Such is Life

Ruminations on Daily Life as I Know It

* Everything is ridiculously cheap at my new neighborhood Wal-Mart, with the exception of cigarettes. Cancer stick costs are seriously bloated there. Is Wal-Mart attempting to make a morality statement? It's a weak one, if so, as they still sell them. Plus, Wal-Marts in normal states sell beer. (Pennsylvania has some messed up alcohol laws.) I think it's more likely that they are trying to take advantage of the poor, addicted souls who have failed to discover the reasonably priced Sheetz about two blocks up the road. I kind of loathe you, Wal-Mart, though I truly appreciate your $2.24 boxes of 100 calorie packs and $2.95 bags of turkey pepperoni.

* Gas is $0.20 cheaper in State College than it is in Wellsboro. I can't afford to purchase it anywhere.

* Penn State is currently the #2 party school in the nation. Penn State students are collectively disturbed by this statistic. They are working hard to attain the #1 position next year.

* Natty Lite can be found in bottles. I don't recommend purchasing it in any form, but it is available.

* I have morphed into a person I once admonished. Exhibit A. I have capitulated into the realm of the commonplace cell phone junkie in record speed. Exhibit B. I now own and wear a pair of higher waisted pants. (They are suit pants. I do not enjoy them.) Exhibit C. I actually lounged around my room for a brief period of time with my pants unbuttoned, for the sake of comfort. (I was wearing the suit pants between interviews. They are properly sized, which equals too tight and too high in Saraworld.) If I start sporting pointy-toed shoes or mumus, it's all going to be over.

* My sister, who is currently the local cult leader, displayed one of my blog entries for all to read at their last gathering. When she came home and gleefully informed me of this fact, I felt slightly exposed and uncomfortable. Sure, I put it on the internet for anyone and her mother (and my mother) to read. It was not my intention, however, to have my intelligence or writing style or picture scrutinized by a room full of strong opinioned youngsters. While I don't know what kind of discussion transpired, I'm certain they weren't heaping praises upon me. Oh, well. She was apparently attempting to find this entry, but couldn't figure out where it was. I'm thankful for that much, anyway.

* The closest liquor store has a whole "local wines" aisle. Apparently, they classify the Finger Lakes area as "local." It doesn't make the most sense to me, but I love it.

* While I was diligently job searching (er, wasting time on the internet) the other morning, I received a couple of random instant message from someone with a name something like "harleyguyx210x." He asked if we had met in a chat room. (I ignored him, as I clearly hadn't. Chat rooms are so 1999. And, don't get me wrong, I like to party like it's that year all the time, but that's as far as I go.) He kept messaging me (he was a rather persistant dude), so I decided to apologetically inform him that I did not know who he was. He replied, "I thought just met you in chat room Self Pleasure 103." He was quickly blocked. Looking back, I think I understand his reasoning behind asking me why I was tired, though. He's kind of a self-congratulatory little bugger.

* I am considering posting a slightly revised version of the "Hamlet is Fun/Sara is crazy" piece I wrote for creative nonfiction class long ago. Since my ancient computer is actually working and I once again have access to it, I might give it a go. What do you think? The people who read the first draft of it in school seemed to like it, but it is kind of personal. Looking for feedback . . .

Michael Moore is Aflame or Intoxicated Young Conservatives Fire Me Up

(Note to my sister - this is all in good fun/spaz style. Please don't take offense - I really don't intend for it to be taken all that seriously.)

My dad and I ended up taking an impromptu trip to the new apartment last night to drop off some super conservative forms to my sister so that some highly controversial speaker can come give a presentation for the super conservative club that she now chairs. I felt a bit like I was aiding the enemy, similarly to the time that I helped her edit a letter requesting donations to assist her organization in bringing in likeminded, apparently famous speakers and purchasing really nice posterboard and markers for their protesting endeavors. It's certainly not my style, but I love my sister and my father and I will do what I can, within reason, to prevent her from having a nervous breakdown and him from falling asleep at the wheel. (As it turns out, the papers were not the ones she needed to meet the urgent deadline, so our 4+ hour excursion was for naught. Not especially surprising, as nothing ever seems to be uncomplicated around here.)

Anyway, upon entering the new place, I noticed that the girls have, thus far, tastefully and apolitically decorated the living room. Yay. I love the place already. I wandered in to my bedroom and said hello to my big bed and my mirrored closet doors and my many books that are spewed across the desk, still waiting to be properly housed. (They may lie in wait for quite some time, as I am still currently jobless and broke and a bookshelf doesn't rank all that high on my priorities list, unfortunately. Poor homeless, disorganized books.) I went to the kitchen area and started poking around the clutter on our table and found, I kid you not, a half-charred copy of Michael Moore's Bowling For Columbine. (I wish I had a camera on me.) I knew my sister had friends over recently. She told me she was planning on doing so, and it was evidenced by the trashbag full of 10 or so empty Miller Lite boxes and the fine display of shot glasses lining the counter. So, of course, my thoughts start whirling in their standard wildly overreactive fashion that I have grown accostomed to over the years. I begin to wonder if this is how these kids have a good time. Do they buy copies of "liberal propaganda" and perform sacrificial rituals amidst chugging contests? Is there some kind of chant involved? Is a strict dress code enforced? Does everyone have to arrive clad in a t-shirt adorned with firearms or Reagan's face or quotations deploring the rampant border crossings or the existence of donkeys? Are bonus points awarded for accessorizing with an O'Reilly Factor baseball cap or a Fox News Tote? Do they stripe their cheeks with red and white and paint an array of blue stars atop their foreheads? How many blackened, melted versions of Fahrenheit 9/11 and pageless, deformed copies of Bill and Hillary's memoirs are lurking around? Should I immediately start looking for someone to sublet and resign myself to a lackluster existence on my parents' couch for a frighteningly indefinite period of time?

Shortly before I had enough time to speculate to the extent that I might have had myself convinced to toss my books in a garbage bag and jet, my sister appeared. She groaned that a visitor, when prompted by another friend, did attempt to light the dvd on fire the other night. She assured me that A.) she has not witnessed this or any sort of similar incident in the past, B.) the whole crowd was not involved, C.) it was only the special features disc (heh), and D.) she did not condone it, especially because it actually belonged to one of the girls in the apartment. The owner, apparently, is not upset at all about this. She thinks it is funny and wants to keep it forever. That is awfully kind of her. I would be livid, even in the instance that the pyro was a good friend or that the destructed property was something I wasn't the hugest fan ever of, such as a worn copy of Babbitt or a my giant-sized, yet small-necked AmeriCorps t-shirt. (Oooh . . . I bet they'd be after the AmeriCorps memorabilia, as the VISTA program is specifically aimed at eradicating poverty through the implementation of programs and services, etc. And, if I remember correctly, it was totally founded/supported by liberals.) Before last night, I don't imagine I've ever found myself feeling relieved to learn of a purportedly isolated (and, to be fair, rather small scale) act of vandalism. I guess it beats the alternative, though.

It's going to be an interesting year.

Driven to Drink (An Unfortunately Appropriate Title)

Jury duty is done. The time I spent locked in a room full of soft-hearted, crisp-tongued Crazies "deliberating" was the most excruciatingly awful experience in my adult life. Seriously. I'm still fuming, and it takes a lot to make me angry, let alone enraged. I won't delve into details of the case or why I believe I was correct, as it's more or less irrelevant at this point. (I think that I am no longer restricted from discussing the the whole situation. If anyone knows otherwise, let me know, cause I'd rather not get arrested.) What I will say is that, for over 5 hours, I was trapped with a bunch of irrational, combative locals who were apparently incapable of separating their personal feelings/laughably ridiculous speculative assumptions from the evidence presented. This is particularly bothersome, as, at the conclusion of the trial, we were charged by the judge with clear instructions as to how to try the case according to the law. Basically, we were told to only consider the evidence presented to render a verdict. It makes sense to me. Sure, it is difficult to remain truly unbiased and unopinionated throughout a 5 day period. It is difficult to not feel sympathy for a very old man who went through a very rough time. But, it is ultimately necessary to cast aside any personal feelings and consider the evidence, as presented, alone when determining the outcome. And maybe I am naive, but I tried extremely hard to do so, and had stupidly hoped that everyone else would do the same. I took pages and pages of notes. I listened attentively. I sometimes made faces at the attorneys when they made jarring remarks. (I guess I tend to lack self-control in terms of nonverbal commentary.) I didn't sacrifice a week of my life and a week of my pay in order to carelessly toss money at someone, consequences be damned. I walked into deliberations with a fairly strong idea of where I stood, with the hopes of having a semi-intellectual/mature discussion to see how everyone else interpreted the information. Heh.

I was very vocal from the start, constantly attempting to redirect the focus of the conversation to the evidence. Apparently, this made me a huge target for the Crazies/sentimental mommies, who quickly located each other and dominated the discussion. It got a bit nasty. The other girl that was making similar statements as I was whispered to me, "I hate it when people try to patronize me because I'm younger." I responded, "Yeah, I hate it when people who are clearly less than bright attempt to address me in a patronizing tone. Though it is kind of humorous." I like to tell myself that my ability to string together a semi-complex sentence using proper grammar and words slightly more colorful than "good" and "bad" may have been intimidating. And, I'll admit, I can adopt a haughty tone when I feel attacted. For whatever reason, I wasn't well-received by most. As a result, I had a battery of snippy, ridiculous (and often irrelevant) questions/comments hurtled at me. They include, but are not limited to:

"You just want us to vote because you already have your mind made up and you want to see how many people you need to get on your side." (Eh, voting is such an insane concept to suggest in the midst of a jury deliberation. How dare I?)

"Have you ever been on pain medication, honey?" (I haven't. My mom has. No relevance, regardless.)

"I guess you ain't never had surgery." (And?)

"Well, what do we need to say to change your mind?" (This was actually asked by a nice person in a nice way. I believe I told her something to the effect of, "a well presented argument based on evidence." In my head, I definitely said, "something that is slightly less batshit crazy and passably rational.")

"Look at them laughing now. Let's see how much they're laughing later when we're all stuck in a hotel because they wouldn't change their minds." (This was directed at me and the other young girl who wouldn't change our minds. I was probably smirking at that point or something. I told them that I packed extra soda for such an occasion. Plus, we'd get an extra $25.00 (our whopping daily pay rate, after the initial 3 days). Plus, I like adventures. And ultimately, I wouldn't allow their lame scare tactics to effect me. Unfortunately, it can be inferred that they did weave others into their web of Batshit Crazy GroupThink with this suggestion. Especially by speculating that they probably wouldn't be allowed to contact their families in such an occasion or to get their daily medicines. Which is total crap. But whatever.)

"Oh, honey, this ain't nothing like Hell." (Coming from a woman sitting near me who apparently peered over my shoulder to read the note I was penning. It read, "I bet this is what Hell feels like." I think I told her that she was quite possibly correct because Hell might be more pleasant.)

"Them young girls, they never think nobody should be held responsible for nothing." (I believe I responded to this with, "Are you kidding me?")

Those are just a few examples. I think I blocked out a bunch of it. And, far worse than anything they said to me was their collective basis for their conclusions. We had piles of evidence sitting on the table. Yet, more often than not, they kept saying, "If I were a doctor, I would have ________," or "A good doctor would ________." Or they passed time by making blanket medical statements based on their own experiences, rather than the evidence, or even fact. I don't know how many times I asked for documentation supporting the statements I was hearing. I kept repeating, "Doctors are human. They are not gods. They are entitled to lives. Please consider the evidence. We have very specfic timelines to base our decision on." It was basically my mantra for about 4 hours straight. Not that it mattered. I seriously thought I was going to puke a couple of times. (We were, thankfully, permitted to use the bathroom.) I honestly wouldn't have minded being in the minority if I thought there was a decent basis for the majority decision, as documented through various pieces of evidence. That would have been fine. I thought both sides actually presented very good arguments in the courtroom. Unfortunately, I just wasn't seeing any of that during deliberations. It appeared to be a rather whimsical decision (just my speculation, of course.) Three of us held out for hours. They finally got the final guy to cave, but another girl and I stood by our opinions until the end. (In civil cases, there only needs to be a 10/12 agreement.) And I would have continued to maintain my position throughout, unless someone could have come up with a legitimate, well-supported argument to the contrary. Even though I desperately wanted a cigarette. As cheesy as it sounds, this was a lot more important. I mean, both sides invested a lot of time and money into this case and deserved to have it considered carefully, in my opinion. I do have to say that I am rather proud about standing my ground and being extremely vocal about my point of view. I don't know if I would have had the courage to do so a few years ago.

Admittedly, I was embarrassed to walk into the courtroom and listen to the Lead Crazy read the verdict. I wanted no association with it whatsoever. I threated to find a sharpie and write, "I Held Out" across my chest. Yesterday's ordeal helped me recognize that, above all else, I am most offended when I fear that my intelligence is being insulted. I simply do not want to look dumb or to be associated with dumb people. Especially dumb/unkind people. That's a pretty lethal combination. Ultimately, there is nothing I can do about my association with these people. If those present in the courtroom presume that I was just another sheep in their herd of Crazy, I can't do anything about it. And I just have to accept it and know that I did my best, as much as I hate it.

So, I have learned that grown adults still have difficulties following directions. They still bully people. They still remain self-focused to such an extent that they apparently do not possess the capablities to separate their own experiences from entirely different ones. Most importantly, I have come to the conclusion that unless I'm suing someone, I will never opt for a trial by jury in Tioga County.

And, yes, on my way home, I stopped at a bar and pounded a beer. By myself. It was that necessary. I have hit a new low.

Four Weddings and a Funeral

As of next weekend, I will have attended four weddings of four friends in four months. Weddings are lovely events, obviously, and I have heard lots and lots about all of the time and effort and planning it takes to pull one off. As a result, I started thinking about what I'd like my wedding to be like. I then promptly started feeling like a loser, as it's not likely that I'll find someone to marry me in the near (or even distant) future. I just can't start pretend planning that yet. That's kind of lame. So, I've taken to planning my funeral instead. This notion was further encouraged when I watched The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off on TLC one afternoon. It is a documentary that chronicles the last months of the life of a man named Jonny who suffered from a horrible, awful disease from birth. He narrates it, even though he is dead by the end of it. He plans his own funeral and is filmed asking people to speak and picking out his casket. He has a can of baked beans, among other things, etched into one of the wooden coffin panels, stating that he wants people to ponder the significance of the beans during the service. He laughs that there is no significance, and he thinks it's a pretty fun little prank. He also makes them play "Another One Bites the Dust," during his funeral. Seriously, watch this show if you can. This guy faces his death straightforwardly, without self-pity or regret, despite the fact that he has endured excruciating pain on a daily basis throughout his entire life. Anyway, I figure that if he can suck it up and have some fun with his funeral, I can too. Sure, he knew his death was rapidly approaching. I will hopefully be sticking it out for another 70 years or so, but I could die unexpectedly tomorrow. Anyone could. I see no harm in being prepared.

Some might consider me to be morbid. It doesn't bother me, as I've heard it before. In 11th grade photography class, my black and whites almost exclusively featured either scenes from our local cemetery or Tate, my white-haired cousin who was the cutest little old man baby at that time. Eh, I've never been variety's biggest advocate. When I happen to run across them, I still think the tombstone pictures are kind of nifty. Terry and I have always threatened to plan our own funerals. (She expects invitations to be mailed; I'm not as fussy about the guest list.) I've been known to pose questions such as, "So if you were going to off yourself, would you pull a Sylvia Plath or a Virginia Woolf? Or would you go with a solid, yet overdone Hemmingway?" I like to tell stories about the slightly gruesome pictures we viewed in my college forensic science class. I can't definitively pinpoint my motivations for speaking so casually and cavalierly about death. It probably has something to do with the fact that I find death, and, more specifically, loss, to be profoundly saddening and somewhat terrifying. So maybe discussing it and pondering it and even joking about it forces me to acknowledge that it does and will happen to everyone. Juvenille? Potentially.

I'm certain that my desire to plan my own funeral stems from some highly self-involved and self-aggrandizing part of my psyche that desires to be remembered. But honestly, who doesn't? And I've attended far too many awkward funerals, at which the presiding minister never even met the deceased, some Bible verses are read, and not too much is said. Completely lacking in personalization and celebration of life. So, I am setting out to ensure that, once the time rolls around, my own funeral doesn't suck as much. (WARNING: If you already find this topic to be flippant or brooding or entirely devoid of reverence for the dead, and you are not so much a fan of such things, you should probably stop reading at this point.)

I have compiled a list of guidelines for how things better go down. Kindly direct my next of kin (whomever that may be at the time) to this list, in the instance that he/she is somehow unaware of what I want or too stubborn to comply. Peer pressure if you must, people!

1.) Kill me, if I'm more or less dead but not quite there yet. If I somehow suffer the misfortune of turning into a breathing vegetable with mush for brains, I best not be kept alive like that for any extended period of time. Whomever is in charging of making the call better heed this warning or prepare for a lifetime of ghastly hauntings once I finally am permitted to kick off. Seriously. The thought of "living" like that absolutely terrifies me.

2.) Once I am legitimatley dead, donate my organs. Let them take whatever is usable (if there is anything left unsoiled by the effects of nicotene or Dunkin Donuts addiction or any other vices I reserve the right to develop as life continues.) I do request that my body is not donated to science. I have read Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers. (It's really quite an interesting read, by the way.) And I have no interest as serving as a disembodied head for some rookie nip/tucker's first face-lifting attempt or lying in wait for every ounce of flesh to drip off my bones on a body farm. I find the latter to be a venerable cause, as it helps CSIish folks out with determining decay rates and times of death and other handy things. It's just incredibly unglamorous. And stinky. And wormy. Since I despise worms and am not a huge fan of maggots, I'd rather not give them such easy access to my eye sockets.

3.) I don't really have much of a preference regarding whether my remains are cremated or buried. Neither strike me as an especially pleasurable experience, so whatever. Cremation is cheaper, so I hear. If whomever gets to make the choice goes down this route, I demand that no urns are involved. They creep me out, and the thought of my ashes being lugged around for generations (or more realistically speaking, accidentially dumped and hurridly vacuumed and discarded with the trash - it happens all the time on sitcoms) doesn't thrill me. Having my ashes spread over a beloved or beautiful place strikes me as a tad bit cliche and potentially not environmentally friendly. As the dirty smoker that I have grown to be, I am making significant enough contributions to the pollution problem in life, so I think I'd prefer not to in death. I do definitely need a headstone. They seem important from a historical aspect, so kids hundreds of years from now can make fun of our anachoristic names and revel in awe at our comparitively short life spans. So, I guess I'm thinking I should be buried, either in ashy or fleshy form.

4.) Speaking of headstones, I want a good quotation on mine. Something literary and not too cheesy. At the moment, I'm a fan of, ". . . and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest," Hamlet, V.ii.360. It is the last part of the last thing Horatio says to newly dead Hamlet. It must be properly cited, of course. Sure, maybe angels and "thee" and "thy" sound as though they might up the cheese factor, but my gut tells me that one just can't go wrong with Hamlet. Plus, I haven't come up with anything more fitting at this point in time.

5.) No hymns at the funeral! The exception to this rule is "Amazing Grace," as I quite like it, but only if bagpipers are involved. Actually I'd really enjoy a whole slew of bagpipers. The music is so haunting and gorgeous. Maybe I'll marry a bagpiper. And then we'll have little kilt-wearing babies. Then I can assure that this will play out. Otherwise, just make mixes of songs I've liked throughout my life for background filler.

6.) Schedule the talkers ahead of time. And I expect lots of them. By that point in time, there should be enough goofy stories about me to keep everyone entertained. I actually attended a funeral at which no family/friend speakers were designated prior to the event. And no one talked when the minister who didn't even know her asked if anyone would like to speak. It was awkward. And sad. So, if for some reason a whole brigade of talkers is not rounded up ahead of time, I expect that whomever is in charge will tape stars to the bottom of the chairs in a random fashion. Then the minister or emcee or whomever is up there with the microphone will have to tell everyone to look under their seats, as though they might be potential prize winners on Oprah, and stand up if they've been starred. Those people will then be required to speak on the spot. I'd rather not have to resort to that, but I will do what I have to do.

7.) Poetry readings are permitted and even encouraged, as long as said poetry is not comprised of the rhyming internet forward variety about loved ones turning into angels or now being responsible for rainbows, etc. If someone does feel compelled to write his/her own rhyming poetry, let em go for it. I won't be too critical at that point, I'm assuming.

8.) I think it'd be kind of neat to have a cover charge at the door. Five or ten bucks, maybe, to be donated to a charity that I like. One that helps teach little girls to love themselves would be nice. Of course, if people don't have the money to donate or think that is tacky, they should be permitted to enter regardless. (Though anyone who thinks asking for charitable donations is tacky might need to realign his/her priorities, in my opinion.)

9.) No black clothing, if it can be helped. It's a celebration, so the dress should be a bit more cheerful and casual. Of course, if someone only feels comfortable in black or is going through a goth stage and only owns black or doesn't get the memo and thinks black is the way to go, they should be allowed to attend anyway. Hmm . . . maybe invitations are a good idea, after all. The only true clothing request that I have is that the horse skirt is worn. Allison has generously promised to don it, as long as she is still kicking at that time. She acts as though she is doing me a big favor, but I know she secret covets it.

10.) Eat pizza at the after party. And have a couple of kegs handy.

I'm a Loser, Baby

And here's why.

1.) I American Idol voted last night. A lot. Well, I made many attempts, anyway, during House and The Real World commercial breaks. Lots of busy signals. I try to claim to be a nonchalant viewer, but I think I have fallen prey to someone every single season who sucks me in and makes me worry about him to the extent of throwing down some votes when elimination appears to be looming. I guess I am easily guilted (even by short, man-tanning reality tv hosts), as I let Seacrest's chidings about how my complacency directly contributes to undeserved outings get to me. This season, though, I fear I am getting out of control. My Elliott love seems to know no bounds. I'm pretty sure I at least doubled my prior voting total from all of the past seasons combined in one night. I reek of over-investment. And I will throw shoes at my tv if he is voted out tonight.

2.) Speaking of The Real World, I somehow find myself to be a regular viewer for the first time since New Orleans, I think. I don't even watch it in the more practical, "I'll catch one of the 80 million reruns that is shown weekly," manner. Oh, no, I tune in every Tuesday at 10:00. I must be a masochist. First of all, it makes me feel old. Secondly, I think, on a subconscious level, I must be putting myself through it as penance for all of those "bitch crazy" drunken moments I forced upon my friends in college. Cause they've got an over the top, ridiculously emotional, issue-ridden girl bringing loads of drama to this season. She is always crying or hyperventilating or hating on men. It's more than a little unsettling to watch.

3.) Time reserved for the tanning bed seems to be officially replacing time formerly reserved for the gym. I was a consistent little worker outer for a quite a while, too.

4.) I let the Wal-Mart people cut my hair and (prepare yourself for the horror) wax my eyebrows. I was previously informed by some co-workers that getting hair cuts at Wal-Mart is for people who are so trashy that they are no longer permitted to enter real hair cutting establishments. I don't know, I guess I feel kind of let down. From the way they spoke, I expected to witness a parade of mullets and rat tails and spiral perms and poodle bangs. Unfortunately, the Wal-Mart cutting corral just didn't deliver, despite the fact that it was hopping with walk-ins. Anyway, I feel much greater levels of pity for the poor girl who had to focus her efforts on the crazy catterpillarish mess I left entirely untouched for 6 months than I do for myself for sinking to such a level.

5.) I am way too excited about alcoholic soda. (But, really, you should try it.)

6.) I can't seem to make it through a day without eating, at the very least, two fruit roll ups.

7.) I find myself stuck in a bit of a compulsive book-buying mode. Half.com is too damn tempting. And cheap. So I'm currently juggling 5 books. (They are, in no particular order, I'm Not the New Me, Bring Me Your Saddest Arizona, The Center of Winter, This Life She's Chosen, and The Glass Castle.) Needless to say, I'm not making tremendous dents in any of them. Of late, actually finishing a book feels like a major accomplishment. Very sad.

8.) I check a number of blogs daily. And away messages. And myspace profiles. And the superficial. When a computer isn't readily accessible, I even read celebrity-focused tabloidish magazines. It's as though I'm still in college, searching desperately for methods of procrastination, though I now have nothing left to avoid except for the books I am supposedly reading for fun. I fear my brain is slowly, but steadily turning to slush.

9.) I buy instant lottery tickets sometimes. (And by sometimes, I mean every time I get paid.)

10.) I can't sleep without Nick at Nite. I've grown far too accustomed to the background noise, and I don't trust any other channels for fear that I'll wake up at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of wacky infomercials that work their way into my dreams or, even worse, the buzzing rainbow screen that manages to sound more irritating and jarring than my alarm clock.

I'm a Big Kid Now

Last night, I acted a slightly out of character. College friends, prepare yourselves for a shock.

I ordered a soda at a bar. And, yes, I am almost positive that it was the first time I've ever done such a thing. Crazy, huh? I had 2 1/2 beers in like 4 hours and stopped. Granted, I was exhausted and sick and already had a headache. But it's not like that has ever held me back in the past.

I just might be maturing.

Next thing you know, I'll be showing up to the bar in pantyhose and ordering gin and tonics.