing and that there was nothing they could say or do to stop me. Within three months, I had gotten 5 piercings and I still wanted more. My parents were not impressed.

Before you knew it, my 20th birthday was approaching. I wanted to do one last “young and stupid” thing and I was thinking that a tattoo would do the trick. Prior to this time, I had never wanted a tattoo. They were so permanent and the idea of a tattoo machine dragging across my skin made me want to cry. But, what the hell, I was going to be 20 soon and I may as well do something dumb like get a tattoo.

So I did. And ohmygod. It hurt. Like a bitch.

The tattoo only took 25 minutes to do and that’s with a 5 minute break between the outline and the colouring, but it was somewhere within those 25 minutes that I swore I would never, ever get another tattoo again. Maybe it was the fact that I started to tear up at the end, or maybe it was the fingernail marks that were ingrained in my arm, but whatever it was, all I knew was that it was far too painful to go through again.

We all know how this story goes: AJ manages to continue to get piercings and sometimes goes crazy enough to stretch them herself (Ew, you don’t want to know the story. I’ll give you a hint: it involves being bored and stupid, bruising, puss and blood!) and managed to get two more (with two more in the next few months) tattoos.

Over time (about a years worth of time), I forgot the pain of the tattoo, loved how it looked and went to get another one. Since then, I basically threw out the ‘never again’ and said gimmegimme more.

I hope that one day, when I’m 80+ years old, I will be lying in my coffin with all my piercings and tattoos still intact. I have no intention of ever permanently removing any piercings or tattoos. That is, until now.

*deep sigh*

There has been this one helix (cartilage) piercing, on my left ear, that I got when I was 19 years old, that I have always had problems with. It almost seems as if it never fully healed and has had its ups and downs with being okay or being infected. Because of this, it is the only piercing I slightly despise.

Yesterday morning, while getting ready for work, I felt compelled to take a look at this particular piercing. As I gently flipped the top of my ear over to get a glance at the backside, I was horrified at what I saw; the disgusting signals of a badly infected piercing.

GEEZUS GODDAMN MOTHEREFFIN PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT.

For the first time ever, I am seriously considering removing the piercing; demoting myself in my number of non-natural holes. But, demoting? I don’t think I could do it. I would have to get another piercing, maybe two, just to make up for this one loss. To be honest, I think I’ve grown tired of getting piercings.

So, I’m going to attempt a different option before I remove said piercing and be mentally forced to get one or two more to make up for the loss.

Last night I bought every item needed to try out every remedy I knew of to heal an infection/any scar tissue/swelling/etc.

I’ve got the sea salt, the chamomile teabags, the Vitamin E and tree tea oil.

Tonight, I enter my ear into my Boot Camp of Insane Horrors and hopefully one of these treatments work.

My poor ear… my poor, poor ear… Damn you pretty, lip-ringed boy…

Going Out On a High Note

Well. I’m.

Not so impressed with.

Ugh. I can’t even type it out.

But, it is horrible. C’est TRES terrible.

Maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. BUT to ME it is horrible. And a real downer. And makes my eyes water a bit.

I can’t bring myself to talk about it or type it out. Tomorrow I will. Until then, I need to look at the brighter side of things.

Like:

Finally getting my birthday dinner with my family tonight. We’ve all been busy with birthdays, partying (no wait, that’s just me) and work that we haven’t had time to get together for my dinner. I’m thinking Olive Garden. Mmmmm…

September 2-4: The Calgary Tattoo & Arts Festival that we are hosting at my workplace. I plan on bringing a lot of cash with me when I go. All the wonderful things I could check out and buy… the possibilities are endless! I’m going to have to start planning on the perfect outfit to wear. My tattoo artist is a guest artist during the festival and there is no way I’m going without looking my best. teeeheeee.

September 28: Bad Religion/Dropkick Murphys! ‘Nuff said. I did a contract for that concert last month, but because it wasn’t officially confirmed yet, I had to stay quiet.

Perks! Yes, perks. With my job, the perks are fantastic (free concert tickets people, free concert tickets). So when Rob Zombie rolled on over to our venue, I managed to get tickets and ohmygod, it couldn’t have been any better. Seriously. It was great. No, wait. Great is an understatement. IT WAS FAN-FUCKIN-TASTIC.

Coffee. Yes, I am currently enjoying a freshly brewed cup of coffee. And it tastes great.

Talladega Nights. Personally, I thought it was damn hilarious.


This concludes post number #101. I think I ended it on a positive note. Up next, post number #102: The Demotion.

Told You So.

Well, that last post took me nearly five fucking hours to publish. This lousy thing called Blogger decided that it did not want to post any pictures and felt the need to delete text when published.

It is late. I have laundry to do. I'm fucking hungry. And I was supposed to meet up with someone this evening.

Did I mention that I'm hungry. Cause I am.

So, unfortunately, I will not be able to reply to any past messages piled in previous posts nor will I be able to lurk your sites and type out any witty comments until tomorrow.

Seriously, Blogger, it's things like you that make me avoid the computer.

PS. Yes, I noticed some grammer/spelling errors in the last post, but I'm too afraid to edit it AGAIN in fear that text and/or pictures will disappear on me again.

Screw Stella. How AJ Got Her Groove Back.

Ohmygod. I’m a total wreck. I just escaped the horrid tentacle grip of these bizarre life-forms that beamed me up (all Scottie-like) and deemed me as their new Master of All That is Lazy. And Mentally Not-All-There. And well, Et Cetera. For those who would like to head to up Canada to beat my ass: Do it. Doooo it. Please knock some sense in me. Seriously, though. We could sit back, have a beer. Screw bringing your own booze. Believe me. I have more than enough in my fridge. It has to go. (Side Thought: I should take a photo of the innards of said fridge. Beeeeeer. But food? Quite possibly non-existent.)

So here’s the lo-down. The month of August has been tinkering with my brain. It has made me a little… insane. Where to start…

I have been busting my ass at work. I’m trying to get all my work done so that I can take some vacation time without worrying too much about coming back to the office only to find 50 emails in my inbox and about 30 unheard messages on my phone. It has happened before. I may have peed my pants a little. Let’s imagine that it never happened. The crappy part of this “busting my ass” is that I busted too early. It turns out that I am unable to take holidays until the last week of August. What I should have done is try to relax a little at the beginning of August and slowly work my way up to Bust It Hardcore During the Last Week. So in turn, because all my work is done on the computer, I have been so very turned off by this piece of technology. So very, very turned off. So turned off that DIE COMPUTER DIE I HATE YOU. You see? My mind = GONE. Which in turn has guided me away from the Internet. BUT! That’s only part of it.

I, AJ, officially the LAZIEST person on earth (you’d all be disgusted with how lazy I can be) has done the unthinkable. This is how it went:

*Enter AJ into a sport-type-thingy store*
Sales Person: Hi, is there anything I can help you out with?
AJ: Yeah… I’m looking for running shoes.
Sales Person: Okay, do you have an idea of what you have in mind?
AJ: *blank stare* *deer caught in headlights* *trying to not run out of the store in a panic*

After a while of trying to figure out what the hell I am to say, I did try on a pair of New Balance shoes.

Sales Person: How do those feel?
AJ: Err… I think okay… They’re going to take some time to get used to.
Sales Person: Oh? Are they uncomfortable?
AJ: No… they’re comfortable, but I’m more accustomed to shoes like these.
AJ: *holds up worn in DC shoes that have clearly been through a rough time*
Sales Person: Oh, okay. Well, take a short jog around the store to see how they feel in action.
AJ: Say whaaa? *trying not to laugh at the idea of me jogging*

So there you have it. I bought my first pair of non-skate shoes. Only took me 23 years, but I did it. Of course my friends now believe that aliens have kidnapped my mind and switched it with someone else’s… but that’s alright! So I’ve begun to go running a few times a week and taking advantage of the exercise room that is available in my building. Lastly, my God folks, you have no idea how useful your suggestions were in finding running shoes. New Balance = super and reasonably priced. A shoe size larger = brilliant. However, this whole running and exercise deal has come with an embarrassing price and another new low for me.

One word: Lululemon. People. Oh.my.word. Never, EVER in my life would I have imagined that I’d be a Lululemon wearing psycho-freak. Because, you know, I’m too hardcore for that shit. Or something like that. Well, that and Jamie… and my sister… CharCammiGarrettStephen and anyone that I am friends with, would start calling me a yuppie if I purchased anything from that store. Alas, I have already purchased this, that and this. Totalling about $230.00. Oi… But in my defence, my ass had never looked so good before. The pants are amazing. It’s like magic!

Lululemon Pants: I dub thee the power of HOTT ass!

Now are you starting to understand the Mentally Not-All-There?

Also, I started eating healthier! I no longer snack on chips for breakfast! No wait… I still have a nibble here and there… But aside from that, major improvement every where else. Except for the beer thing. I’m sorry. But I draw the line there. That will be my carb intake. So all in all, I’m about 5 or so pounds away from my desired weight. Next topic.

HAH. Shit, this is post is going to take half an hour to read.

My friend, my bestest friend Jamie, has left me. He packed his bags and said, SEE YA BITCH, I DON’T CARE IF I LEAVE YOU. Well, he didn’t say that, but I bet he was thinking it. Months prior to August, Jamie had been planning a trip to Vietnam. Deep down, in the depths of my soul, I had ignored his planning in hopes that he’ll change his mind and stay. Before you knew it, he had purchased his ticket and all the begging and guilt trips that I brought on were pointless. He was going to leave for Vietnam for six months and there was nothing I could do about it. Seriously. What the hell does Vietnam have on me? NOTHING. Sure I’m not a beach… and I think eating meat other than chicken, cow or pig is wrong… But I skateboard. And play guitar and bass. And have no problems running around in the streets drunk. Can these people say the same for them? Didn’t think so. Anyway. The day before his flight we spent it together hanging out and enjoying ourselves.

See! Food! I basically said screw eating healthy, let’s go all out!

The one thing Jamie left for me was this dino. We used to shove plastic animals in each others pants. What the fuck? Yeah, I know.

The most difficult part of the day had arrived. The day I had to say good-bye. And I cried like a sissy.

I hate that bastard. Okay, only slightly hate.

Aside from all that, I’ve seen a lot of my family lately. My dad had a barbeque over the long-weekend, my mom’s birthday was on August 9 and my dad’s birthday was on August 13. It was good to see my family so much during the last while.

HAH! I found this label that my sister stuck on my dad's water bottle.

Teehee. My dad accidently dropped the delicious meat.

Last, but not least (or at least I think this is it… who knows… I forget easily… maybe there’s more… anyway…) my birthday that took place on August 11! Folks, I am officially 24 years old with zero cavities/fillings. Why did I mention that? Because my teeth are rocking with age.

And may I just say? I partied as if it were 1982. HAH. Geddit? 1982. Year I was born. HAAAAAA. So clever.

I had decided to take a vacation day for my birthday and I loved it. I slept in, went for lunch with my dad, went for a run then to the exercise room, watched a DVD and prepped myself for a night out on the town. I had gathered all my friends and we were heading to a rock club so that we can get wasted and dance like there was no tomorrow (in my case there thankfully was a tomorrow).

Beeeeeeeer!

Number of beers drank: Lost count
Number of shots drank: 1, 2, 3… Lost count
Number of people I met that night that shared the same birthday as me: 2
Number of times my sister had to pull my drunken ass away from hot rocker boys trying to pick me up and/or snag a kiss: 8
Number of minutes I argued with my sister regarding pulling me away after the hot mohawk guy after he asked me to dance with him: 15 minutes, give or take
Number of my friends (number count including me) dancing on top of the speaker like we were the latest item in a strip club: 7
Number of times I thought to myself, “what the g’damn fuck was I thinking/doing last night?”: 1,000,000,000,000,000

When you're smiling like this, you know that it's going to be a good drunken night. And a painful morning.