lo que sientes, se llama obsesion
Sarah's birthday festivities really began when Kim convinced me that skipping class to go eat with her was the best thing for me to do. It took her all the way from CC Little to nearly the front doors of the MLB to get me to cave in, but I did in the end. I told her that we should meet in the diag then figure out where to go from there [obviously, the answer was Za's--the newest restaurant to open up in the campus area of Ann Arbor. The veggie pesto sandwich they have is really like a chunk of heaven condensed into sandwich form for you to bite, chew and digest, all while having the taste of blissful delight swirling, dancing upon your taste buds].
As luck would have it, there was a break dancing troupe in the diag that we could watch while we called a few people to rally them into a wonderful good-tastefest of food at Za's. The break dancin' foolios challenged a few people to a dance-off when they passed so, when we passed, they did the same. Kim tried to say that I would do something like that, but psssh. We all know who the real MJ is around here [for those of you who are slow, this is me inferring that it is Kim].
When we pass them, I say to Kim that we should get them to dance for Sarah. Being that Kim is never one afraid to speak to strangers [especially those who are male and when it comes to requesting them to dance for her], she lead the march back to ask if they'd be willing to dance for our friend, since it's her birthday. They agree, so we quickly call Shirley and get her to pull Sarah into the diag as quickly as possible.
Let us simply say that they also thought what I warned Kim against when we asked them if they'd perform for her [see, that one sounds bad too] and they said, hey, we're not chip'n'dales. I tried to invite them to go to the bar with us later in the weekend, but we were told that we should come to Necto since the guy with the delightful tongue ring will be MC'ing.
It's not that difficult to figure out where we'll be on Saturday, right?
From there, we went to The Brown Jug to get Sarah her free birthday blowjob. You know, the shot--piled high with whipped cream and the one that you're not allowed to use your hands to take. [toma, toma toma tooooooommmmaaaa] For whatever reason, the waiter decided it'd be funnier to serve her drink in an ash tray, which, to me, seems a lot more like a muff dive than a blow job. Either way, there is now a nice photograph out there in the world with some anonymous white substance on Sarah's upper lip. All I know is that it appeared after she finished her free blowjob. Whatever that means, I will not comment upon further and shall leave the floor open for speculation.
Then we were off to Charley's. I'm not really sure why we ever go there--it's always a hassle. Either you're getting odd smiles from the guys at the front, or your waiter/ess seems to be serving the entire restaurant on their oddy knocky, or it's just a general pain in the ass. Maybe it's because the one guy looks like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, you know, a straight blast from the past.
The long islands that we consumed perhaps did manage to make me a bit tipsy--I won't say either way, but let's please just remember that I am significantly Irish and have not been drinking for the past few whiles. What that means, we'll leave in ambiguous ground. By the time I finished reading those [incredibly racist] books for the research on the paper I must write and complete tomorrow, I was completely sober and almost forgot that I had something delicious and alcoholic hitting my lips tonight.
I had two books that I read at the end of the night, just enough notes and enough information to pump out those glorious 10-12 pages tomorrow in the space of a few hours, that made me want to commit libricide. Yes, you read that correctly. I, Colleen, wanted to murder books--and I think my love of the written, spoken, whatever word is well-known as sacred.
One was written in 1956, the same year that my mother and her twin were born. I could hardly believe my eyes. I couldn't fathom that I was holding something so... out there... in my own hands. It even said that it's scientifically proven that "Negroes have smaller brains."
What blew my mind more is that the one written in 1906 seemed to be more progressive, for the most part.
I think that miscegenation is one of the ugliest words that I've ever come into contact with. If it were a person, it would most likely be the unfortunate offspring of the world's worst human beings--maybe the love child of Celine Dion and Pinochet, for example.
I tried to watch Birth of a Nation for my paper, but I just couldn't do it. Nothing in me wants to watch it. You don't need to watch a movie like that to know what it is--all it will do is upset. Once you get to a certain point, I don't think it's necessary that one immerses the self in fact to know how ugly it is. I bet I could dream up every scene of that movie from the clips that I have seen. All 158 hateful minutes of it.
Once this paper is finished, I must read read read read until my eyes might fall from my skull. Too many novels to finish for early next week--makes a girl wanna panick, you dig?
Also, I hate that they bastardized my favorite spanish song with the shittest english version I've ever heard in my life. You can't take a beautiful bachata song and turn it into crap--that's just not right. I demand at least some decency in the world. There are some things that are even a bit too awful, even for me.
As luck would have it, there was a break dancing troupe in the diag that we could watch while we called a few people to rally them into a wonderful good-tastefest of food at Za's. The break dancin' foolios challenged a few people to a dance-off when they passed so, when we passed, they did the same. Kim tried to say that I would do something like that, but psssh. We all know who the real MJ is around here [for those of you who are slow, this is me inferring that it is Kim].
When we pass them, I say to Kim that we should get them to dance for Sarah. Being that Kim is never one afraid to speak to strangers [especially those who are male and when it comes to requesting them to dance for her], she lead the march back to ask if they'd be willing to dance for our friend, since it's her birthday. They agree, so we quickly call Shirley and get her to pull Sarah into the diag as quickly as possible.
Let us simply say that they also thought what I warned Kim against when we asked them if they'd perform for her [see, that one sounds bad too] and they said, hey, we're not chip'n'dales. I tried to invite them to go to the bar with us later in the weekend, but we were told that we should come to Necto since the guy with the delightful tongue ring will be MC'ing.
It's not that difficult to figure out where we'll be on Saturday, right?
From there, we went to The Brown Jug to get Sarah her free birthday blowjob. You know, the shot--piled high with whipped cream and the one that you're not allowed to use your hands to take. [toma, toma toma tooooooommmmaaaa] For whatever reason, the waiter decided it'd be funnier to serve her drink in an ash tray, which, to me, seems a lot more like a muff dive than a blow job. Either way, there is now a nice photograph out there in the world with some anonymous white substance on Sarah's upper lip. All I know is that it appeared after she finished her free blowjob. Whatever that means, I will not comment upon further and shall leave the floor open for speculation.
Then we were off to Charley's. I'm not really sure why we ever go there--it's always a hassle. Either you're getting odd smiles from the guys at the front, or your waiter/ess seems to be serving the entire restaurant on their oddy knocky, or it's just a general pain in the ass. Maybe it's because the one guy looks like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, you know, a straight blast from the past.
The long islands that we consumed perhaps did manage to make me a bit tipsy--I won't say either way, but let's please just remember that I am significantly Irish and have not been drinking for the past few whiles. What that means, we'll leave in ambiguous ground. By the time I finished reading those [incredibly racist] books for the research on the paper I must write and complete tomorrow, I was completely sober and almost forgot that I had something delicious and alcoholic hitting my lips tonight.
I had two books that I read at the end of the night, just enough notes and enough information to pump out those glorious 10-12 pages tomorrow in the space of a few hours, that made me want to commit libricide. Yes, you read that correctly. I, Colleen, wanted to murder books--and I think my love of the written, spoken, whatever word is well-known as sacred.
One was written in 1956, the same year that my mother and her twin were born. I could hardly believe my eyes. I couldn't fathom that I was holding something so... out there... in my own hands. It even said that it's scientifically proven that "Negroes have smaller brains."
What blew my mind more is that the one written in 1906 seemed to be more progressive, for the most part.
I think that miscegenation is one of the ugliest words that I've ever come into contact with. If it were a person, it would most likely be the unfortunate offspring of the world's worst human beings--maybe the love child of Celine Dion and Pinochet, for example.
I tried to watch Birth of a Nation for my paper, but I just couldn't do it. Nothing in me wants to watch it. You don't need to watch a movie like that to know what it is--all it will do is upset. Once you get to a certain point, I don't think it's necessary that one immerses the self in fact to know how ugly it is. I bet I could dream up every scene of that movie from the clips that I have seen. All 158 hateful minutes of it.
Once this paper is finished, I must read read read read until my eyes might fall from my skull. Too many novels to finish for early next week--makes a girl wanna panick, you dig?
Also, I hate that they bastardized my favorite spanish song with the shittest english version I've ever heard in my life. You can't take a beautiful bachata song and turn it into crap--that's just not right. I demand at least some decency in the world. There are some things that are even a bit too awful, even for me.
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