Do not read if have pet deer

I have been enjoying deer hunting for about 18 years now. While I do find that shooting a wild animal is enjoyable and gives me a rush of adrenaline and excitement, I do not consider myself one of those sport-type hunters. You know the ones, they put out doe piss the night before a hunt and rattle antlers and wear abundant amounts of camouflage. That has never been my style. I go out once a year and kill a deer and that is that. I am no trophy buck hunter. And this year, I had to go kill a deer out of necessity. As in, it was necessary that I eat for the winter - and after having taken a job at the Capitol, which I thoroughly enjoyed throughout the 83rd Regular Legislative Session, I found that it did not contribute much to my bank account, and hence, my freezer was empty, thus making my annual deer hunt a matter of "have to" instead of the normal enjoyable outing with my Dear Ole Dad. 

Now when I go out to shoot this annual deer, I dust the cobwebs off my Remington .22-250 bolt action, my Pops and I walk out to his backyard, sit for a spell, and I kill a deer. It has been much like this for as long as I remember. My very first deer, we pulled into my Hey-Hey's place and the deer was standing in the very field my father knew him to be in, so we drove down to the deer and I shot him where he stood. Some would argue that this is not hunting. I think this is the best kind of hunting. It also prevents you from freezing your ass off and being miserable. 

So, there we are, sitting in our fold-out chairs in a clump of trees in the yard, whispering about who I have been dating and what's been going on in Austin, etc., etc., when out come three little does. At this point, I have never killed a female deer. I do not know why, really the opportunity has never presented itself. But today, I don't care what is on the other end of my rifle as long as it will feed me for a year. 

I can't see them very well at this point in the evening so Dad and I are trying to figure out which one I can see and which one I am going to aim for. Dad is literally talking in a regular voice which throws me off considerably, however the deer seem unfazed by this loudness -  they actually seem not to care we are there at all. (Father refers to this time as "The Golden Hour," the exact moment of dusk where apparently you could clap, yell, and do the River Dance at the deer and they would not appear to mind.)  

Per my dad's loud instructions, I wriggle around to a spot I feel I can accurately kill something, position myself on my knee and fire at the only deer I can properly see. 

"You missed!" Dad says. 

I do not feel this is true. But I reload and reposition in order to get a second shot. However, my dad has already thrown up his .3030 and shot one of the deer, without warning, shot ringing in my ear, and then says, "I don't miss."

I am hurt. 

But my face is one of those that is not hurt but disgusted. "WHAT THE HELL, DAD!?" How dare he think I miss. I do not miss a deer. That happened one time and it may as well have been the middle of night. I shot his leg. Can't he just let that one go? Does he have to remember everything?

I remain calm. Maybe I did miss. Probably not, but I will possibly not know because Dad just shot the deer I shot at. We discuss which deer I shot at and what we come up with is absolute confusion. There is no telling at this point, unless one of the deer comes over and explains, which one was which and if I missed or if Dad shot my deer or a different one. Utter chaos. 

We remove ourselves from our grove and check out the scene. I find a dead deer. Dad claims this as him own. More disgust from me and dirty looks in the dark. I wander off into someone else's property in an attempt to find another dead deer. No luck. More theatrical remarks out of earshot from Dad. 

Dad collects his kill. I help, reluctantly. We decided that I may come back out tomorrow morning and attempt to find a blood trail. But mostly, at this point, I am coming to terms with the fact that I missed a deer. But I will return tomorrow. And not to find a blood trail, it will be to kill the asshole deer that evaded me to begin with.

The next day. I take dad's truck out by myself and drive into his place. Two deer, same deer, standing by same edge of trees where they last saw their friend Marguerite. They are most likely wondering where she is. 

I load my gun and walk toward them. They are dumb. They stare at me and invite me to kill one of them. Given my miss last night I do not dare take a standing shot with no stable base. So I go sit down. The two dumbasses have run off a way but come back in about twenty minutes. To the exact place where their buddy was killed. Luckily, I can see everything in the dead of the morning. And for these two, every hour is apparently The Golden Hour because they don't seem to give a flying fuck I am about to shoot at them. I stand up and lean on a tree and fire. They both look at me. They are confused. I am confused. I fire again. More confusion on both ends. This is my last bullet. I have never needed more than three bullets in my life so I am disconcerted at this point. I take a deep breath and fire again. Nothing. The deer stare at me, completely unaffected and unharmed. Not even a wound or a bit of fright on their end. They are still standing there so out of sheer anger and confusion, I yell at them so they will leave. They are literally taunting me by still standing there. I sit down in my chair and in the middle of my little patch of trees, I cry. And it's not just a whimpering pathetic crying, it's really crying. I am boo-hooing in the country. 

What I think of first is that people surrounding the area, farmers and land-owners, have heard the three shots and know that I missed. They stopped their chores to listen to the sounds of my three failed bullets and they are going about their business now, laughing at me. People will be talking about it in town later, at the pharmacy, in the bank. Based on who was where and who heard what, they will be able to figure out it was on the Whaley's Place. And that poor Whaley girl who doesn't know how to shoot a deer. 

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are out by the tank now, laughing at me too. They have by now figured out what happened to Marguerite and congratulating one another on their revenge. They high-five and skip around and eat acorns and laugh at me as I pull myself together and walk back to the truck. Now I have to go out to my dad's work and explain to him that his daughter cannot hit the broad side of a barn. 

Dad's friends are at his Deer Processing Plant, which make for an even more humiliating experience. I recount my story, holding back tears of shame, as the men look on, interested, pitying, and internally, surely laughing. Father is in disbelief. No child of his is a Misser. 

"Give me that gun," he orders. 

A brief moment of hope in this nightmare. Is it possible my gun's sights have been knocked off? I will not blame my inability to fire a weapon upon the weapon. I will take my shame and wear my scarlet letter until I am vindicated only by killing of another deer. But now the men have a project and excitement fills the room. One grabs a barrel for a prop to place a target, another makes a bulls-eye on an old bag of deer corn, and dad prepares the yardage for the experiment. I follow them outside, half excited, half nervous as hell that my rifle will be spot on and I will be the idiot who can't shoot right. 

Dad misses the mark twice. I am not a failure. My gun's sights were off by a good half-foot and then some. I receive high-fives and "you'll get him tonight"s. I am encouraged. Shaken and without confidence, but my gun is in order and my Hey-Hey lends me a rifle bipod to rest it on and while I am mildly humiliated, I am grateful. Both father and father's father know the import of this night's hunt. I kill Tweedle Dum that evening and rejoice. A perfect shot. I thank the deer for giving me food and my perfect shot back. All is well that ends well. 

Now, if you found this post completely un-relatable and completely un-funny, here's this. 

I'm a big kid now

One might find it a tad disconcerting, and although I have been graduated from a distinguished University for nigh on four years now, I have never been on a Big Girl interview. That is not to say that I have not been interviewed before. I get interviewed every day by my pesky regulars at the bar who quiz me about boys and my sisters and my aspirations and perspirations and I have been interviewed by employers before, but it's always been at a bar and I also made it a point to wear cut-off shorts and a risque top, that way when they asked me about my assets, I really didn't have to do a whole lot of talking. 

Today was different. I was a veritable basket case. I had no idea what to wear. My closet is full of things to wear to the San Marcos river and to Dirty Bill's, not a job interview. And at the Capitol. 

Of Texas. 

After I pulled myself together, and after having to employ a pair of needle nose pliers to zip down a dress that obviously no longer fit, I embarked. 

I wasn't nervous, surprisingly. Def Leppard on the drive over sure helped, and my interviewer was easy to chat with and a very nice guy. He bought me a cup of coffee which I promptly spilled on my silk shirt, right at the moment I was to meet his superior. This is all standard Brynnan stuff. I fully anticipated this kind of incident. Going into the thing, I had actually imagined myself spilling the coffee on my interviewer, then later maybe tripping over nothing. 

I saw a few bar regulars who caught my eye and quickly glanced away and like any good bartender, I pretended not to know their names, or how they like their cocktail... 

There is one bar reg who it seems that no matter what job I obtain, bar or otherwise, she is there. She has literally walked into every bar that I have ever worked at and said, "Oh, Brianna! I didn't know you work here!" This broad has been calling me Brianna for two years now and I don't know how to correct her. It's too late. And now I find out she is a goddamned lobbyist and works at the goddamned Capitol with me and will be calling me fucking Brianna in front of everyone, all the time. And once people think your name is Brianna, they just keep calling you that like it's your real name. 

Brenna. Brenda. Brenham. Oh you mean like the town Brenham? Sure. Just like that. 

Besides the coffee, I got lost inside the Capitol only three times, had to google "capital" and "capitol" beforehand, and tried to walk through security like I was Lyndon Baines Johnson without being searched. 

And I also have not been offered such small compensation for a job since I was a sophomore in high school organizing years of insurance files for my best friend's dad at Farm Bureau and flipping burgers with him on the weekends at baseball games.  

So this is the part where my life is pretty much over and I "start going to bed at a decent hour" and "start dressing like a librarian" and "not drinking til 3AM" and "not start drinking at 12PM" and trying to "network" and "get to know politics" and "start working on my future" and "wake up early" and "drink Starbucks" and "have a lunch break" and "start taking showers" and "put on makeup" and "contribute to society." 

It's going to be great. 

Velveeta munchies. Problem solver.

I like to drink beer, eat peanuts, and watch Jeopardy. Beer and marijuana, for me, do not mix. But some people I know, no, MOST people I know, smoke. And while sometimes I feel like a snobby cheerleader in grade school who looks down her nose at you when you offer me a doob, my friends dig that I don't smoke and I dig that they smoke. That being said, LEGALIZE THAT SHIT. 

Are we not sitting on a stinking gold mine!? Are politicians that retarded that they can't see past the cloud of smoke we could be sitting in, and also the pile of money they/we/everyone/Idon'tknow could be making? Christ in a Cartoon, it's not a Floridian ballot box, it's common sense and shit. I don't know much about much, but tax the shit out of that and call it a day. Huge economical boost. No more smuggling, bring it in! We'll tax you! No more "drug" raids. You know how many tax dollars it costs to break out the SWAT team and the battering ram and break down my neighbor's door because he was peddling some pot? I have no idea, either! But it seems real silly. 

Did you know you can sit in a room and smoke like, 800 doobies and not die? You certainly can't say that for cigarettes or alcohol. I did go through a smoking stint in college, naturally, and the worst thing that happened to me is while I was blazed out of my gourd I crawled to the kitchen and made two hotdogs with Velveeta cheese on them, consumed them, and then rolled on the floor in remorse laughing at Mitch Hedberg. (There was also that time I smoked with complete strangers out of an apple and spoke to a wall for fifteen minutes, but I'm fairly certain that was laced with acid, either that or I ate some suspicious Chinese leftovers.) 

But no matter! I did not die. And I did not try to harm anyone or myself. And most people I know who smoke just sit on their couch and giggle at Frasier re-runs and then nap and join the world again. No harm, no foul. And don't try to argue that legalizing marijuana will promote laziness because good gravy, I'm pretty sure the television does that on its own... add a six pack and some depression and it's goodnight, Charlie. 

There are some really rad facts about hemp. (From what I think I know, hemp is legal in the United States and I'm not sure why it's not grown more widely, probably because it resembles cannabis so much and has low levels of THC). Hemp seed oil can be used as an alternative to petrol diesel. Holy crap why are we not using this? Hemp can be used as an alternative to trees to make paper. And grows a hell of a lot faster than trees.It can be used as thread to make clothes, rope, other shit, fuck. Those little cutesy cotton commercials of Kate Bosworth in her closet with all her dainty little cotton-made items? I want a commercial with Scott Ian in his closet, laying out his hemp clothes for the night with Black Sabbath playing lightly in the background. I'm not saying that Scott Ian smokes pot, or would even like to wear anything made of hemp, it was really just a suggestion. 

What I think is that no one wants The Normals to find out about this kind of stuff. Giant pharmaceutical companies don't want people to be aware of the medicinal magic that is marijuana. That shit will stop your stomach ache, make your headache go away, and make a bitch eat. Budweiser would pitch a fit if Joe Schmo could hit a bong once and go to sleep instead of drain a mini-keg. People have their own problems, you know. 

How about oil companies? The lovely people at Halliburton? Does anyone know what I am talking about? I sure as hell don't. 

And Rick Perry (bang toss, hair check) said that Texas is nowhere near legalizing pot (I heard this on the radio the other day, no page number, MLA style). Rick Perry, and his stupid, stupid hair. Why doesn't he just own up and wear a T-Birds jacket and carry a comb in his pocket.

Confused

One time, I went to college. It was an extended visit. As in, I went to school for maybe two solid years and Forrest Gumped my way through the other four...

A lot of lolly-gagging...

A class here and there...

but mostly just this.

You remember: Presidents and Assholes. Fuck the Dealer. Kings Cup. Beer Pong. Flip Cup. Passed out.

Pulled my head out of my ass one day and graduated from The University of Texas.

For real.

I had a really rad party that night...

My mum gave me a computer to pursue my writing.

I was afraid to touch it and confused by it.

I am confused a lot.

I have a college degree.

I'm like, smart and stuff.

Kaley and Kelsi have behind-my-back decided it's time for me to make something happen and stop bartending. I might be on board.

Happy Box

When I was a child I used to have night terrors. Not to be confused with a really bad night mare. While a night mare is usually a vivid scene, almost like a movie being played out with people you know and maybe a bad guy chasing you, a night terror is inexplicable, horrible shit. Not monsters or bugs or anything tangible, it is a dreadful, awful, terrible feeling.


I have been working on identifying the "dread" my whole like but it's pretty hard to put my finger on and now I have pretty much outgrown them. If I do feel one coming on, I can easily quell it at this age. But as a youngster, I had no grasp of what was happening and some hella drama (according to the 'rents) would unfold. My mom said I would be screaming bloody murder, looking kind of beside her so she always thought someone was behind her. My dad experienced them as a child too and we've discussed what we think may be going on in our heads but mostly we end up just laughing about how messed up the whole thing is. Our hands feel gigantic and our tongues seem to swell in our mouths while the roof of the mouth feels like coral reef. And the only thing we can really identify within the "dream" are giant spherical shapes. Balls, planets, what-have-you. 


This is ridiculous trying to explain this... and everyone's are different. 


Anyway. 


My dad remembers his mother taking him to the mirror or putting him in the tub to stop the night terrors so he would do the same for me. I remember waking up in my dad's arms so many times in front of the mirror, staring at my tear stained face with no recollection of how I got there, or why I was crying for that matter. My mom, however, didn't ever want me to wake up because if I came out of the dream state, I would remember everything. If I stayed unconscious, I would remember nothing. There were many a breakfast when I recall everyone quietly observing me as if I had strangled our family pet in the middle of the night but I had no idea the screaming fit that I had thrown in my sleep/wake/whatever. I'm not sure which one was better, knowing what had happened or the ignorance. 


But one specific incident when I was partially aware stands out in my mind and is often recapped by the fam. I was still in night terror phase but able to communicate. And this is what happened. I'm not telling this like, "listen to my dream last night!" This is what went down. In real life.


I was in the living room but do not know how I got there. Everyone was there. Mom was sitting by me on the couch in her pj's and thick opaque glasses, Dad, who is really tall and has my skinny legs, standing in his man-panties, and poor Alyssa, half asleep on a chair who was always there through all this shit. Poor girl had to sleep with me for years while this was happening. When she went to kindergarten, I had them for a week straight I was so stressed out. Yes, this three year old "stressed out." 


I was crying. Wailing. That ridiculous sobbing kind of crying only a night terror and my extremely high fever could induce. I must have been hallucinating. I was for sure out of my gourd. 


My dad was standing before me, almost yelling at me in half sleep mode, desperation in his voice, "what do you want!? What can we do for you!?" 


Me, whimpering, sobbing, asleep: Ah waaanna haaapy baax.


Dad, shoulders confused, hands gesturing wildly, feet coming off the floor in frustration: What!? What the hell is that? You want a what!?


Me: A haappy baaxxx. Ah wanta *sniff* *sniff* happy baaaaax.


Dad: A HAPPY BOX!? YOU WANT A HAPPY BOX!?


Me, alone in the world, hands between my small knees, staring off into the terrible unknown, still crying, head slowly nodding in approval: A happy baax.


My father blundered out into the garage for a solid ten minutes while my mother attempted to console me and Alyssa perked up on her chair, unable to break away now. This was just getting good. What the shit was a happy box? And how was Dad going to make this happen? 


We heard the banging around and the falling of junk from the garage, maybe a curse or inaudible utterance as the 28 year old man searched for something to make his little girl just stop crying already, and soon returned with a Payless shoe box he had wrangled up in the garage. He had crafted little smiling faces on the box and upon his opening it for me, found another smiling face inside the box. 


This pleased me. The crying ended. And I smiled. The whole family sighed with relief. 


The freaking weird ass kid just needed a happy box. 

Go Bulldogs

When I was a freshman in high school, I was dating the sweetest guy. He always told me I was pretty even when I wasn't, he came over and hung out with me and my family, and he even wanted to kiss me when I had/he gave me mono. He gave me flowers for my birthday and I broke up with him two days later. 


I felt liberated. That Saturday morning, I woke up feeling on top of the freaking world. I called in a breakfast taco to Storm's and when I drove up to the window to pay for it, the guy told me it was on the house. When I returned home and was stuffing face with said taco, a senior football player called our house to talk to me. Not my hot older sister. Me. I was elated. I was free. 


For some reason today I remembered all this and felt that exact same way. Only it was my own dumbass which I was freeing myself of. It takes a jolt sometimes but then you wake up and realize you're a geek, just like your high school boyfriend who ogled you during band practice and pulled out your chair for you and sat at your table during lunch even though it was filled with fourteen year old girls who talked about fly-away cheer skirts and hair options for prom. 


Why is it that people run away from those who desire them? My mother used to joke: "Don't buy any of my daughters roses! She will break your heart." (Incidentally, my sister was dating a lovely young man who got her flowers for her birthday that same year and she broke up with him shortly thereafter, also. And then a few weeks down the road, punched him in the face for dating someone else. Who raised these kids?)


Of course, I wanted to date the big muscly guy who was on the weight-lifting team and was a running back and treated me like doo-doo. He was nice enough sometimes but mostly just called other girls at night and hooked up with my friends behind my back. That was fuuuun. Remember high school?


I eventually got back together with Nice Guy. He continued to worship me and I continued to allow it. We went to Europe on a school trip that summer and he was so far up my butt I would not speak to him for a solid three days. He had all these romantic notions for us in Europe and I could not look him in the face without choking on disgust. And he was my bus partner. I slipped to the back of the bus and hung out with the weird kid for the rest of the trip.


I dated the Weird Kid for four years after high school. 

The Weird Kid. Complete with head injuries and facial discolorations.

Well... Nice Guy was weird too.

My dear friend, Jake.

Kaley and me (lanky one) really working our Doc Martens. And Weight Lifter makes an appearance! (left)

Bryan Parker, top left. Jake, the afro next to him. Weight Lifter, front row second from right.

Many stories here. 

(Photos stolen from Kyle's Facebook. Kyle, front right. Thanks, Kyle.)

Me (lanky, weird, bad hair) and sister (blonde, hot, little mermaid) and dates at prom.

Oh. There she is again. Just so you really get the idea.

Both mine and sister's first car. Jake drove a white '66.

And both of my beautiful sisters. Just being us.

These dudes, man...

Last night I ran over from work to the convenience store to buy some wine really quickly before midnight. It was 11:59 and there were about four people milling around the counter, but I held my wine up to the clerk with a hopeful/sad look and he invited that the other patrons might let me cut, which they did. I only had one glass of it at home last night and today it exploded all over my kitchen counters, cabinets and drawers, sitting there for a good bit while I was napping and the roommates were away so that it had time to really sink into the porous wood countertops. It occurs to me now this must be karma. Although I can't really say that I did anything wrong concerning the wine, although it was called "Santa Cristina" which can't be good. 


Today, it rained really hard in Austin for a good while and it happens that I work in a low-lying area right by the creek and the water came up hard and fast. While I have said in the past that I am not afraid of anything much, I realize now that was a big fat lie. I am extremely fearful of high rising waters. I have had many a dream that I drive my old blue Mustang straight into the Leon River. I always am able to get out but in real life, that shit is not okay with me. I think this hails back to childhood when we lived in a veritable hole in Hamilton County, by a creek, and when it would rain, it would flood almost certainly. Not only would our house flood, but we would be trapped in by the creek with no where to go. This is what happened tonight at The Shoal Creek Saloon. The creek came out of it's bed and came at the restaurant, but La Policia were blocking the road from all sides, making it impossible the leave. I tried to remain calm but I plumb freaked out. I thought I was going to have an anxiety attack.


Get home to a new bottle of wine. And then a text. What's this? A text from a strange number? Who is it? A DUDE. At one AM? What is with these bros? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Its some chump from like eight months ago who I danced with casually, friendly-like in a bar and thought he was cute, gave him my number and I am repaid with a one AM text? He's all "whatchu up to tonight?" What the shit. 


Its these dudes, man. These dudes in this town. They won't call you up on the phone. They don't take you on dates. They don't know how to properly communicate at all. I dated a guy last year who when I would bring up important questions he didn't want to answer (over text, of course, he wouldn't answer my phone calls) he would send me a cute photo of his dog, or a hilarious internet meme or some such shit. 


Me: Do you want to go with me to Hamilton to meet my family? 
Exstupidboyfriend: (picture of dog)


And so it continues. I have since encountered a male who when he does not want to hang out with me anymore, instead of saying this, tells me he likes men. 


Me: What are you doing tonight?
Stupid Guy: I think I like penis. 
Me: Okay, cool. 


Of course, we all know this fellow does not like men, he just does not want to talk to me, a smart, funny, pretty, tall, tan woman who likes him.

Amirite?

Anywho, I wanna know who these Dude Bros think they are. Texting me at one o'clock in the morning is so distasteful. And especially when I don't even know who you are. Geez Louise, you guys. Let's have some couth, mk? 

Okay, I'm off my high horse. 

You know what? No, I'm not. This is going to continue. I have a hell of a lot of good stories about how dumb men are and I think I'm gonna keep it up. 

Coming soon: Boyfriend takes Brynnan to strip club with seven of his Bros! Boyfriend talks to Old Friend the duration of the night! Old Friend is a stripper!

Sheryl.

I've been known to be hard headed, and maybe even ignorant, but never just plain dumb. However, the last Friday night of SXSW, I set out to prove this wrong.

I found that running solo throughout town is generally the best way to get things done during South By. I'll check in with friends from time to time, but mostly I can go wherever I want and not have to answer to anyone. (I discovered that I like being single more than I know this past week.) So when some guy starts Stage Five Hovering while I'm trying to buy a shot for the okay-looking Ginge from the badass band that just played, avoid but be civil to my ex-Ginge-boyfriend at the same venue, and also try to meet up with an old friend in town and party hard with him, I become irritated and jump ship. On everyone.

Now this had been a fairly rad night up until this point, and I know it's going to be hard to get a cab on this busy Austin night, but it's not even two yet, so I take my chances and get to a corner where cabs are coming right into downtown, without a fare, and pretty much I'm the only person trying to hail a cab in this area. Yet for some reason none of the cabbies are stopping for me. There is a veritable swarm of yellow cars coming in my direction, vacant lights a-blazin, and not one will stop. This is when I-do-what-I-want-Brynnan rears her ugly head and starts in the direction of home, which is, well, far far away from downtown on foot. And while there is never a "bad" part of town to go through, there are some pretty dark ones, void of any life at 1:45 AM save vagabonds and probably bears.

When I get to the edge of downtown, right before I blaze into the deep dark parts of North Lamar, I sit down and take a moment. My friend Patrick lives right up the street! Maybe the last bit of juice in my stupid new iphone will allow me to call him and I can crash at his place! But when I call, he is across town at a party, and instead of saying "I need help, friend," I say, "Okay, have fun then!" and hang up and kind of whimper a little bit. And while I still have a little bit of phone battery, I don't want to utilize it just now, provided I may very well have to call 9-1-1 in a few short minutes. But in my head, this is the only option I have, and I'm a very tall girl! No one would possibly want to mess with me, right?! Right?!

So I set off.

Now the first testament to my survival is going to be bums. And bums are all over downtown, but when we face them, we are normally with our burly man-friends, or amongst the several thousands of people downtown, or there may be a cop nearby, or a store front. But under a dark overpass, alone, with no one in hearing range... well this is all new to me. And while you may think most bums are only down and out and won't mess with you, trust me, they are mean and will spit at you for no reason in broad daylight. Luckily, this particular bum is passed the fuck out. He seem pretty comfortable wrapped in Chronicle ads and surrounded by beer cans, so I delicately make my way by. And we are right by one another. The City of Austin did not build sidewalks with consideration of sleeping homeless persons and the people who have to sneak around them. Fortunately, I am not wearing heels of any sort and my sandals are fairly noiseless, but as I'm tip-toeing by, I hear something jangling and realize that my GIGANTIC EARRING ARE CLANGING and under the overpass, it sounds like the British are coming. But when I put my hands around them to stifle the noise, my bracelets fall around my arm in a horrible, yet fashionable, sound. In a panic, I scurry off, leaving the bum who, of course, did not even stir.

And then, things aren't too bad for a while. I find a pretty white rose bush and put one in my hair. I see a pretty kitty. I even see some stupid ass sorority girl running around with headphones on. I want to knock her out for being such a dip shit but she somehow gives me hope.

And then I reach the twisty turning horrible dark spots of the trek, where not much traffic is flowing at all, and should I walk through the areas, I have to wait for some cars to come by to provide light and ensure I don't get carted off into the woods by predators, be they rapists or zombies. There are small paths entering the woods right by the road, which I can only assume are for drug trafficking. There are strange howls coming from the wooded area as well, but not dogs or even coyotes, but crack heads. I encounter no one on the walk any more. I am alone in the world.

And then someone tries to abduct me.

A man. A black man. In a van, the most frightening kind of vehicle, stops beside me on the road and tells me to get in, that he is a taxi and he will take me where I need to go. You have gotta be kidding me with this. So, I keep walking, feigning and cursing him off. But he follows me. Insisting he is a taxi in his unmarked gray van, and that he can "hep me."

Everything that I have learned in my life has come up to this moment. If I were the sorority girl a few, what seems like hundred, blocks back, I would get in happily, but I am not. I am the hard headed asshole from Pottsville, Texas who learned at a very young age to tell who is dangerous and who is not, so I direct all my fear into anger and yell obscenities and wave my long arms at the kidnapper/rapist/killer until he drives away.

Now anger again turns to fear and fear turns to defeat. Here I am, not even halfway to my stupid house and I almost got abducted, eaten by a flesh-eating kitten, and attacked by wolves. Crying only blurs my vision, making it impossible to survey the area for further predators. Although, yeah duh, I boo-hooed for a good solid minute. But I pull myself together and continue down the road, which is just truly awful. I mean, this is probably the least fun/smart thing I have even done. I keep wondering how I got myself into this mess and why on Earth I thought this was a good idea, and damn me for being so ridiculous and why didn't I just call a friend for help? IDIOT! And perhaps I am making a huge deal over walking this far but Good Lord, a man tried to murder me. Pretty sure.

And then lo! another stranger, but a kinder (and more chatty) stranger pulls up, in (damn) a van, and hollers out that she doesn't like me walking alone on this road. "I don't like it either!" I call back, but I am still cautious of Lady in Different Van because well, you know, the whole Pottsville spiel and all, but approach cautiously and we exchange names and not really pleasantries because she's in the middle of the road, but she starts in on her daughter who goes to Texas and she wouldn't want her to be walking alone and yada yada and I ask for her ID and where she's from etcetera etcetera. I have no real idea if this will help if the woman tries to kill me, and I assure you, she's no Vanna White, this lady looks as if she's been rode hard and put up wet, but it seems like the right thing to do, so after learning that she knows where Hamilton is and is from Grandbury, I get in.

So I hitchhiked home. But not all the way home because for some reason I have this thing that I don't like cabbies (and now, strange ladies who talk a lot about their kids and give young women rides home) to know where I live, so I have her drop me off like five blocks from my house, which is super dumb because at this point, my freaking feet hurt and in the past week I have managed to pull a muscle in my calf. And when I start walking home, feeling more safe because I'm actually in my neighborhood, I take off my shoes and run on the pavement, which proves more dumb than most things I have done all night. Then I resort to running barefoot through people's lawns, which is okay for a while then seems kinda weird, if the occupants were to see the Amazon woman in their yard and all. Finally, I put back on my sandals and kind of handicap-skip home, whistling and dancing, cause I'm alive and all.

Thanks, Sheryl.

I like chips.

Day 742 of my Unemployment.

I created a really decent rap playlist on Spotify...

I found some construction paper and made a Valentine's card for my neice Bella...

I learned how to spell "niece"...

I made 17 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ate four bags of HEB brand bbq chips. And it's really only Day Two of my Unemployment. And I'm not even really unemployed. It's more like Under-Employed. I still have two jobs. I just really like to work a lot. A lot of hours of working because if I'm not doing that, then I'm shopping online or spending money at the bar.

And not sleeping.

Being underemployed is not nearly as hilarious as one would hope. I have all these friends who are like "Funemployment!" and "Heck yeah! Let the party begin!" and I'm like "Whoa. Maybe if I sit really quietly here on the couch, my Dad won't find out that I only have two jobs."

My mother has not taken the news well either. I am generally one of those people who fly by the seat of their pants and in the past, it's worked out for me. Right now, I'm still pretty calm about the whole thing. The Panic hasn't really set in yet. Like I said, I still have some shifts here and there. I also have a seventeen thousand dollar vehicle I just purchased that I would appreciate not being repossessed.

This blog is crap and depressing me. Here's to my student loan not going into forbearance. Whatever that scary word means...

Why I would rather just sit and drink on a boat instead of do anything behind one

I'm going to tell a story. It's about me. Surprise!

Once upon a time, four country gals from Hamilton County packed their bags and headed to Destin, Florida as a graduation gift. And in the beautiful little city, they mostly just layed on the beach and chased sea gulls and got stung by a shit-ton of jelly fish and talked about guys they were dating and what they were going to do in college the next year and so on and so on.

One day, one of the girls, probably the cute little blonde one, had the amazing idea of going parasailing. Me, who is leary of lighting a gas heater, sitting too long in the garage with the car on, and little children teetering on precarious perches, declined the offer. No freaking thanks, I don't want to be strung from a rope 75,000 feet in the air behind a moving motor vehicle with nothing but The Gulf of Mexico underneath me. But to my friends, this idea sounds exciting, thrilling, nothing short of wonderful.

My stupid, stupid friends.

So, we dye my hair blonde that night and the next day head out to find some dudes wearing Bob Marley shirts who can take us parasailing.

So, just to give you an idea, this is what parasailing is meant to look like...

It did not go as anticipated.

I am strapped in the apparatus with two other gals, one of them my long time friend and the third, the ten-year-old sister of my other friend, her mother downing margaritas on the beach as she watches the horror that is soon to unfold.

We get strapped in and are hoisted into the air off the back of the boat and things are going swimmingly and it's actually quite nice. The view is beautiful and the ocean is spectacular to see from so high up. I'm having fun and have put any precautions or fears aside. Then suddenly, we hear a snap. And not just like you snapped your fingers snap, I mean a cable snap, as in one of the cables that has us suspended into the air has snapped. And it's loud. And insanely frightening. But we seem to still be safe in the air and still attached to the boat, so things seem okay. And then, without warning from our fair boat captains, we begin to lose altitude, and my friends and I are plummeted into the ocean, all the while still being pulled by the boat, which is probably going about 20 miles per hour.

This part is not fun. I immediately regret the series of events that led up to me being drug behind a boat at 20 miles per hour. And what's this? My bathing suit bottoms are coming off. And now we are being shot back up into the air. Hundreds of feet into the air. And as we are plummeted back into the water a second time and shot back into the air a second time, I come out of my harness.

The pathetic ribbon of a strap that is meant to be under my butt has naturally, during the course of water engulfing us, come out from underneath me and I am dangling from the thing, held in only by something under my armpits and the upper-arm strength of a teenage girl. Now, we are back in the air and I am literally hanging on by a thread, attempting to hoist myself back into my stirrup, all the while keeping my tiny bathing suit bottoms on, long legs kicking and swinging in the air. The ten-year-old next to me is crying and I am cursing like a sailor. My best friend is trying to help me pull myself together and Starsky and Hutch in the boat are yelling inaudible sounds at me, trying to "learn" me back into my harness, none of their advice being heard or taken into action. And why in the hell is this boat still moving?

After several failed attempts at my regaining composure and more trips back into the water, the two 'gents on board decide to put us out of our misery and (omg, here's an idea!) stop the boat, and let us drop into the water safely and pull us in manually. Apparently, the cable that snapped was the reel-them-in one and instead of just stopping immediately and ending disaster, they really wanted us to get our money's worth and strung out the horror for as long as possible.

We lived. And hopefully got our money back, I honestly have zero recollection of even boarding the boat or coming back on shore I was so shocked and angry.

You know when something tragic happens to people who are doing something they love, like that one armed girl who got attacked by a shark when she was surfing, and she still surfs? Well fuck that.

It's Free.

If you've never checked out the "free" listings on Craigslist, I highly suggest it. Not only might you happen into something you need/want, you also happen into the most ridiculous postings on the planet. Sure, it's free crap, but the best part is that people take pictures of their free crap and put it on the internet for you to look at and mock.

Now, I was once getting rid of an obese tube-like television which shut off at the most inopportune times (say, when I was trying to, I don't know, watch something) and I needed to get shed of it. But no person in their right mind would pay ten dollars for it, much less come over and pick it up, which was a two man job, so I posted it under the free section on Craigslist and added a couple of pictures, you know, for allure, and then set it out on the porch with a giant sign that said "TAKE ME" on it. It was gone within fifteen minutes.

Then there's this:

Oh good. This looks like the frame department at Goodwill.

Another time, I was moving and realized I had so much shit that I didn't know how I'd been living with all this shit until I changed houses and realized I couldn't possibly have so much shit that I didn't need and couldn't sell so I set out a huge box of the useless shit and put an ad on Craigslist, sans photo of useless looking shit, but described in the ad fairly accurately all the piss-poor stuff I had shoved into this box: a picture of a cat without a frame, one cream colored heel with no match, a spool of black satin ribbon, several homemade decorative, art-ish looking pictures, a piece of pepperoni (partially nibbled), one antique greenish mirror with two shelves to match (one broken, piece in box), and two quite useful pieces which probably deserved a Craigslist photo: an hp printer (broken, but probably fixable) and a decent but cumbersome rolling desk with a glass top.

I posted the "Box of Crap" ad on Craigslist, left the box, printer and desk by the curb with notes on them "TAKE ME," and went about my life.

2:00 AM, after work, I come home, excited to see what has been taken. Surely the best items have been taken, that desk probably didn't last long. I bet the printer is long gone, too. But lo, I come upon the scene to find every single piece of useless crap rooted through and taken out of the box, including the single shoe with no mate, and the hp printer is the only thing that remains by the curb.

Wow.

The point is, Craigslist hounds LOVE CRAP. These people sit at home all day, looking at the "free" section, driving to other people's houses, picking through their worthless crap, loving life, and then go home and re-post it, taking pictures of it in huge, indecipherable piles.

?

Free... It's free. Come and get it.

Need some free food? It's on there.

Still seaaaaled...

No? No? Comonnnnn!

Oh! And all those loose DVD's you've been trying desperately to organize but have no means to?

Finally a solution.