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Three Hundred Sixty Six.

I know what you’re thinking.

Nope. I still don’t have any answers. And I still don’t feel like a grown up. Maybe slightly closer, but I still don’t even want to have to take care of a houseplant.

SIDENOTE: Somehow I manage to keep my dogs alive and happy. I don’t know how that works. Life Math is weird.

…Maybe I’m just not a green thumb.

Anyway.

My BFF Jo texted me yesterday and said, “It’s your last day as a 26 year old.”

At first I kind of panicked. Holy shitballs. 26. It’s over. I feel like it just started. I know it sounds like a super cliche, but in some ways, it really was like the blink of an eye.

I started this blog a year ago as a challenge to myself as a writer. Early in 2012, I kind of lost faith in myself. I hit a major rough patch and thought wow, maybe I’m actually a terrible writer. Maybe I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe I don’t want to ever write again. Of course, I eventually came around and realized that writing is the thing I love the most. And in the same vein, I knew that if I wanted to be a writer, I’d have to write.

But I was kind of scared.

So I promised myself I would write something every day.

I wasn’t really expecting that forcing myself to write a blog post every day – a story that somehow led to me learning a life lesson, no matter how small – would help me be happy. I saw it as much more of an exercise than anything else. And an opportunity to maybe be funny. But I have to say, writing this blog has given me a completely different outlook on my entire life. It’s helped me understand how my past has made me who I am. It’s helped me work through a lot of difficult times and put a positive spin on things I would have never otherwise laughed at. It’s helped me approach life in a much more open, accepting way.

Like, happen to me, life: I’m ready to learn from you.

That was a disaster. Oh well, next time will be better!

I can’t believe that just happened. I am mortified. Also, that was hilarious. I can’t wait to tell people.

I did it! Someone pat me on the fucking back!

I hate everything right now. Surely someone will understand.

I am hurting. I need to know it’s going to be okay.

This is weird. Does everyone feel this way?

Did that just happen? SRSLY?!

At the same time, I had come to a bit of a crossroads with myself. I had hit a self-love low. I was feeling depressed, defeated, discouraged, you name it. I decided enough was enough: it was time to make the active decision to be happy.

I also discovered that Jayne Mansfield had stretchmarks. And my world was turned upside down. In a good way.

To quote myself (is that totally pretentious? I’m trying to recap, shut up.):

Jayne Mansfield, the American actress, singer, Playboy playmate, and all around drop-dead gorgeous bombshell, was flawed in a way that has been the root of much of my self-consciousness for all of my teenage and adult life.

So…all of that got me here.

SIDENOTE: It’s really hard writing the last post of a 365-day blog.

It’s going to be difficult to let this blog go. I know I’m going to wake up tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and my first thought is going to be, “What can I write about today?” or, “Oh shit! I still have to blog today!”

But I’m looking forward to channelling my creative energy into a number of other projects that I’ve already either started or am about to. So I guess what I’m saying is I’m not going anywhere. Maybe there will be another blog. Maybe not. But I promise there will be something.

I was trying to think of a fun way to commemorate the end of this blog.

Here’s what I came up with.

Jayne Mansfield had stretchmarks.

jayne

And so do I.

Image2

xA

P.S. It’s hilariously ironic that in the majority of the pin-up photos I took, my stretchmarks aren’t that visible. Because they’re everywhere.

But I guess there’s a life lesson in that, isn’t there?

I’m probably the only one who really notices them.

Image7_2

P.P.S. Things I meant to write but forgot: Happy Birthday to me! Also, here’s to 27! I’m crazy excited for it!

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Three Hundred Sixty Five.

I know this is a 365-day blog, but this is technically the penultimate post, because it’s a birthday to birthday thing. And tomorrow’s my birthday!

600px-US_27.svg

SIDENOTE: Have you bought me a birthday present yet? We can’t be friends if you didn’t because all I care about is material possessions.

Anyway, I thought what better way to spend the second-last day of my crazy year-long blog than looking back on some of its best moments?

SIDENOTE: Maybe that should say best/”best”…

Think of this, if you will, as a flashback episode of your favourite TV sitcom. With the help of a couple friends, I’ve compiled some categories I think you’ll enjoy.

Without further ado…

Top 5 Stupid Kid Moments

photo(1)

Oh boy. Where to even start with this one?! Well, okay…

1. Pressing buttons was (OKAY, STILL IS) a thing I loved doing. See examples A and B.

2. Of course, there was the time I electrocuted myself

3. The day I put scissors through my finger

4. Setting fire to things is never a good idea.

5. Neither is writing a hate letter to your childhood friend.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

I have to give honourable mention to the day I learned that “bastard” is a bad word. Oh, and also to the combination of shaving off my eyebrows and getting hair extensions.

And guess what?! It’s your lucky day. I found a photo of teenage Andrea with hair extensions and no eyebrows. And apparently I have no shame because I’m gonna post it on the Internet.

Extensions

Boy oh boy oh boy.

Moving on!

Top 5 Most Awkward Moments

If you haven’t deduced by now, I am the QUEEN OF AWKWARD. This is quite the random assortment, but I feel it encompasses who I am pretty well…

1. The day a goat ate my t-shirt. (Enough said.) (Stupid goats.) (Seriously, why would she do that to me?!) (Ugh.) (I fucking loved that t-shirt.) (SOB.)

2. The day I learned about orgasms in sex ed. (Is anyone else craving cake?!)

3. Barrel-chested. That is all.

4. The day the National Poet of Scotland called me stupid. Which I really should add to my resume.

5. My elementary school “boobies” moment.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

There are so, so many, but I feel like my Pilates FAIL and my Zumba BARF moments were pretty grand.

Top 5 “SRSLY?!” Moments

You know those moments. The ones that make you go, “what the fucking?!”

1. People and my tattoos. Why are people so weird about my tattoos?

2. That time a guy threw a book at my face. No big deal.

3. NO I DON’T WANT TO TAN.

4. Nothing says “what the fuck?” like getting pepper sprayed!

5. Also charming: when people tell you how to pronounce your own name

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

I have to give myself a shout out for fucking up my neck by making fun of someone on a Zumba DVD. Because who the fuck does that? This girl, right here.

But the greatest honourable mention in this category goes to Glasgow, Scotland, where I experienced so many WTF things, including…

Finding a tooth in an ATM.

Finding a used tampon on a bus.

And buses in general.

Among so many others. I fucking love you, Glasgow. I really do.

Top 5 Workplace Blunders

It’s a wonder I still have my job. It really is. It’s also a wonder I still have any self-confidence after all of the stupid humbling things that have happened to me at work…

1. My friends still bring up the day I parked on the sidewalk.

2. Also charming: locking yourself in a stairwell on your first day of work.

3. Or, you know, getting caught dancing in the bathroom.

4. Similarly, walking in on your coworkers in the bathroom.

5. Or traumatizing them with your hair colour.

BONUS PHOTO:

Getting caught taking a selfie at work.

Work selfie

At least I know my office mate loves me and doesn’t judge me.

Top 5 Relationship/Sex Fails

Look. I’d prefer we don’t dwell on how much I suck at relationships, okay? OKAY?!

1. I have been known to throw myself at guys I like.

2. I’ve learned the hard way that spin the bottle will only break your heart.

3. So will going after guys who don’t care that you exist. (But you can keep trying to shout “LOVE ME! LOOOOOVE MEEEE!” at them. Trust me. Guys SUPER love that.)

4. I’m good at ending up in awkward sex situations.

5. And awkward kissing situations, sometimes.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS AND A BONUS PHOTO:

Okay, well, first of all, heartbreak, right?

I think I also screwed it up with this guy, because he was clearly paying me a compliment.

Let’s not forget all of my failed marriages. Sigh.

And the time a MONSTER RASH ruined my potential Scottish boyfriend.

And hey, since I’ve already shown you how great I looked with hair extensions as an eyebrowless wonder, here’s a photo of me in the midst of the MONSTER RASH attack. This was after I managed to get my eyes open, because they were swollen shut.

Photo 130

Good lord…

Top 5 Accomplishments

I didn’t screw up everything, though. I’ve done some stuff. Yeah. I do things! I TCB every once in a while!

1. I’ve gotten over a lot of fear to become a Zumba instructor.

2. Then I stuck with it for a year and changed my life.

3. I grew back my eyebrows, guys. I fucking did it!

4. I got over some serious “I can’t!” bullshit and also tried wall climbing.

5. Oh, hey, I also learned how to embrace myself sometimes. I think that’s pretty huge.

HONOURABLE MENTION:

I BLOGGED EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR 365 FUCKING DAYS.

A year, guys. A YEAR.

I’m excited to celebrate my birthday with you all tomorrow.

xA

P.S. I know what you’re thinking. There totally should have been some sort of crazy travel category. But I just couldn’t narrow that shit down. So you’ll just have to re-read my entire blog to enjoy.

Three Hundred Fifty Seven.

I realized yesterday that my most prominent scar has also been on my body the longest, and that’s kind of unusual.

Even the scar from the day I put scissors through my finger has faded, and I was around six or seven when that happened. And I’ve sustained many injuries I thought for sure would leave me with bad scars that never did.

One day, when I was just under two years old, I was chasing my brother around the house. This was not unusual, which you should know by now since my brother is the coolest and I like him a lot. Also, the apartment we lived in at the time was laid out in such a way that you could run a full loop between the living room and kitchen, so that was fun. Lots of opportunity to pick up speed with each lap.

SIDENOTE: Remember when you were a little kid and when you ran, you always felt like you were running THE FASTEST EVER? And it was amazing and magical? Almost like you were flying? I miss that feeling. I love that feeling.

Anyway.

I bite my lip a lot. I don’t really have an explanation aside from the fact that it’s there so I bite it, but it’s just something I do. I bite it when I’m thinking. I bite it when I laugh. I bite it when I’m listening. I bite it when sexy times are approaching. (Sorry, Mom.) I bite it subconsciously. And apparently, it’s something I’ve always done.

SIDENOTE: If I lived in 50 Shades of Grey, I’d be in soooooo much trouble.

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SIDENOTE TO THE SIDENOTE: If you haven’t read 50 Shades of Grey and therefore do not get that reference, GOOD FOR YOU. You think you’re better than me? I rage read the entire fucking trilogy just so that I could make educated (maybe not the best word choice considering the subject matter) judgements of it and yes, they’re one of the worst things my brain has ever had to experience. So CONGRATS for not giving in, because they’re as bad as you think. And then some. JERK.

fifty-shades-of-grey-lip-bite

 

BARF.

ANOTHER SIDENOTE: How was that for dramatic, right? I’m here all week. (Actually, just barely over a week! Wah!)

ANYWAY.

So there I was, chasing my brother around the apartment and biting my lip, I imagine because I was laughing and smiling really hard.

And then I fell.

And then my teeth went through my bottom lip.

Whenever I tell that story, people go, “OMG OUCH!” and I nod and agree with them, but also, I have no recollection of this moment in my life because I wasn’t even two, so I guess it’s no big deal.

Almost 25 years later, though, I still have the scar to show for it:

photo

(Can you see it? It’s hard to photograph scars, which is maybe a good thing for people who have scars and are worried about them.)

Other things I still have scars from:

The day I got run over by a bike.

The day I removed my own stitches.

Scars. You might not like them (I don’t mind any of mine, but I get it if you have a scar you hate), but hey, at least you’ve got stories to tell, right?

Kind of like when you think about if you were in Back to the Future, what would you change? And then you decide maybe you wouldn’t change anything, because even though you’ve been through some shit – and maybe you’ve gone through A LOT of shit – it’s all just a part of what makes you who you are today?

SIDENOTE: ……do you not think about that?

……me neither!

xA

P.S. Total FALSE ALARM on thinking I had Internet at home yesterday. It’s still down! It’s like living in the past! And it BLOWS.

P.P.S. So I blogged from work today. Don’t tell my boss.

 

Three Hundred Thirty Seven.

Speaking of all of the super cool crafts I made when I was a kid, here’s a good story we can all learn from…

I wish I could remember just what it was that I was attempting to create, but I can assure you it was awesome. I was always up to something as a kid, whether it was running a private library or ringing doorbells.

I think it was some sort of hanging ornament, because the task that really tripped me up was punching a hole into the bottom dish from a box of chocolates. You know the ones – they have a number of small cups in them, one for each Pot of Gold chocolate or whatever. Yeah, that. I was trying to make a hole in the bottom of one of the small cups to that I could put a string through it. The plastic was really thick, though, so using a pen wasn’t working. I decided that scissors were the way to go.

But I wasn’t using Crayola scissors, folks. I had the real deal.

scissors

Uh oh.

So, um, not only did the scissors go through the chocolate dish like a hot knife slicing through butter…they also went into my finger – well into my finger – which was holding the plastic tight and got in the way.

I could see the sharp metal threatening to come through the other side of my finger. So I did what any kid (or just me) would do: ripped the scissors out of my finger and started screaming.

My memory after that is a little sketchy, but when I think of this instance in my life, I always flash back to the white dish towel my mom held to my hand, which was completely soaked in blood.

I probably should have gotten stitches, but I didn’t. (In fact, I wouldn’t get stitches for the first time until like, 20 years later…) My mom managed to stop the bleeding, bandaged me up really well, and eventually it healed. I had the scar for a really long time, but now it’s mostly faded, so maybe I actually just made that whole story up. (I didn’t.)

Lesson learned: They make those shitty plastic scissors for kids for a reason. Don’t put scissors through your finger. It fucking sucks.

xA

P.S. What was your biggest childhood crafting disaster? (Preferably a disaster in the sense that you injured yourself. I could talk messy disasters for years without running out of stories!)

Three Hundred Twenty.

There once was a boy named Ryan.

We met in kindergarten.

I’m pretty sure it was my very first day of school ever when Ryan walked up to me, an adorable ginger kid with a naughty look in his eyes…and lifted up my dress.

I was livid.

I cried.

Ryan, who really did sort of look like this…

childs-play-5__oPt

…continued to torture me for the remainder of kindergarten, lifting my dress almost daily and making me cry. My mom talked to my teacher, and then to his mom, and still, Ryan persisted with his dumb “Big Meanie” behaviour.

Did he change in grade one?

Nope.

Grade two?

Nope.

Grade three?

Nope.

Grade four?

Nope.

And then I left the elementary I was attending – not because of Ryan, mind, but for other reasons – and moved to a new school.

But years later, when we finally reconnected, Ryan and I clicked instantly.

No, we didn’t.

Ryan was always mean to me, and he remained that way. I just creeped his Facebook profile about five minutes ago, and while I’m well aware that I’m severely biased, it seems like he hasn’t changed much.

So yes, sometimes little boys (and adult boys, for that matter) pick on girls when they have a crush on them, but also – and here’s the lesson – sometimes kids are just dicks.

Boys

(Give these girls like, five more years to realize how cruel girls can be to one another, am I right?)

SIDENOTE: If I watch that GIF loop over enough times, I feel like I’m gonna barf.

xA

P.S. Don’t worry, I’m not still sitting in my life thinking about Ryan and his douche-baggery. This post came about while I was brain storming about first day of school memories, sparked by the fact that today is the beginning of September.

Speaking of, I am cheering on all of my friends who are teachers. You guys are already working hard and soon you’ll also have to deal with children. I commend you.

Three Hundred Five.

Have you guys ever heard of Irn Bru?

Irn_Bru_500ml_FS

It’s Scotland’s “other national drink” (after whiskey). It actually outsells Coke in Scotland, which is a pretty crazy accomplishment. If I remember correctly, that hasn’t happened anywhere else. But I might have made that up. Or a very proud Scot told me so and I took it for the truth. Either way, it’s popular stuff.

I only tried Irn Bru once. I don’t actually know what it’s supposed to taste like. It’s not orange, despite its appearance. It’s almost like North American cream soda, except way, way sweeter. Apparently, it may have a slightly ginger-y after taste? I think it burned my taste buds off. But that’s honestly not saying much; I’ve never been a fan of soda.

Anyway, I will never forget this one day in Glasgow. I was crossing a bridge in Kelvingrove Park on my way to university and I happened to pass by a young mother with a number of children. That in itself wasn’t surprising, but her youngest child was. The little girl, who could not have been older than 6-8 months, was sitting in a stroller, sucking on a baby bottle…that was filled with Irn Bru.

How can I be sure? It’s neon orange, y’all. It looks like toxic waste.

I have to admit, my first reaction was to think, “Only in Glasgow,” and tell like, everyone I saw that day about how horrified I was.

But lately, like in the last few months, I have seen so many parents buying their kids coffee that I don’t even know what to think. Just a couple days ago, when I was “working” at a Starbucks, I saw a dad buying his 6-7 year old son an iced coffee and I was kind of floored.

I know what you’re thinking. Starbucks has a lot of non caffeinated beverages that could be kid-friendly. Yeah, that’s absolutely true. But this kid was drinking one of these:

1961499163_18598febe6

Straight up iced coffee.

I’ve heard lots of parents say their kids genuinely love the taste of black coffee. I just hope that when they comply to their kids’ requests, they’re at least ordering decaf. Because (A) kids don’t need an early start to caffeine addiction, and (B) who wants to parent a caffeinated child?!

Lesson learned: I may be one of “those” parents. You know the ones. They don’t let their kids eat sugary cereal or processed foods.

Combine this post with this article from Jezebel and once again, I’m leaning toward “NO” on the “Are you going to have children?” scale.

xA

Two Hundred Eighty Nine.

Yesterday I was reminded of a funny time in my childhood.

I should clarify that I find it funny now. It cracks me the hell up to think about now. At the time, it was a little bit heartbreak-y and whiny and mopey.

When I was in grade one, my mom started working again. I don’t remember being worried about this change or anything. It all seemed pretty normal. I was fine with it. But the one major thing that changed is that instead of dropping my brother and I off at school a few minutes before the bell rang, we had to be there a lot before the bell rang. Because my mom was also working at a school, and she had to be there before her school started.

My mom had a chat with the principal to let him know what was going on. From what I remember/am making up, I believe the verdict was that it was fine if my brother and I were on the school premises early, but that no one would be responsible for us. Basically, we had to keep ourselves safe and out of trouble.

Step right up, big brother.

I never really thought about it until yesterday, but as the baby of my family, I will never know what it’s like to feel that sort of nurturing, parental thing older siblings feel for their younger siblings. You know, once they get old enough to feel nurturing and parental and they’re not just annoyed by the fact that they’re obligated to keep some other person alive, because what a drag.

On the flip side, I guess my big brother will never know what it’s like to look up to an older sibling like they’re a super hero, like they totally know their shit, and want to impress them and make them think you’re cool, etc., etc.

That’s life!

SIDENOTE: My lucky brother. His coolness was like, built-in. I’ve worked so hard for almost 27 years to be cool and it still hasn’t stuck!

Anyway, so my poor brother was totally stuck with me before school.

Again, I say “poor brother” now, but at the time, I was like, overjoyed that he was forced to hang out with me. Because I liked him.

SIDENOTE: He liked me too – we’ve always gotten along really well – but I was an annoying little kid.

I’m not sure how long we lasted hanging out before school started, but I remember one day very distinctly.

It was definitely winter, because I feel like I was wearing some very swishy waterproof snowpants and I know for sure I had a toque and mittens and boots. It was a huge challenge just wearing all of that clothing and carrying my backpack. My mom dropped us off at school and told us that since it was so cold, we were supposed to wait inside.

SIDENOTE: When I think of children in snowsuits, this is always the first image to come to mind…

tumblr_li8y4uqE9o1qi7amwo1_500

So we waved goodbye to her and went into our school. But after a few minutes, some of my brother’s friends arrived, or he thought they might have or something. He turned to me and said, “Andrea, just sit on the stairs here for a second, okay?”

I complied, grateful to not be standing in snowpants, boots, the whole bit.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a while – I’m going to see my friends.”

And off he went.

And there I sat.

And sat.

And sat.

…….And sat.

It felt like time had slowed down completely. Like I’d just be sitting there until bedtime when my mom noticed I had never gotten home. I sighed, staring into the inside of my toque, which was falling over my eyes. I hugged my backpack against my knees. This was boring and lonely and sad.

Eventually, the principal noticed I was alone and came to check on me. I buried my face into the collar of my wintercoat and responded, “Yes.” when he asked if I was okay.

And eventually the bell rang and school started.

My brother never returned for me.

That was the day I learned that little sisters can be a huuuuuge style cramper.

xA

P.S. Little sisters can also totally rat you out when they get home. I’m not saying that’s what I did, but that’s exactly what I did.

Sorry, Bryan.

Two Hundred Seventy Three.

Two nights ago, I was at the movies with a friend and decided to flip through one of those magazines they have at the cinema.

I got to a page of upcoming movie previews and stopped on one called The To Do List.

Here’s the blurb from IMDB:

“Feeling pressured to become more sexually experienced before she goes to college, Brandy Clark makes a list of things to accomplish before hitting campus in the fall.”

The blurb in the magazine shocked me, I’m not going to lie. Because it drew repeated attention to the fact that this is a movie about a high school senior trying to get more sexual experience before college.

When I started university, I was 17.

I’m not saying there’s a right or wrong age to become sexually experienced, okay? But should we really have movies written all about it? IMDB states that all of the actors selected for the movie were specifically chosen because they’re older than real high school students…but does that make it better? Maybe in the context of the movie itself, it won’t seem so bad, but based on the blurb alone, I wouldn’t want my teens watching it.

photo

I just hate to think of all the high school girls seeing the movie and thinking there’s a list of things they should know how to do. It scares me. Guys, I’m old.

Lessons learned:

(A) I may be a prude in this specific context (but I don’t really care).
(B) I should probably not have children until this sexy teen thing chills the fuck out.

Remember in the 90s when holding hands or making out was a big deal on TV shows? Oi vey.

xA

Two Hundred Thirty Nine.

In my six years as an independent theatre producer, I threw many a fundraising event. For the most part, they were successful. I’m lucky to be able to say that only one was a flop. And then there was the fundraiser that was highly successful despite a string of pretty ridiculous circumstances…

CUT TO:

It was all going down in the upper level of a weird, kind of old-fashioned pub here in my hometown. The space was nice and big, but it’s important to note that we were upstairs because we were having a heatwave and the air conditioning system had broken down “that morning.”

SIDENOTE: I put that in quotes because the pub was run by a bunch of assholes who lied to me about many, many things that day. I will never set foot in that shithole again. But hey, water under the bridge.*

So it was sweltering hot. When I say sweltering, I mean it. As part of our fundraiser, we were selling handmade cupcakes, and about 10 minutes into the evening, they had all melted all over the fucking place. I’m so grateful people still bought them because they were delicious, if no longer beautiful to look at .

It was so sweltering that nobody was even ordering drinks, because we all felt sick and dehydrated. So my crowd was guzzling ice water and sweating profusely. The pub was not happy about that, but you know what? That was their own damn fault.

Water under the bridge!*

Still, I have to say that everyone was being a good sport about it. Despite the setbacks, the crowd of supporters was positive and upbeat, and our entertainment rocked the house. We had a very successful silent auction, stand-up comedy, a wicked live band, games, and then my BFF Louise DJed the night away.

SIDENOTE: The “DJ Booth” was “under construction.” God love Louise, who stood inside a sketchy ass cave-in-the-wall, held together with scary, splintery, unpainted plywood, and balanced all of her equipment on more of the same. Knowing Louise, I feel like she has at least 20 stories of worse places she had DJed, but I still commend her for putting up with that shit.

SIDENOTE TO THE SIDENOTE: God, that pub is the fucking bane of my existence…

Not long into the dance party, the crowd became a bit frantic.

In Louise’s words: “I looked up and saw people dancing as far as the eye can see. Really, passionately dancing. I thought to myself, ‘Wow, Casemore, you’re really killing it tonight.'”

But back on my side of the story, I was already all too well aware of why people were passionately “dancing.” Because I was already trying to get someone who worked at the pub to help me with the m’f’ing BAT that was flying around the room and into people’s faces.

Yes. A BAT.

One of these guys:

Corynorhinustownsendiiflying

I would just like to say that I don’t have a problem with bats. I actually think they’re both cute and cool. But when they’re flying ALL OVER THE PLACE because they are PANICKING because they are INDOORS and they are making EVERYBODY FREAK OUT, then, you know, I’m not the biggest fan.

Turns out the geniuses at the pub had made the executive decision to leave the back door – which was connected to a long stairway that led to the dark, creepy alley – wide open. To cool the place off.

It wasn’t helping the temperature at all. And now we had a special guest at our party!

“Can someone please do something?” I asked, trying to remain calm, “There’s a bat flying around. It’s kind of freaking people out? I don’t want it to get hurt, or hurt anybody, or, say, destroy my evening.”

The pub people looked at me and shrugged.

“What do you want us to do?”

“Like, I don’t know, catch it? And then put it outside?”

“…”

Then I got a little upset.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this right now? There’s a bat flying around! People are freaking out! You need to do something!”

“…”

Then I got more upset.

“Okay, great. DO NOTHING. I guess I’ll deal with it since you’re all so capable. [under my breath] I fucking hate you people.”

So I had to catch a bat that night. Luckily I had a little bit of help, and eventually, we managed to wrap it up in a tablecloth and release it.

Only after a lot of screaming and straight up anxiety attacks from a number of my guests. My one friend’s mom – bless her heart – is a bit of an animal freak like me. She kept screaming, “OH MY GOD! DON’T HURT IT! DON’T HURT IT!” over and over again while we tried our best to catch it. That was calming.

The party sort of wound down after that. People were “tired,” I’m sure.

That was the day I learned that bats are real party poopers.

I feel like I need a drink just thinking about it.

Vodka

xA

P.S. For the record, Louise did kill it. That girl know how to DJ. Also, she has this like, DJ dance/swagger that makes anyone and everyone want to sleep with her. It’s magical.

*Jk, jk, I will never let go of this grudge.

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