The Prodigal Daughter Returns

This past week was Thanksgiving, which warranted my first trip home since moving out August 18^th. In the two weeks leading up to the return of the prodigal daughter I was filled with a strange sense of excitement. After dreaming for years of leaving and never going back, after planning to not go back until Christmas break, I was perplexed about my excitement. Whatever the cause, though, Tuesday couldn’t come soon enough for me.

The day came and I said a “quick” good-bye to the Minimalist before jumping into my seat between a fat man who snored and the bathroom on the tiny, toy airplane. Through the flight I felt every bit the college student as I worked tirelessly on my MacBook doing homework.

Twin picked me up from the airport and on the way home I tried smoking my first cigarette since before pneumonia (a menthol-complete fail) and Twin made one of her patented illegal U-turns. Once in town we met up with Coco at Starfucks and everything felt exactly the same.

Then I went home, where quite a bit was different. Including, but not limited to: the layout of my room, the color of parts of my bathroom walls (due to massive amounts mold growing behind them), the smell of my portion of the house (again, due to the mold) and the arrangements of cars in the garage (it seems Mother’s “fiancé” has taken over the dominant spot). Brother and his girlfriend, Sorority Sister, arrived a little later and the fun began from there.

Allow me to explain something—Brother and I are ridiculously alike. People say we look alike. We talk alike. We dance alike. We act pretty damn similar when drunk. We really have come a long way from that time a babysitter said seeing us fight was the best form of birth control. So needless to say, it was amazing seeing him.

Wednesday I made Mother a belated birthday lunch (spicy chicken wraps and orange essence rice), complete with champagne. And we revitalized a family tradition by driving through bum-fuck towns for 2 hours to sit in a freezing cold trolley and ride through 3 miles of Christmas lights. It was much better than it sounds.

Thursday was D-day. The D stands for: digestive problems, dinner, diet disaster, etc. I woke up early, mashed far too many sweet potatoes (with orange essence) and trekked over to Papa’s, where I showered because I refused to shower in that mold box again. Eventually, we headed over to Stepmother’s parents’ house where 4 generations of Southerners gathered and ate food full of lard. I stuck with the green beans and turkey.

Friday came and was by far the most stressful of all days. With homework left to finish, belongings spread between two houses, Christmas decorating to refuse to do, a 3:45am wake up call to get Brother, SS and I to the big city early enough to get amazing deals, cookie dough to assemble, and a visit I promised to Adult*, I had no time to spare. Surprisingly, by 1pm I had only 3 things left to do, which was a perfect excuse to take a Starfucks break with Coco. It was lovely. I smoked a whole cigarette, we talked about Christmas plans, and she oh-so-delicately and politely shared her less than favorable views on the Minimalist. When it came time for her to babysit I returned home to…you guessed it…do more homework.

Twin picked me up around 10pm and we sped over to Mother’s to make roll out some cookie dough and get my clothes. That left me with one thing left on my list—a visit to Adult. We arrived at his apartment (which I was yet to see) and quickly got down to playing Jenga, the drinking game (I had never seen him drink) and watching his cat climb up and down a ladder. At some point, a mutual friend came over and I tried to tackle Adult in the backyard. Twin eventually had to leave, which left the two of us alone.

…

And suddenly, it was 7am and I was being woken up by his cat climbing on me.

What? Gasp! That whore! Once a cheater always a cheater.

I know, right. Stupid biddy.

No, nothing happened. We had a very in-depth conversation, I offered to bare his children, one or both of us cried and I reverted to the logic of a 5 year old at times. It was great fun. Adult drove me home, I snuck in and Papa isn’t the wiser.

A few hours later I was boarding another tiny, toy plane bound for my new home with mixed feelings about a lot of things. Mainly I was thinking about how it felt like nothing had changed, how I hadn’t changed and that my old town would always be my town and part of me. There were a couple of other things rattling around in my head, including a massive headache/hangover, but those things are for another time. Upon returning to my mold-free box, I slept. And I woke up and hung out with some friends. And I ate. And I slept some more.

And now I’m awake, and fed, and headache free, and procrastinating, and avoiding what’s left rattling around in my head, and missing the Minimalist (who doesn’t return until tomorrow).

And now I’m saying g’bye.

*Adult-the only ex that I’m actually friends with.

Perfect Before a Pause.

This weekend has been perfect. Better than perfect. Amazing. Really just what I needed after a not-quite stressful week, but a week nonetheless.

Instead of having class at our regular time on Friday my professor (who is so obviously amazing) decided we would go on a ghost tour. It’s a class about urban legends, so it was relevant.

During the time that I was to be traipsing around downtown, the men’s rugby team was supposed to be driving up to State for an unbelievably fun night game. At the last minute it got canceled, which re-injected all my favorite men into my night.

Roomie-Dearest, Ginger and I headed to another soccer party (yes, another). Westchester was noticeably absent because she had some quasi-fling drama to attend to. We ran into quite a few of our posse there and I proceeded to drink entirely too much tequila. After the ride back (which I barely remember) the Minimalist and I retired to his humble abode for a good roll in the hay. At some point after we left Ginger and GoodMan (who she’s had quite a crush on for quite a while) made out then passed out. Apparently he snores.

The next morning I joined my lovely teammates for an almost lovely breakfast before our two hours of warm-up for our last game of the season.

Originally, after being out of commission and barely in commission for so long, the idea of three hours of rugby running didn’t thrill me. But the weather was perfect. Not a cloud in the sky. And after days of rain, the ground was soft and perfect for tackling. We were playing a women’s club team, a rag tag group of twentysomething women who talked about their masters degrees and their husbands. They didn’t have enough players so three teammates and I whored ourselves out and switched sides. With so many abnormal circumstances, no one could take the game seriously. So instead of being intense and competitive we played for fun.

My usual team won, the first win of the season, but I couldn’t care less that I wasn’t part of the win. I had too much fun. Afterwards we all gathered at my favorite fire pit in the woods to drink, sing, laugh, and watch four women zulu (run around naked after you score your first tri).

When the other team had to leave, we grabbed our remaining beer and went to watch the men play touch by the lake. Their rescheduled game got canceled, so they struck up another game which, somehow, I got roped into playing. A little tipsy from my social and running in sneakers on muddy grass, my play wasn’t my best, but I loved every minute of it. Especially playing on a team with Brawny Man and two of my other favorite ruggers, DeVirgin* and Big Baby**, and having the Minimalist and my ruggirls cheering me on (the Minimalist not so much cheering as laughing whenever I slipped on the mud).

Due to some unfinished homework I had to depart a few minutes early, much to my dismay. I’m going to miss rugby during the off-season. It has given me quite a few friends, taught me the joys of day drinking and given me an ass that could stop traffic.

Later, in honor of DeVirgin’s early birthday and Sexster’s*** belated birthday, I returned to my favorite fire pit for a keg-fire thrown by my favorite men, sans Country. There Ginger turned her sights to another man with a lip ring, and proceeded to suck Sexster’s face all night. She, being a virgin, didn’t want to go any further then swapping spit, so various people were sent in using various methods in order to cock-block. It eventually worked and Sexster only walked her home. I was, of course, dressed impractically for the weather in boots and a drop-dead-adorable sweater dress which made the Minimalist drool and a couple of guys ask why he didn’t follow me after I left. He promised GoodMan he would help clean up. Luckily he finished early and requested my presence in his bed. I obliged and got my 3^rd work out for the day.

And today, I had a lovely lunch and woods walk with Teach**** before helping Big Baby with his statistics. Now, I’m relaxing and reflecting.

This weekend couldn’t have been more perfect. It’s just what I needed to sustain me for the next two weeks, as I’ll miss this weekend of partying while I’m home for Thanksgiving.

*DeVirgin-one of the cutest and nicest guys I’ve met here and a good friend of the Minimalist and co. He’s a senior, dating a ruggirl and lost his virginity last year.

**Big Baby-looks like a big, adorable 4^th grader, complete with a bowl-cut.

***Sexster-one of the Minimalist’s roommates. He’s got a lip ring, a nipple piercing and a good libido.

****Teach-formally known as My Shadow. Once we eliminated the romantic aspect of our relationship, he became one of my closest friends. We talk about life and philosophy and war and psychology and spend hours walking through the woods.

Girls Just Want to Have Fun

With special circumstances giving me a Friday free of classes, I wanted to have some fun Thursday night. So I did what I normally do on Thursdays—go over to Cesar, the Minimalist and co’s apartment, watch It’s Always Sunny, eat the Minimalist’s homemade bread and listen as Country* gets increasingly louder (this time until P Safe came and told him they’d been getting complaints). I also asked the Minimalist on a non-descript date in the future and he accepted. It was a good night, but both the Minimalist and I were exhausted, so we went to bed a tad early and didn’t leave it until 1 the next afternoon.Friday night was a typical. There was supposed to be a couple of things on campus, but they were busts so Westchester, Ginger, Roomie-Dearest, the Minimalist, a couple other friends, and I hopped into GoodMan’s car and went off campus to a soccer party.

Allow me to explain a thing or two. Normally, whenever a party is titled with a sport that’s not rugby I avoid it like the plague. It’s just something about that testosterone-fueled team mentality that I’m not okay with. That being said, it was the only party happening that night so I swallowed my logic and went. Another thing that I feel the need to explain—the Minimalist wasn’t in the car because he wanted to hang out with me or because we were supposed to be partying together that night. No, we ran into him and GoodMan at one of the lame parties and pretty much ambushed a ride. He continued being distant the rest of the night.

The soccer party wasn’t bad. At one point Westchester and I ventured outside and found Humps**, who was too drunk to talk. We sat her down by and tree and went to find her friends. With no friends of her’s in sight, we returned to the tree with water only to find she’d disappeared. I later returned to my room and passed out. Let me repeat: my room.

The next morning Westchester and I found out that Humps’ purse (phone, camera, wallet, etc) was found by the side of the road last night and no one has heard from her. We retrieved her belongings from the house that looked ridiculously sketchy in the daylight and begin trying to track her and our perfect champagne flutes down. Two Pier 1s and a couple of hours later, we have found both. We returned to campus and headed over to watch the men and Roomie-Dearest play a lovely little touch rugby game. Due to an absolutely gorgeous day made more gorgeous by the week of horrible weather that preceded it, Westchester and I donned some bikini tops and short-shorts for the occasion.

A quick nap followed by a long shower and we were ready to start the night’s festivities—three bottles of cheap champagne to be drank out of sexy champagne glasses by three girls listening to Frank Sinatra and getting ridiculously dolled up for an Old Hollywood themed formal. Three hours later, we were ready. All of us looked gorgeous (my outfit was completed with black thigh-highs and a black garter belt). Ginger, Mini*** and Nugget**** accompanied us to the event, which reminded me a little bit of a high school dance, but I continuously improved the mood by sneaking shots from my flask in the bathroom.

Not long after we arrived, Westchester decided to ditch the dance and head for the parties, much to my dismay. Then there was the tiniest bit of drama. The Minimalist said he was coming to the formal. I in no way went solely for him, but I would have liked him to see me looking amazing. He eventually came, but only for a minute (though in that minute he did manage to kiss me and compliment my outfit, so I was somewhat satisfied).

Once the formal ended we changed shoes and we were off to the parties. We found a good one on our first try (one which Westchester had been to, but left before it got good). I ran into the Minimalist, but once again, he left not long after. He had been getting sick, but I was still a tad disappointed. The girls and I stayed until the party was almost thin, in which time I smoked my first cigarette since pneumonia with Brawny Man, who too complimented my outfit. After my cigarette I rounded up my posse and we walked back. Ginger and I, feeling particularly sexy due to our excessive alcohol and black lacey underthings, decided that the cars on the road needed to see our asses. So every time a car drove by, we lifted the backs of our dresses and bent over. It was quite nice. We finally reached our dorm and I don’t remember much else.

^Not my or Ginger's actual ass.^

I woke up this morning naked in my own bed with no real recollection of getting there. I’m sure Roomie-Dearest can fill me in once she wakes up.

Overall, a fun girls’ weekend. I would be completely satisfied with it if I had gotten to see more of the Minimalist. Yes he was sick, I know, but I still wanted to see him.

And now I want food and coffee and sleep and for my splitting headache to go away.

*Country-a big senior who drinks three bottles of wine a night and loves Michael Jackson.

**Humps-a former rugger who wears too much sparkle eye shadow.

***Mini-Ginger’s roommate and a darling girl.

****Nugget-the cutest, tiniest Peruvian girl I’ve ever met.

Adventures from the Road.

The Myrtle Beach trip, which has been in the works since before I started school, which is one of the main reasons the Minimalist and I began talking, is over. I jokingly told him that now it’s over he doesn’t have to pretend to like me. He kissed me in response.

We left a little after noon. Promptly upon entering my car the Minimalist (who was drunk) cracked open a beer and threw my directions in the back seat. That, of course, lead to a good bit of time spent driving in circles on the highway with me threatening (half-heartedly) to throw him out of the car and him laughing. An hour and a half later, we were finally heading in the right direction. In fear that we would be late for the show, or worse that I wouldn’t be able to shower (because after using communal showers for as long as I have, the prospect of a real shower excites me to no end), I did ninety most of the way. Of course, because of the open container, that made the Minimalist nervous. He eventually got over it.

We found the bright blue, drug dealer and prostitute recommended hotel with a little bit of time to spare. Twin, Coco and I exchanged a loud hug the moment the door was open. Introductions were made between Twin, her significant other, Mark*, Coco, her boyfriend, Green Bean**, the Minimalist and me. I changed quickly (vowing to take my shower after the show), the Minimalist poured himself a glass of whiskey (much to the mild dismay of Twin) and we prepared to leave for a quick bite at Subway and the (supposedly) short trek to the venue. What we thought would be a half-mile walk to House of Blues ended up being about 20 miles. Needless to say, we didn’t walk all of it. We crammed our asses in Twin’s car and zoomed down the tourist trap strip to get there just in time to get a nearly perfect spot-in view of the stage, but not in the too-violent pit.

The first bad was so bad I don’t even remember their name. The second band, Thrice, was not nearly as hard as I thought they were going to be. They were actually good at some points. And they mentioned Invisible Children***, so I can’t hate them.

Then came the main event—Brand New. They were amazing, there’s no doubt about that. Though, I would have preferred if they played more of their old songs and didn’t make everything quite so screamo. Regardless of that, seeing them with my best friends and the Minimalist made all the stress of that day (getting lost, speeding, seeing Mark) totally worth it.

We returned to the hotel after, at which point I paused just long enough to medicate myself (all while everyone laughed) and eat an apple before I took a much needed shower. For the rest of the night we watched National Lampoon’s Vacation and made noise. I think Twin was a little wary about the Minimalist’s drinking (he was the only one drinking and it was straight whiskey) and his knife (which he kept under his pillow, like he always does). She was especially scared when I began playing with the knife a bit.

The next morning came quickly, as people yelling in the hallway woke us up. Twin began being loud. Mark was farting. Coco was trying to put her toes in Green Bean’s ear. The Minimalist was just taking it all in.

Eventually and relatively without trauma (save for Coco finding far too many pubes on her unused towel), everyone was ready for breakfast. After several U-turns and some parking lot driving we made it to Bob Evans.

What? You’ve never heard of Bob Evans?

Keep it that way.

It was weird. A southern version of an IHOP, full of old people and cutesy names for food, like a BobB-Q sandwich.

After breakfast we said good-bye. Coco, Twin and I hugged, and it gets less awkward every time we do. Twin promised to pick me up from the airport for Thanksgiving and I promised them a much needed and long overdo Starfucks date.

The ride back was far less eventful and shorter than the ride there.

Overall, a great trip. I’ve missed Twin and Coco dearly. Mark eventually stopped ignoring me. I finally met Green Bean, the guy who is currently making Coco so happy. The Minimalist met my friends, wasn’t completely scared, and will probably continue talking to me.

I like him.

*Mark-warrants no nickname. We’ve had a rough history and this was the first time we’re seen each other since we had a (supposedly) huge fight that I was black out drunk for.

**Green Bean-her tall, happy, cute, funny, marvelous boyfriend.

***Invisible Children-GO. Educate yourself.

Your Morning Briefing.

Allow me to give you the Spark Notes of my Friday because I’m exhausted, hung-over and in the process of trying to get 5 other people in two states to a third state at the same time.

It appears my school isn’t as liberal and alternative-lifestyle as I thought. I’ve come to this conclusion because they’re selling Portobello mushroom sandwiches as vegan. You may be wondering what the problem is. Allow me to tell you.

Sandwiches have bread, this one is no exception. Bread is made using some form of animal product (usually milk, sometimes eggs or butter). That means it is not vegan.

Rugby practices on the field next to the ultimate Frisbee team, which afforded us a lovely view of two male Frisbee-ers naked. Yes, naked. I assume they were practicing for the points in the game when, by tradition, they have to play naked. Whatever the reason, it was so enjoyable it caused our lesbian captain to yell at us to stop watching their balls so we could catch out own.

Last night was the annual “Coming Out Ball”. What’s that you ask? Pride, the GLTTBIQQA (I don’t know if all those letters are correct, but you get the idea) club, hosts a dance every year in which people dress up in costumes to show what they’re coming out as. I came out as a fat kid, complete with sweatpants, fat camp t-shirt and a Hershey bar coming out of my bra. Roomie-Dearest was a slut. Westchester was a girly-girl. You get the idea. The dance was in a small room with a ton of people and a great DJ (who played techno and house music, not a single rap song). Everyone was dancing, everyone was drunk, everyone was having a blast, at a school-sponsored event, no less. I saw two sets of male gentiles, one guy shave his mustache while a cheering crowd watched, Westchester ate chocolate off my boobs. I can’t wait until Pride’s next dance-Gender Bender. That should be interesting.

Now I’m off to get some much needed coffee before grabbing the Minimalist and zooming off to Myrtle Beach for a Brand New concert and my best friends.

Back to the Future, pt 2.

After carefully picking out an outfit that was both sexy and casual, rounding up Roomie-Dearest, Westchester and Ginger*, stopping by Starfucks for some much needed caffine, we finally got to the venue around 8:30, just in time to catch Mr. Mayhem in his van “medicating” his back. We exchanged an awkward hug then my posse and I went inside where, it turns out, we knew quite a few people because College’s radio station was sponsoring the event The first two bands, The Catalyst and Litany for the Whale, were good, but not quite my cup of tea.

Then came Antarctic, the band Mr. Mayhem was subbing for. They were, as every instrumental band should be, full of surprises. With instrumentals, the music takes center stage and carries all the weight of telling a story and holding the audience’s attention and I believe they did a pretty good job. So good, in fact, that I was willing to part with $10 just to buy a CD with only 9 songs. Next came the local band—The Bronzed Chorus. Two guys, one with a receding hairline, were able to sound like a full band. And not just like any full band, but a great, amazing band. They make me proud of my adopted city.

After the bands had played, Mr. Mayhem and my posse spent a few minutes chatting before he had to go do the dirty work of being a rockstar—load the van. At that point Westchester once again reminded us of all the work she had left to do, so we left. But not ten minutes after I got back to the “comfort” of my dorm did I get a text from Mr. Mayhem requesting my presence for food-Cookout to be exact.

It’s about 1:30 and I’m heading towards the home of the Bronzed Chorus where Mr. Mayhem is waiting in the garage, beer and cigarette in hand. He quickly finishes both, fumbles with his cracked iPhone GPS and we’re off for an “evening” of new culinary experiences and lots of catching up. He orders the cheddar burger, sweet tea and fries. I get the BBQ sandwich. We park in front of a Blockbuster and eat. Neither of us was disappointed.

Three and a half hours later, we’ve talked about our old town, I’ve caught him up on all that drama, we’ve slowly started invading the armrest, he’s told me all about his new life (his drug use, his drummers, his father, his bikes, etc), I filled him in a bit on my life, he’s peed outside twice, and we’ve planned the next time we’ll be seeing each other, which won’t be in another 2-3 years.

At promptly 5:45am, I dropped him off at his temporary abode, we shared a no-way-awkward hug and I drove off, already missing my wonderfully rediscovered friend. At promptly 6:03am, right as I’m laying my head down to sleep for not nearly long enough, I get a text from him saying that there’s no way he’s falling asleep before he has to get up and leave and that, not surprisingly, the van he has decided to sleep in is freezing. Then I get the text, the one I knew would be coming since the first time he put his head on my knee in the car:

“By the way, you’re looking pretty good these days.”

It appears my outfit worked.

I reply: “You’re not looking too bad yourself,” knowing full well that I had spent half their set commenting to Ginger about how great his hair looks these days and how I love his smile.

I fall asleep before I get his text inviting me back to watch the sunrise. Probably best.

All in all, the night was great. I got back into the music scene, something I’ve missed terribly. I got to spend some quality time with Mr. Mayhem, something I didn’t get nearly enough of when he was being the talk of our shared town. And I ate a great BBQ sandwich, another thing I’ve missed. The chemistry was still there, but neither of us acted on it and I was just fine with that.

Now, for a few days of class before a short little jaunt with the Minimalist to meet up with Twin, Coco and their significant others for a concert we’ve been waiting for since before school. And you better believe I have the perfect outfit for that, too.

*Ginger-a friend I really need to start hanging out with more. Hilarious, from a great town I have a special tie to, and she misses the music scene as much as me.

Back to the Future.

These past few days have been quite the blast from the past. On Friday, a friend of the Minimalist’s, Toolman, came for a visit. He had visited I believe the third weekend I was here, the same weekend Twin visited. Orginally, Toolman was supposed to go after me and the Minimalist was supposed to go after Twin (I suspect due to height). We all see how that worked out.

He came for a visit, and it could have just been because his girlfriend was with him this time, or I could really be maturing, but I saw him for the douche he really is, not the goofy-but-endearing guy I thought he was. Don’t get me wrong, on a purely platonic level he’s fine. But he continued pursuing me IN FRONT OF HIS GIRLFRIEND! Smacking my ass so hard it left handprints, telling me he’d “tear that up” and, the piece de resistance, reaching between my legs while his drunk girlfriend is not two feet away falling on the floor and bleeding. Talk about douche.

The next blast from the past came Saturday morning as I’m lying in bed. Everything is fine, until I sit up and reach over the Minimalist to grab my phone. Everything goes black and I can barely hold myself up. I regain my sight, but can’t stop shaking. I do a mental inventory of my body. That’s when I notice my breathing, which is short and labored. And my heart, which is beating far faster and harder than it normally should.

No, I wasn’t having sex and not realizing it. I was having an asthma attack. At this point let me paint you a picture:

Me, completely naked crawling over the Minimalist, off the bed and across the room to my purse. From my purse I pull my bright blue inhaler and begin attempting to take several slow deep breaths off of it. Remember, all of this was done silently and completely naked.

Maybe a bit scary, because of the silent part, but I certainly don’t blame the Minimalist for laughing. That’s better then hysteria or unneeded concern.

I eventually got up and Roomie-Dearest drove me to pick up my prescriptions. I then began heavily medicating myself in preparation for the big night…Halloween.

At a little after 9, Roomie-Dearest, Westchester and I, dressed to the nines in our sexiest black “clothing” and garter belt gun holsters, made our way over to the Devil’s Dance Party, which included 3 kegs, countless shots, a DJ, black lights, and two bands. Needless to say, it was a grand night, minus Toolman’s behavior, a slight rumor about some supposed indiscretions on my part (completely not true and not worth repeating) and my inability to smoke. When all the cool kids were puffing on their cigarettes, I was puffing on my inhaler.

Sunday passed with little excitement. Monday started bright and early, except I wasn’t feeling so bright. My asthma had not improved as it should have, in spite of my constant medicating. Mother was picking out hospitals and practically demanding that I admit myself. Papa was repeatedly offering to drop everything, drive down and tend to me. I refused both and instead made the same trip I’d made many times in my life—to my neighborhood doc-in-a-box. The diagnosis: the early stages of pneumonia. The treatment: two more prescriptions to bring my total to four and a full day of bed rest (which really means laundry, sleep, and an Alfred Hitchcock marathon).

And now, for the last blast from the past, which is not quite fully blasted yet. I recently got on Myspace (don’t judge, it’s almost retro) and saw a message from an old friend who I have quite a history with—Mr. Mayhem*.

A brief synopsis: we met when we were 15 (though few knew how young he was). He was the lead singer in a band, the apple of every scene girl’s eyes, and in with the “cool” kids. Moral of that story—everyone wanted to be him, be friends with him, or fuck him. I wasn’t excluded from that first group, but I wasn’t nearly as a part of it as others. One night he introduced me to his newest band mate, Mamills (who I’m still dear friends with). I became friends with Mamills. I hung out with Mamills. I didn’t know Mr. Mayhem had a thing for me. Mr. Mayhem believed Mamills had a thing for me, which was not true, but it caused some tension nonetheless. That tension caused Mamills to leave the band, which caused the band to end. Not long after Mr. Mayhem moved back to Florida.

Fast forward. The message he sent me informed me that his band was going to be playing in my adopted city Tuesday. We chatted a bit and he kept saying how “stoked” he was to hang out with me. I must say, I’m a bit “stoked” as well. After so long without seeing each other (about 3 years), it’ll be interesting to see what’s changed.

All I have to do now is make sure I look hot as hell.

*Mr. Mayhem-a nickname he gave himself. Other include Omaha and the Kid. He did cause quite a bit of mayhem when he swept in from nowhere (aka-Florida) and took the town by storm.