It Was My (21st) Party and I Cried Because I Wanted To...

I turned 21 on September 17^th this year and it was pretty magical to say the least. I had grandiose plans of going to Vegas, but you know that green paper stuff that you trade for goods like gas and food and stuff? Well, I was running low on that. No biggie, I’ve been to Vegas a handful of times and it’s not that magical anymore. But I still wonder what it looks like through drunk eyes…  

Instead I decided to make the trip back home for my birthday. I was completely happy to have a nice dinner with my parents where I would legally order an alcoholic beverage for the first time, followed by a night of bar hopping with a few of my close friends.

The dinner was excellent. Tahoe Joe’s. I got a steak and some kind of Peachy martini thing. It was pretty good. And my mom got me a cupcake birthday cake in the shape of the Little Mermaid (my favorite Disney movie as a kid).

So awesome!

The bar hopping was more like bar plopping. We got to one bar and we stayed there for the rest of the night. It was just me and 4 of the best friends I’ve ever had (Megan, Brittany, April, and Dominic). I was wearing a 21^st birthday tiara courtesy of April, so I didn’t have to pay for any drinks. By the way, Long Island Ice Teas are the best and they fuck you up pretty quickly. So does a shot of patron, which was seriously the smoothest tequila I’ve ever tasted. No wonder rappers like it so much.

Britt, Me, April, & Meg

On the car ride home, I piled in the back of Britt’s car with April, Meg, and Dom. I was suuuuper drunk by this point, as were we all, and things got a little emotional for me. My friends proceeded to tell me how proud they were of me for chasing my dream, and being so independent, etc. I don’t remember what I said out loud, but I remember thinking, “Well… I’m gonna have to have a good cry when we get back to Meg’s." So that’s what I did.

I got back to Meg’s, changed into my pjs, told Ashole that I needed 5 minutes on the back porch by myself. Then and only then could Megan come check on me. So I went outside with a cup of water and just bawled my eyes out. I wasn’t sad. Nothing dramatic happened that made me sad. I just had a lot on my mind (see previous posts to get an idea.) On top of the family concerns in my life, I was thinking about how this is my last year in college, and all the other scary thoughts that go along with being an adult. Sometimes you just need a good cry.

It didn’t look like the waterworks were going to stop anytime soon, so my friends said goodbye and everyone got home safe thanks to Britt and Bruce (thanks for driving us Bruseph! And thanks, Britt, for providing the car aka Oprah). I stayed at Meg’s and she kind of listened to me talk/cry/slobber all over her couch. Even in a drunk-ass state, Meg really knows the heartfelt things I need to hear to make me feel better.

All in all, I’d say it was a successful 21^st birthday. I was surrounded by some of the most important people in my life and that’s really all I could ask for. Crying sucks, but that’s just the way things work sometimes. The next time I go drinking I’ll remember to cry before I get really drunk.   

**Side note: Ashole is only 19, so she couldn’t go to the bar with us.  :/

What? My Grandparents Aren't Old!

Sorry I've been out of the loop for awhile. That's assuming that you all noticed and/or cared. My lack of posting  wasn't due to my laziness this time. I've been super busy with family problems, which is rare for me. I have a small family and nothing new is usually happening, but for the first time in my life my family is having serious issues. Both of my grandparents (the married couple) had to have major surgery. And not just any surgery: Brain surgery. Both of them. For completely different reasons. Needless to say, it's been tough on my small family circle which on my dad's side consists of me, dad, aunt, cousin, and grandma and grandpa.

It started on July 27th. I was in Santa Cruz visiting some old friends, and having a grand 'ol time when my dad called me and said that my grandpa had fallen, hit his head, and couldn't really get up on his own, but he was still concious and they had called the ambulance just in case. I figured he'd be fine because he's grandpa. Sure, he'll be 80 in February, but he's not feeble. He's tough! It's not like he's some old person or something... So I went back to having a good time with my friends.

Good wine=Good conversations

Don't worry, we weren't drunken fools!

At about 2am that same night my dad sent me a text that said, "Just found out gpa has to have brain surgery early in the morning. Will keep you updated."......WTF! I couldn't believe it. I called my dad to ask what the hell was going on.

Apparently my grandpa had fallen and hit his head somewhere around 6 months ago and didn't tell anyone. That fall caused a bleed in his brain that, over a period of 6 months, worsened as his brain continued to swell. Subdural Hematoma is what they called it. I obviously decided to cut my trip short and head home.

So they raced him into emergency surgery, and while he was going in, he had a seizure. They fixed the bleed (which had caused the seizure), but for two weeks he wasn't really aware of what was going on. He was in intense pain because his head had been cut open, and he was strapped down to the hospital bed because in his dazed condition he was trying to pull out all the tubes in his body. And he had a pretty important drain in his head that needed to be kept in place. He progressed after the surgery, but by day 2 they discovered an air pocket in his brain from when they pulled the  drain out. This caused him to regress. When his eyes were open he didn't recognize anyone. It was right about this time when my grandma hit her breaking point.

You see, we already had her to worry about before my grandpa got sick. About a month previous, her doctor had found a "mass" in her brain. It was about the size of a golfball, and it was still up in the air whether or not it was going to be removed because they needed to find out if it was cancer. My grandma went to a surgeon in Fresno who she seemed to trust to do the surgery, but she didn't want to have the surgery in Fresno because she'd have to go to Fresno Community, which is the trauma center of the Central Valley. They have the best doctors there that specialize in neurosurgery. My grandma, however, wanted a second opinion from someone at UCSF. So that's where we went.

I had to take my grandma to UCSF by myself because I was the only one with the day off. I was completely happy to do it because she's my grandma and I love her, but I'll be honest-- It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. My grandma is like a second mother to me. We're very close and she does whatever she can to help me out in school and every other aspect of life. But for the first time in my life, the tables seemed to be turned. Suddenly I found myself having to comfort her because she was in tears constantly. She was worried about herself and her husband of 56 years. The stress had really gotten to her, and I had to try and stay strong and comfort her. Like I said, the hardest thing I've ever done. How could I stay strong for her when she has always been my rock? I was also worried about her and grandpa's wellbeing because I couldn't stand the thought of living without them just yet. I mean, for Chrissake my grandparents aren't old!

At UCSF the doctor said the "mass" should be removed immediately. Grandma couldn't contain her tears, and neither could I. It's rough seeing your parents/grandparents cry. When the adults cry... shit is seriously wrong. They're usually the ones telling you that everything is going to be ok when you think all hope is lost, so their tears mean the end of the world, right?

So we had both grandparents in the hospital with brain surgeries to be had, one in Fresno, and one in San Francisco. Hearing the risks of a serious surgery like that was no fun either, by the way. Grandpa was finally awake and recognizing people. When I asked him if he knew my name he said, "It's Nicole. What do you think, I forgot?" I honstly expected him to call me Debbie (my aunt's name) because he would sometimes accidentally call me that before the brain injury.

My grandma came through her surgery fine, and just last week we learned that the mass was NOT cancer: some small miracle. Which makes me wonder: How did her brain even have room to grow that mass?

Grandpa is back at home after he literally tried to break out of the hospital. I saw him when he got to the rehab floor and they had this mesh cage over his hospital bed so he couldn't escape. It was sad/hilarious. He wanted my dad to smuggle him in a pocket knife, or get to a lawyer to get him a Writ of Habeus Corpus, whichever was faster... Yeah, he remembered what that was.

My grandma is on the mend and my grandpa needs 24/7 care for awhile so he doesn't walk outside by himself and fall again. Getting in home care is difficult because they don't qualify for free care, but they can't afford pay for it themselves. My dad and aunt, and best friend Megan are taking turns watching him and helping my grandma out while I finish out school. The brain injury has caused my grandpa to be very moody, and mean at times. He says hurtful things to family members that he doesn't really mean or remember. And there's really no telling if/when/and how long it's going to take for him to go back to normal.

It's been a strange time for me because it's like all of a sudden, overnight, they became old people. At 80 and 74, their age has finally caught up with them and it's heartbreaking. I only wish I could do more for them.

I also want to take this time to thank all my friends (and of course family) who saw that I was going through a rough time and offered me their condolences and constant support. Meg, I can't thank you enough for not only helping my family out but actually wanting to  help us out. I can't get rid of you now, you know waaay too many family secrets ;) I love you girl!To date, this is the hardest thing I've had to go through and it's made me realize who my true friends are. I love you guys and I can only hope I can return the favor when any of you are having a rough time.

My grandparents, my dad, and aunt in their early years.

Oh, Shit... The Brakes Don't Work...

“Oh, shit… the brakes don’t work…” that was the thought running through my mind while I was flying northbound, downhill on the I-5 back into the Central Valley yesterday. I looked at my dashboard and noticed that my car’s engine had turned off while I was driving! The dash lights told me that my car was in that limbo-land that allows you to hear the radio but not actually drive the car. As I picked up speed toward what was potentially my impending demise, I put on my hazards, started pumping the brakes, and began moving over to the right side of the freeway. My death hadn’t even crossed my mind. What I was more concerned about, was how I was going to afford to fix whatever the fuck was wrong with my car now! I can’t say I’m surprised that my day was turning out to be like that because the way it started was no peach either.

It all started Tuesday night when my friend, Tony, texted me and said his roommate’s room was up for grabs starting in August. I, of course, jumped at this opportunity because the room is over $100 cheaper than I was paying last year to rent a room from a crazy-ass cat lady. So I talked to his roommate, David, that night after I got off of work, and it was decided that Wednesday was the best day for me to come down and look at the room. That meant that I had to make an emergency trip down to Orange in less than 8 hours. Not pleased, but relieved to have a chance at a better place to live.

I had the beginnings of a sore throat Tuesday, which turned into a dry, scratchy throat that night, only to wake up Wednesday morning from less than 6 hours sleep and with a full blown sore throat. Super pissed! Still, I hit the road at about 8:30am with a 3 ½ to 4 hour drive to Orange ahead of me.

The drive was ok, if not boring, since I was by myself. I listened to Pandora on my new Android—I’ve recently become a fan of Dub-step (thanks Bruseph)—and I arrived at the apartment at about 12:30pm. I liked everything I saw and by 12:45pm I was down at the rental office filling out a credit check/application.

The credit check got me concerned because 1) It didn’t dawn on me that I’d have to pay $30 for the credit check and 2) If I needed a cosigner for this place, I’d be kinda screwed. I have better credit than either of my parents, and I really didn’t want to have to ask my grandma to take a risk like that (even though I know I’m good for it). Regardless of my fears, I turned in the application and was told the results would be ready by 2pm. With an hour to kill I decided to get some gas, food, and a 5 hour energy drink because I was exhausted and still had to drive back home to Fresno.

Thankfully, by 1:15 the woman from the rental office had called me and said that I had passed the credit check and could sign the lease all on my own, without a cosigner!

Now, let’s talk about the 5 hour energy drink for a minute, shall we? I had never tried one before, but I’d heard they work great. I don’t generally like the taste of energy drinks and I don’t drink sugary beverages, but the 5 hour is sugarless and the new flavor is grape- my favorite! I read the tiny bottle and it basically said don’t drink more than 2 a day because you’ll probably die, blah, blah, blah… So I downed it, and it didn’t taste too bad toward the end. I felt kind of like Lucy in the Vita-meat-a-veg-a-min episode.

By the time I’d reached the rental office 2 minutes later I was feeling a little weird. Kinda shaky, and yet on top of the world because I was signing my first lease ever, all by myself, with the good credit I’d worked so hard to build! It was a major “I’m a big girl” moment. My immediate thoughts were “I’m pretty sure this is what crack feels like.” I know some people who’ve done it and they say that you get super awake and you feel like you can do anything. The logical conclusion for me (and some other people I know) was that 5hour energy=crack! 

So I sat there in the office kinda drunk/happy while the lady went over the lease with me. I initialed all over that lease, wrote some checks like a boss, and walked out of there feeling relieved, happy, and wired, to say the least.

The drive home seemed longer than usual, probably because my throat was still sore and I just wanted to go home and go to sleep. I mark the end of the grapevine as the final stretch of my trips to and from Orange, and was relieved to be coming up on that checkmark. Usually, on the downward steep, I take cruise control off, and throw my car into neutral in an attempt to save gas. I don’t know if it actually works or not… This time, I think I forgot to turn the cruise control off first and just threw it into neutral. As soon as I did that, the engine cut out and I found myself gliding down the hill at 80+mph with no brakes and no power steering.

Surprisingly, I didn’t panic. Well, I didn’t panic because I thought I was going to die or crash. I coasted down the mountain while pumping the brakes; afraid I was going to be stranded on the 5 still 2 hours from home. I panicked at the knowledge that car repairs are expensive, and I almost never have a substantial amount of savings to cover a car repair. I panicked… because I knew I’d have to call my dad and tell him that the car he still isn’t finished paying for needed to be fixed…again…



**Side note**

Fuckin’ Fords…

**End Side note**

As I glided to a stop along the side of the highway at the end of the ridge, I put the car in park, turned the key to the off position, and then turned it back on. It started perfectly. I was still shaking—this time from anxiety, not the energy drink—but I was so very relieved! I think the glitch may have had something to do with not turning off the cruise control when I put it in neutral. But it was fine the rest of the way home, thank God!

I’m kind of a spiritual person, by the way. I believe in fate or God’s plan or whatever you choose to call it, so what do I think saved my car that day? I think it was the cross that my Grandma had blessed that hangs from my rearview mirror. That blessed cross saved me and my car, and you can’t convince me otherwise. Besides, there’s no proof that it wasn’t the cross that saved my life. HA!

Basque-ing In All the Glory

It's that time again: Time for another tale from your favorite preppy white guy... which is hopefully me and that's why you're here reading this blog.

My situation recently has been that I've had to move back home to Fresno for the summer. If  you've never lived or been to Fresno, CONGRATULATIONS! If you happen to live in Fresno... kudos for making it work for you. I joke, but it's only been since I moved out of Fresno that I've learned to appreciate its prime location (it's basically 3 hours from all the important stuff in CA), and the importance of its agriculture. Prime example: My grandma Abate's homemade peach pie made from our homegrown peaches. If  we didn't live in Fresno, we wouldn't be able to grow the deliciously juicy peaches that make her mouth-watering pie. It's literally better than any store-bought pie you'll ever eat...in your life! I wish I had a picture of it. Instead, I have a picture of our nectarine tree because our peaches aren't ripe yet.

Ignore my finger in the shot...

Anyhoo... in order to save money for rent and other expenses for next school year, I was on the hunt for a job a couple months before I even got home. It's hard to get even a minimum wage job these days, but it's especially hard to get one in Fresno. Unemployment is at an all time high, and that was a depressing fact to face. But luckily God decided to smile upon my poor unemployed but easily trainable soul and I got me a job as a waitress at the Basque Hotel & Restaurant!!! Here's how it happened:

My mother went into the restaurant and asked the bartender if she was still hiring because she didn't want her daughter (me) "lazing around the house all summer." ........ Need I say more? She also let the bartender/owner know that I was only going to be in town for the summer. Now let's go back to the part about how it's insanely difficult to get a job in Fresno. What do you think happens to those odds when your potential employer thinks you're lazy and knows you're only going to be there temporarily? Usually they won't even bother hiring you if they know you're going to cut out of there in 3 months. And she even forgot to tell the lady that I had food service experience because she forgot that I worked at Jamba Juice for 6 months! But despite my mother's lack of the ability to sell my good qualities to my potential employer, I GOT THE JOB! The lady hired me with no experience as a waitress, knowing that I'd only be there temporarily, and with the impression that I was some lazy ass kid. Needless to say, I believe in miracles.

 Here's a picture of the sign outside.

Of course, I was a little nervous about working here for the first time since I'd never been a waitress before, but I was a pretty fast learner. And by the way, there's nothing particularly "Basque-y" about Basque food. It's all pretty normal stuff. You get bread, soup, salad, potato salad, beef stew, beans, the option of a meat (from fried chicken to prime rib), and dessert all for about $12-$20 depending on your main entree. On weekdays they have the "exotic" meats like beef tongue, lamb testicles, and fried pigs feet. I've tried all of these because I'll try pretty much any food once, and to be honest, the tongue bothered me the most. I had to focus really hard on not picturing a cow's tongue in my mouth, but if I didn't know beforehand what it was it wouldn't have been a problem.

So it's been here that I've discovered the wonders of waitressing. It's a pretty small venue, so only me and one other girl work together to make the tips worthwhile, and boy are they worthwhile! The tips are THE best part of waitressing. I usually make more in tips each night than I do at my hourly wage. Plus, the clientele there is pretty much just old people. More specifically: old men. And they usually have a drink at the bar before I serve them, wine during dinner, and another drink to top it off before they leave. All this makes for a loose hand when it comes to tipping the pretty, young, white, blonde girl that served them at dinner. That's right, at this place I'm considered pretty, young, white (duh!), and blonde! Never before now have I felt like the prettiest girl in the room, and I'll tell you what, every girl (or boy) deserves to feel like that at some point in their lives. It does wonders for the ego.

My spanish is also getting better because the guys that work in the kitchen don't speak english. About the only thing I can say to them conversationally is "Como estas" and "Bien, y tu?" But they call me senorita bonita, so we get along pretty well. Juan knows the most english, so he's attempting to teach me something new each day I work.

Jackie is my friend and co-worker who started dishing the details of her life with me on my very first day. She trained me and helps me out whenever I need it, and always listens to my problems while giving me genuine advice.

Cathy is the boss's daughter who works with me occassionally. She tells it like it is and has inspired me to be a more assertive person.

Margaret is co-owner with her husband Fermin. She's the bartender that doesn't take any bullshit, and her husband is always trying to get me to drink the house wine while I'm working a shift. I have accepted his offer only once :)

So as you can see, my summer experience has pretty much been a series of Cheers episodes.

It's not peachy all the time, though. I get the ocassional bad tipper. And even the occasional no-tipper-at-all, but for the most part I've had some pretty good conversations with the regulars, and some especially good conversations with the drunks. I'm also happy to report that I've yet to get pinched on the ass, and I've only accidentally broken 2 glasses so far.

Not to mention, I've built up my savings account pretty nicely... That is until I got my tuition bill from Chapman.... Bye-bye savings.... That really pissed me off, but hey, I'm used to not having money, so I'll get over it. What's important is that I've made pretty good friends with my co-workers at the Basque and I've gained some more work experience. Hopefully I can get another waitressing job down in Orange somewhere. Although, in Orange, I'll just be one of a million of other pretty, young, blonde, white-girls. Eh, it was nice while it lasted...

I Met a Zombie, and His Name was Rob

I know it's been almost a month since I've posted, but give me a break. It's summer and I've been very busy doing I'm not sure what. Oh, watching a lot of I Love Lucy. That's what I've been doing. Not sure why. It still makes me laugh out loud. But in between the Lucy sessions I got invited to a Rob Zombie concert, and it was quite an experience. *Rob Zombie will henceforth be referred to as RZ*

Not gonna lie, I think he's kinda sexy

RZ came to Fresno at the end of May and my cousin Dominic won two tickets on the radio (Yes, radios still exist, and they still broadcast songs and stuff). I've never considered myself to be a RZ fan or a metal fan. Like I've already established, I'm a preppy white guy who's eighty years old. I like to listen to the old crooners like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Bing Crosby, Judy Garland. But, RZ was playing the Crest theatre here in Fresno, and I'd never been inside. The Crest is now affectionately known as the Crust theatre because it's so beat up, but it's super old and still has that ornate appearance of its picture-palace days. I was super excited to see the inside. Plus I like hanging out with my harcore cousin.

The Crest theatre in Fresno, CA. aka the "Crust" theatre.

When we got there, we had to wait in a long ass line, and I kept asking my cousin if I looked like a square with my jeans, t-shirt, blonde hair, and untattooed/pierced body. He said I looked ok, but the very fact that I referred to myself as a "square" makes me one. Dom had no problem blending in, by the way. This guy is all tatted and pierced up, and wears a mohawk. He looks like he'd cut you if you greeted him the wrong way. I'm pretty sure I've seen that happen. He's awesome, though.

At the end of the line there were security guards waiting to feel us up for sharp objects. It didn't really bother me except that the girls' line took a lot more time to get through because there was only one female security guard versus the ten male guards.

When we got inside, the opening band had already started playing and I was not that impressed. The lead singer was an old-ass fat guy with long greasy hair. He looked super dirty and sweaty. He and his bandmates drank beers in between each song, but I completly understand that part. Screaming takes a lot out of you, and beer really helps soothe the throat... Did I mention that their backdrop was a big, black trash bag/tarp? It looked like we were in someone's garage in the 70's listening to some high school band. I literally thought I had travelled back to the 70's, but I must have just been contact high from all the wheed (that's the way I like to pronounce weed). I'm being mean in my description here, but they were alright. I've heard worse metal bands that really annoyed me because I didn't believe they were saying words. At least I could here some words from this band and the music was ok.

Now, what really blew my mind were the moments before RZ started playing. I was freakin out and kept joking with Dom that RZ was gonna eat a baby or something. I've seen his movies, he's a freaky motherfucker, so I was expecting the worst. After the garage band, RZ's roadies tore down the stupid tarp to reveal giant backdrops with pictures of the classic Universal monsters on them. As I looked at the pictures of Frankenstein, Phantom of the Opera, and Wolf Man I heard Johnny Cash songs being piped in through what sounded like an old intercom speaker that you listened to school announcements from. It was an overall creepy effect that I'm not sure if RZ intended to create or what...

Then he finally took the stage in a dusty Jack Sparrow getup and I instantly became a fan. The man puts on a kickass show. He talked to the audience like he was an old friend, he got as close to the crowd as security would let him, and he performed his songs at 110%. I think the relatively small theatre helped create a more intimate experience. I really felt like he was talking/singing to me and me alone.

While I watched RZ perform, my cousin decided to join the mosh pit--something I said from the start that I would never participate in. I'm a pretty tall girl, so I can take and give a pretty good hit, but I just don't want to. What the hell is the point of slamming into one another while music is playing? People get hurt, and I just don't see the reason for it... But my cousin was all about it, so he left me alone (yes, ALONE) in the crowd to go get his ass kicked.

I was proud that I had managed to stay out of the stupid shoving match until some DUMB BITCH decided to start a mosh pit right in front of me! I got hit from the front and got the wind knocked out of me slightly, so I shoved that bitch as hard as I could and ran to the outside of the crowd. Afraid? No. Getting the last hit in to prove that I don't like hitting? Yes. It's all very rational inside my head.

All in all, I had a great time. The only disappointing thing about that night is that RZ only played for an hour. I was expecting a couple hours, but who am I to complain? I got my ticket for free, and I'm not even a particularly huge metal fan (although slightly more now than before that night). I feel kinda bad that I got to go to this concert while my best friend Meg and her boyfriend had no idea RZ was even coming to town. Meg is a waaaay bigger RZ fan than I am, and she would've loved every minute of that concert, but she was with me in spirit!

Oh, and my cousin Dom didn't come out unscathed. He got in on a fight to defend his friend for reasons he's still unsure of, and his industrial piercing (I think that's what it's called) almost got ripped out of his ear. I think that constitutes as a pretty successful night.

What the Hell Kind of Title is That?!

I figured my first post should be an explaination of the title of my blog. I mean, I've never considered myself preppy--I transcend stereotypes, bitch!-- I'm not a guy, but I am white and I've got some tales to tell... so it kinda makes sense... Anyways, here's the story:

Disclaimer: I'll be using everyone's real names unless I feel like making some up, or if I find out I need to change them for legal reasons.

Last weekend my bestfriends and I had a little party. It doubled as an early birthday celebration for Britt (21 suckas!) and a graduation party for Ashole (her name is Ashley, you get the idea). Two birds, one stone, that's just the way I like to get things done.

I was talking w/ Ashole, Meg, and her boyfriend--we'll call him Matt because that's his name-- about the first impressions that people give off. Like an idiot, I asked Matt what his first impression of me was (I was under the influence of some things).  I was curious because I usually get way different answers: Bitchy, shy, nerdy, etc. All contradictory assesments of my actual personality, except for the fact that those are all probably pretty accurate...

Anyways, as Matt described his first impression of me I went from flattered, to offended, back to flattered, then to a neutral state somewhere between pissed and sad. He finally summed it up in one sentence, "You're kind of like a preppy white guy."

... Really, Matt? A preppy white guy? Not even a preppy white girl? By the way, this was after he described me as funny and uptight in the same sentence.

When I heard that, I actually busted up laughing. After that, Meg and I decided to make up titles to our memiors. Mine, of course, would be called Nicole Abate: Tales of a Preppy White Guy. Hers? Isn't it obvious? Well, it soon will be after I blog a few more stories about her. Meg's memiors would be called What If I'd Said No (this is, of course, a sexual joke often aimed at Meg and always in good-hearted fun). Matt decided to get all deep and name his Work in Progress, or Survivor, or something like that. Sorry I can't remember, Matt. Like I said, I was under the influence of some stuff.

Here's a pic from that night:

I'm clearly indifferent about them...

Oh, wait, I DO love them!

So there you have it, a fun filled night full of honesty and ab-crunching laughter. I love those days., and I love my friends. Oh, and thanks, Matt, for helping me come up w/ a title for my memiors. Your check is already (not) in the mail.