In my weekly/bi-weekly correspondence with the above mentioned individual, he has blatantly pointed out (with subtle sarcasm) that the writer of this journal is getting quite lazy with utilizing her potential ability to succumb to her well-versed academia with the English language and the like. Therefore, this journal entry my relatiatory piece (since I am a retalitatory type of person) to bring peace with WILBUR. (he has also complained that I have dubbed him with the objective pronoun “childhood friend” in previous entries and he would like the dignity and honor of having a name. However, he has requested for the moniker of Bin Laden to give him some sort of clout in the matter but I fear that the CIA may arrest me for custody for such trivial and seemingly facetious matters)
Dear reader, as you may recall, my inability to write more frequently has proven myself to commited the sin of sloth and thereby this opus will be quite lenghty and have the high probabilty of being pure drivel whereby something of this caliber might of be something of interest to the disinterested reader who is sicken or grieved since I have succumbed to such mundane language and filler. Hence, I present to you, the most interesting misadventures of yours truly to date. Is your curiousity piqued?
First misadventure (please be aware, this will probably written out of order):
Wilbur and I were to attend a club dubbed “The Comedy Store” with my fellow friends soon to be mutual compadres with Wilbur (should I be obliged to put Wilbur in capitals so he may feel even more special than the usual person in an entry? My humor may not be appreciated. Alas, I digress) i.e. Tyler, Kathleen, Aldryn (fellow co-employee with Wilbur) Kay aka Kristina, and Don. However, I noted that I had just recently underwent a folicle changing process which was quite lengthy in time thereby backlogging my day by an hour. You see, our general plan was for me to pick up Wilbur in Imperial Beach (his place of residence) “grab” a quick “bite” to “eat” (I think the agreed carcass was a chicken between two slices of bread. In the common tongue, it is defined as a sandwich a la chicken/chicken sandwich). I especially was succumbing to hunger since I have not consumed anything of worth since the noontime. When I went to pick up Wilbur (i mean, WILBUR) I found to my dismay that the clock warned it was 7:00 p.m. and I had to be at Tyler’s abode by 7:30 p.m. Please be advised that I had to transport ourselves from Imperial Beach (near the border for those who are directionally miseducated) to La Jolla..in half an hour. The consumption of carcass was dismissed as I broke several moving violations in the honor of my obsession with punctuality.
I made it to Tyler’s at 7:31 p.m. which made me quite please. We enter the Comedy Store and in order to develop some sort of comaderie with my peers, I ordered a drink. Please note that the narrator of this story had no intentions of being inebriated since appointed the designated driver. Kathleen, seeing that my drunken behavior is waning, in throes of celebration of having a part time job, and perhaps the misled into believing I could “hold my own” ordered a Long Island Iced Tea to continue the inebriated mentality.
Quite drunk and feeling feisty, I slurred several words and steps into the line at Moondoggies. Thinking I was able to consume food and/or alcohol, I unwittingly accepted a nicotine stick from WILBUR. A slim stick which appeared to be European. However, slim sticks does not guarantee slim/lack of nicotine. Quite the opposite, I belive. This effect only intensified the alcohol’s power and I have the overwhelming urge to have my food regurgitated.
HOWEVER, I HAVE NOT CONSUMED FOOD SINCE NOON. We deftly left Moondoggies and headed toward its neighbor, (neighbour in british) Hard Rock Cafe. I vaguely remember stumbling into the entrance and the protector at its gates questioning my ability to communicate. I passed the test and WILBUR, bless his heart, led this drunkard to the water closet.
20 minutes later of dry heaving, WILBUR was patiently waiting at the door of the ladies room with a look of concern. I opined that I was going to live and we headed off to the booths were the rest of the party was socializing. Unfortunately, the lack of food also intensified the absorption of alcohol in my system and I begrudgingly (but rapidly) made several trips (I believe it was around 15-25 trips) to the my favorite stall and toilet to vomit NOTHING. Of course, I became the brunt of the jokes for my weak stomach (Remember, dear reader, I only had TWO drinks. a heinken and a long island iced tea) Aldryn kept voicing his opinion that I should “represent for the east coast/NYU” and continued to place drinks in front of my tired espophagus. My glasses had fallen and Wilbur had apparenlty bought yours truly a drink or two but I was consummating a relationship with a toilet 90% of the time. Being the good friend that he is, he parched his own thirst with my supposed drinks.
Fortunately, since my system was literally sparse with ANYTHING, I was able to drive WILBUR and I home with the pleasant company of Red Hot Chili Peppers in my c.d. player.
That is just one of the many misadventures (and adventures) that this pseudo writer has experienced. There is a hiking trip, a Halo experience, and many eating experiences to be transcribed but alas, it will have to wait for another time I should diary such things.
Additionally, I took the unfortunate risk of taking a class with a fellow female exerciser. We decided to take a class named “Fat Burner Extreme.” Needless to say, I was petrified of such a class that would indicate it was 2 hours long. However, we decided to bury our fear and went to the saturday morning class.
8,000 lunges later, my thighs were shaking and Cyndy’s back was screaming for mercy. The instructor was impressed with our beginnings and opined that we could sit and stretch while the remainder of the small class finished 8,000 more lunges. I was quite surprised that I did not have muscles bulging out of my arms and my stomach was firm from the 900 ab exercises. Ironically, we walked of the class streesed and somewhat relieved to we survived. To celebrate, we took a drag of some Marlboro Lights. For fear we may be caught by the health instructor, we took our vices into the cyndy’s truck.
24 hours later, my body had efficiently burned a bazillion calories and watched 18 episodes of Sex and the City. Unfortunatley, this fat burning machine was also in the throes of PAIN. They screamed for mercy and asked their owner why everything past the neck had been pulled, stressed, and manipulated in an unusual way. To punish their owner, my body refused to move with ease and thus, I became a sore cripple. Utilizing the bathroom was a scream and a half and going up the stairs…Eeks! Cyndy called me the next morning (this morning) to express her likewise experience and noted that she would remain in bed until her muscles were well-taken to movement.
I, on the other hand, decided to defy the soreness (no pain, no gain..etcetera) and run some errands with a girlfriend, (wallaine) and eat many delcious treats. Moaning and groaning with pain when entering and exiting her car was quite entertaining for her.
I don’t fucking care anymore though, I’m going back to that damn fat burner extreme class next week to prove myself (lack of self control on the profanity)
All right. It is past midnight. I must succumb to my circadian clock and it’s partner, the hypothalamus and put this aching body to rest. Put on the dvd and set the timer on the television. This mind refuses to rest unless blocked out with the ordinary background noise.
Good night dear readers.