[i'm wearing a turtleneck and i imagine it's much too hot for that.]

why i don't 'try' to go 'out' and do 'things':

tonight there was a whole hullaballo of Those In Tampa With Whom To Hobnob at Stormin's Palace and the charming hooligans were on the vip invitation list. after a big mess of decision (as it always is) i put myself in a dress and shutup. a quick run into walmart, and i'm on my swerving way-- the drive there was filled with glorious girl fun: getting half dressed while not mixing up the clutch the gas and the brake. i finally find parking, and have plenty of time to learn how to walk in these evil death shoes while walking across the massive parking lot. notice one mexican dishwasher from the italian restaurant standing outside smoking a cigarette. i walk up to the door, am told i 'look beautiful this evening' [and wonder if he at least uses a different adjective every time], and am blessed with the x across each hand, thus ensuring all the Hobnobs are quite aware that i am a young woman and therefore ____creative__sentence__ending____. prepared and armed, i entreat the Inner Chamber and the second test.

"do you have an invitation?"
"tim kidd said he'd leave my name up here.. i'm with the charming hooligans.."

obviously, i had failed miserably. i was identified as an outsider and as we looked for any record of my having been invited, it was clear i wasn't getting in. the enemy apologised and i assured her it was quite allright.

baaack across the parking lot to the car. two mexican dishwashers. fifty cents in hand and halfway around the italian restaurant, i drop one of my quarters under a car. and though i'm all about crawling under cars for money.. not so much in a dress. baaaack to the car, in these blessed shoes. more money. back to the italian restaurant. of course they have no pay phone. why would they? i walk around the bank, around a few cement walkways. no phone. baaaaaack to the car. three mexican dishwashers [most likely one out of three was a dishwasher and two out of three were actually mexican. i suspect the third was actually colombian. but this is highly IRRELEVANT and UNNECCESSARY commentary]

three employees of spanish decent from the back kitchen of the itali [see why that is so much easier?]

three mexican dishwashers are now standing out back of the restaurant. they whistle. i thank them.

they whistle again. i whistle back. they whistle again. i run over them with my truck.

HAHAHHA. just kidding. they whistled, and i smiled. because i was not a-laughin', oh my no. i was frustrated.

not nearly as frustrated as when i arrived at the payphone at the mcdonald's down the street and proceeded to attempt to beat it into submission for the next twelve minutes at which point it told me for the fourth time it wasn't going to dial tim's number and that it would now happily dine on my change. "fuck you, phone!" i cried out in agony and ran it over on my way to taco bell.

not really. i may be all for calling all spanish people mexicans but i am COMPLETELY against public phonicide. what you do in the privacy of your own home is up to you, so keep your phonicide to yourself.

and if i thought mcdonald's phone was a bitch, then taco bell's phone was mariah carey. didn't even bother trying to dial tim's number, it just ate my money. at least it was quick and painless.

an EXTREME cheese quesadilla was my only consolation. i tried to stop by nick's apartment because my dr pepper delivered an assault on my bladder, but no one was home.

this is what happens when i wear a dress.

no. this is what happens when i 'try' to go 'out' and do 'things'.

i had my stories mixed up there. that's a different story.

not really. that story doesn't exist. i don't really have a problem with dresses. except when i wear them on purpose and then the reason i wore them doesn't happen, but OH

i called tim when i got home and he'd been going outside every twenty minutes looking for me, and everyone else got in. fluke fluke fluke that didn't seem to have a reason behind it.

so, in closing, a letter:

Dear World,

WE DON'T ALL HAVE CELLPHONES. HOOK A SISTA UP WITH SOME MOFUGGIN' OPERATING PAYPHONES 'FO I BREAK YO' NECK.

thank you.

love, sara.