This should explain a lot.

I'm too old for this shit

I have lots to tell you, lovers.  Most of what needs to be told to you also needs to be told to me because, well, someone had too much fun this weekend {hint: it's me}.  Those stories will have to wait until Nashville and Tampa finally decide to post their pictures.  Here's what I know:

Friday:  Nashville was kind enough a complete bitch and brought my new kryptonite: moon shine.  Not just any moon shine.  Apple pie moon shine. Whoever invented this needs to gold medal for life.  And then needs a swift kick to the balls.  It was the best thing I've ever tasted and it kicked my ass.  It kicked it bad.  Steve Prefontaine brought over some rum.  Fer brought some vodka.  We drank far too much before we even left the house.  We went to my favorite bar - which just happens to be within walking distance - and I'm banning myself from there for at least one week {you'll find out why in a second}.  We caught the tail end of the Grizzlies game and I made a wager with Mr. Prefontaine.  If the Griz pull out a win, I'll buy you a car bomb.  If the Grizzlies lose, I'll buy you a car bomb.  Yup.  I'm a fucking idiot genius.  Griz lost.  Car bomb mania began.  THEN it happened.  I may or may not have told someone {that doesn't know me well enough to find that charming, cute, or funny - not that it IS any of those things} that I want their p in my v.  Adios dignity.  In those exact words?  Haaawwwwwwhat?  Who in the fuck does that?  Someone who's had far too many jello shots and Irish Car Bombs, too much moonshine and, the icing on the cake - rumplemintz.  I sold my most prized possession for $20 and a shot of rumple.  I miss my mustache necklace already.

Friday recap:  down one mustache necklace, one busted knee, lost at least one card, dignity out the window... or down the pisser - whichever the case may be.

Saturday: I told people to come over around noon.  I woke up in a timely fashion. At 11:45.  Cute.  I'm still in my towel when my first friend arrives.  I'm still hammered from Friday.  I have no idea what's going on.  I took a nap.  In my front yard.  On my porch.  In my house.  Captain Ron came over.  Uninvited.  Gave his business cards to all of my friends.  Tried to talk to me at the edge of my bed while I was napping.  My friend from work came over with his friends.  {Side bar:  The last time Taylor came over with his friends was during my housewarming party.  I was swimming on the floor when he got here.  I don't know why he came back for more embarrassment.}  I told one them he had a pretty face.  {In my defense, he totally did.  And he speaks French.  And he cooks.}  I also told him I want to lick his teeth.  Sometimes I really fucking creep myself out.  Sometimes = all the time.  We all went to the Blue Monkey.  There Nashville fell in love with a stranger named Evil Keith.  Real life.  I know, I'm confused too.

Recap: I'm the biggest creep in the world, my friends fall in love easily, Taylor should never hang out with me again, Captain Ron is the second biggest creep in the world

Sunday.  Moral hangover like whoa.  Waking up in my apartment that smelled a lot like bad decisions {aka stale beer and cigarette smoke} was pretty much the only good decision I made this weekend.  Next time I throw out the idea of jello shots, tell me no.  I won't listen to you.  But at least you will have tried.

 I need to tell you that before this weekend I missed college.  I missed the lack of responsibility.  I missed the bad decisions.  I missed everything.  Now?  All I have to say is I'm way too old for this shit.  Way too fucking old.

Today was rough.  I'm pretty sure my kidneys are failing and my liver is on it's last leg.  My brain has officially turned to mush.  I realized I lost my debit card, again.  I lost my flex spending card {still not sure how that happened}.  I didn't lose my id {whoop, whoop} and I somehow gained the respect of one of my neighbors and some anti-burn cream.  That's all I have for now.  I'll be a grown up one day.  I promise. I also promise it won't be anytime soon.  But one day.

In other news, this girl I work with told me she had a dream I was pregnant.  I hope she doesn't predict the future otherwise I need to take up extreme sports.

Is god an evil dwarf?

I love all the "seasons."  I put them in quotations because down where I'm from, we don't get all the real seasons.  We seem to skip spring and sometimes we skip fall.  But I have a serious infatuation with fall. I want to make out with every part of it.  I love the leaves changing colors.  I love football.  I love drinking whiskey and watching football.  I love pumpkins spice lattes.  I love red wine.  I love boots.  I love sweaters.  I don't love pants but that's something I am willing to get past for the greater good of the season. I love all the fun things you can do during fall that you can't do any other time of year... like carving pumpkins and picking apples and hay rides.... which brings me to the source of my joy today.  Gracie and I have made plans to do all the fall-y things I love this long weekend.  I think we've missed apple-picking season but I'll settle for stuffing my own scarecrow.  One thing I will not be participating in is the haunted corn maze.  The first {and only} time I've ever done this was my senior year in highschool.  I went with four of my best friends down to Arkansas - which was probably our first mistake.  AND we went on Halloween - definitely our second mistake.  We are trying to make our way through this wretched maze when something/one starts chasing us and forcing my mind to decide between fight or flight.  What did I choose?  Neither.  I peed my pants.  Literally.  It was this horrible mix between shear terror and hysterical laughter that caused me to say sayonara to any and all bladder control.  Cute.  I know.  {And my parents wonder why I don't have a boyfriend... probably because I tell sick ass stories like this.}  I could pretend that this was the last time I did something so humiliating but Grace would bust me out.  But that's a story for another time.  And by that I mean I'm not telling you now nor will I ever tell you.


I apologize for the second weak post of the week.  My sleep schedule {or lack thereof, as the case is} has turned the vibrance of my mind into mush.  So tonight, dearest readers, I'm praying to the gods of tylenol pm and the sweet baby cheezus that I will sleep 3+ hours.


I bid you adieu.

Let's keep this on the down low...

When I was up at UT, I was the definition of out of control.  I was a shit show.  I was that girl.  And while I still do make the occasional horrible, terrible, no good, very bad decision, these days I'm pretty lame.  I'd love to say that I'm dangerous or mysterious or have some sort of description that wasn't fit for an 86 year old woman.  Alas, here I am.  Twenty five going on 94.  I think the most rebellious thing I've done this week is see how long my car can go without gas or wear my underwear inside out.  Ok, wearing my underwear inside out was an accident but that's besides the point.  The truth is that I'm a totally little boring.  I've been in denial about this for quite some time - two years at least.  I remember the first time my parents called me to house/dog sit while they went out of town (knowing that my older brother would be at his house, right around the corner all weekend long) and the first thing that popped into my head?  "When in the sam hell did I become the responsible child?"  Moral of the story is: I don't dig it.  I do like that my family can rely on me - though it can put a serious cramp in my style sometimes (like when they need a late ride home from the airport... and I am forced to get into bed after 10).  Time to start (or stop? as the case may be - I don't know how 25 year olds are "supposed" to act) acting my age.


Prologue:  Don't get me wrong.  I'm very content being single.  Relationships aren't... um... well, I guess they just aren't my strong point.  I like my alone time and I like hanging out with my friends and I don't want someone around all the time.  But the rate at which all of my friends are getting married and procreating has put me into a bit of a frenzy.  It makes me really nervous, actually.  I will joke until my dying day about being a cat lady one day.  The only problem is I hate cats.  Oh, and I bore myself.  So I'm thinking that the only way I could live alone with a bunch of cats is if I'm actually not alive.  Not alive at all.  Dead as a door nail.  Becoming cat food... sorry, too far.


With that being said I have two words for you: speed. dating.  HA.  I laugh at the mere thought of me going and trying this out.  A friend of mine has talked about this with me and has agreed to accompany me should I actually grow the cajones to do this.  (We've agreed that we aren't allowed to sit next to each other OR across the room from each other because we would inevitably get the "church" giggles.)  Has anyone done this?  Does this happen in real life or is this something that strictly takes place in romantic comedies on TV or in movies?  I need to know...


Then there is online dating.  I signed up for plentyoffish because my friends were doing it.  Worst mistake of our lives.  Everyone on that site (or at least everyone that contacted US) were fucking pervs.  I guess that's to be expected since it's free?  I don't know.  I've toyed with the idea of signing up for eharmony or match.  I really don't know that I could meet a complete stranger in public though.  Sure, he may look totally legit, but he could also kidnap me, throw me in a well and coax me to moisturize my skin so he could make a Shannon-suit.  I'm going to stick with the advice my folks gave me when I was a youngin' and steer clear of the strangers.


Ricky-poo, being the thoughtful father that he is, has suggested multiple times that I go to his church's singles group.  Ok.  There are a few flaws in his plan.  First and foremost being that all members of his church are eligible for AARP.  I know some of my friends are thinking, "But, Shannon, you love old dudes," and you are 100% correct.  However, I like it when men have teeth and weren't in WWII.  I know, I'm picky.  The next problem with the idea of single's groups stemming from churches or meeting someone at church in general is that I would judge the shit out of them.  Yes, I'm aware of the hypocrisy of this statement.  Maybe they are there to meet a nice, respectable young lass.  But that's not me.  I'm crude, wildly inappropriate and demented.  (For example, a friend of mine is going through RCIA and I was telling her what she should say in confession.  "Premarital sex is pretty much my favorite" may or may not have been something I not only thought about saying but typed in an email.  And now on this blog.)  On the other hand, I don't want to meet anyone in a bar either.  I'd like to think that I'm above that  - enter hysterical laughter here.


Let me finish this personally humiliating post by reassuring you that I know I'm horribly hypocritical.  And judgemental.  I should tell you that I am working on becoming a better person but that's a lie.  I just need to find boundaries.  And an inner-monologue.  I suppose that's what this stupid fucking blog is for.


Happy Hump-day, lovers.  I've been kicking it old school recently... I'm gonna keep on keepin' on.  Love you.  Mean it.