Cold and Beautiful

Cold and Beautiful

Beautiful is your face
Cold is your soul,

Warm is your skin,
Icy is your heart,

Lovely are your curves,
Tainted is your mind

You’re cold and beautiful
So warm to the touch
But inside you’re made of steel,
You’re an android on lock-down
Cold and frozen

Cold and beautiful,
Your smile brightens up our lives
But to truths and honesty
Your white teeth stay clenched
Plastic and poised

Beautiful and cold
An Aurora Borealis;
An ice sculpture of Venus,
What freezes into beauty?
How does beauty get frozen?

You’re an ice doll,
Dancing on ice
Sliding past everyone
Staring straight ahead,
Swirling and twirling in your shower of hail,
A frozen beauty queen

Cold and Beautiful

Untitled

Blow me a kiss and I will grab it,
Hurl me a hug and I will catch it,

Shoot me a song and I will hear it,
Radiate a smile and I will mimic it,

Will me a thought and I will know it,
Seal up some love, and send it this way

Put your love on an ocean breeze,
And watch it sail over seas,

Blink your affection into the raging waves,
And upon the shore you're forever engraved,

An honest moral thought
Is as pure as a prayer

Share it with me
While we gaze at the sea

I will know, with the tide in tow
That the glow from the sun
Was done by and for
A specific
someone

without...

Without….

Without pain we wouldn’t know gain,
Without bad we wouldn’t know good,
The brain needs some tears to calm the fears,
And the body needs something sweet
to make it through the heat

Without tall there would be no short,
Old without new,
Would make nothing true,
Without sadness, we wouldn’t know gladness
Smile after gloom,
Knowing tiny, gives you more room

Having none makes you glad
To at least have some,
Rich to poor,
Less or more,
Without one, you can’t have the other,
Without black there is no white,
We need the sun to show off the night,

Without boys, girls wouldn’t matter,
Nor would their chatter,
It’d all become clatter,
Quite and loud, come hand in hand,
We need symphonies
To show off one-man bands,
We need fat to see the skinny,
And dirty to make things seem clean,
Without a king
There wouldn’t be a queen

All is here to compare and share,
We need it all to play it fair,
The game of life
Is worth plunging through,
Sometimes you may have only one shoe,
But wear silk socks,
Then trip on the rocks,
But make your way home,
Which you’ve made
into your own
personal Rome.

Life is Funny

"Life is Funny"

It’s chapstick and cherry lip gloss
Bosses in the office
And a never ending shopping list
It’s roses and thorns,
Warm embraces
And tough bull horns,
It’s night and day
No time to play,
Lay around lazy
Or gaze in the night
It’s sandwiches or salad
ATM cards that say invalid
It’s music and chords,
Losses and awards,
Rewards for being right,
Slaps for being wrong,
It’s a bedtime song,
With your ma or your pa
It’s bananas and peanut butter
Clutter ‘till you can’t see the floor
Never a bore,
Life’s the best movie you’ll ever see
You play your self
It’s the well or top shelf

Life is a funny funny thing,
Never knowing what it’ll bring
Up in the morning
For some fresh sun,
Maybe start it off with a run,
But life is funny and you
Never know what will come
Although there are some
Who try to predict
But they’re only kicked
‘cos life is a funny funny thing
never knowing what it’ll bring

It’s yellow and black
Stacked or flat
And on top of all that
It’s smiles and frowns
Pinks and browns
It’s Sisters who steal
and brothers who smell
who’s to tell
what they’ve got in their hand
it’s hair full of twigs
and shoes full of sand
it’s holidays and road trips
sips of chocolate milk
sweaty cotton or smooth white silk
it’s numbers and letters
feathers in your hair
playing fair and cheating hard
it’s tears and smiles
laughter and trials
love and like
it’s all things alike
black eyes and bruises
retirement and cruises

Life is a funny funny thing
Making you cry, laugh and sing
Never knowing what the wind will bring,
Or how the next bee will sting,
Life is funny or surprisingly quaint
It wont end if you stumble and say aint
Those who live in expectation
End up only in frustration
Temptation is tested
And with all the power vested
We make it out alive
tall or short, Strong or weak,
we help each other to surive
life is a funny funny thing
never knowing what tomorrow will bring

Life is diets and divorce
Morphine for a dying racehorse
It’s Power Bars and skiing,
Contacts and seeing,
It’s rain and sun,
Beaches and highways,
Tall black buildings,
Robins with killed wings,
It’s milk and money
Green tea with honey
Cut off shorts and cute capris
It’s lice or dog fleas,

Life is funny and humours itself
It’s funny funny how it goes along
Right and wrong
From Kiev to Hong Kong,
Life never says yes or no,
Or gives you black and white
It’s grey and maybe’s
To figure out yourself
It’s crying babies
And cleaning dentures
Life is full of adventures
It’s a funny funny thing
And worth everything
Every minute, second and day
Through pain, tears, and joy
It’s all okay,
It’s supposed to be this way
Life is a funny funny thing
Fun to see what winter, fall
Summer and spring
May bring

Life is funny.
It's a funny funny thing.

Pass The Cheese, Please

Pass the Cheese, Please

I’ll get on my knees,
Just pass me the cheese,
Please shoo away the bees,
That flock from the trees,
I don’t need much to please,
Just pass me the cheese

eat anything and everything,
Savoring the flavoring
“just extra cheese if you please”
No please no green,
Nothing healthy or extra lean,
I wanna chow on my cow,
Munch on my lunch
Drink the pink
Strawberry Crush
Hush you! about “eating good food”
“I don’t mean to be rude,
But the fried processed grub
Will improve my mood”

Allergic to broccoli, lettuce and peas
I’ll sneeze in threes
Until you pass me the cheese
One bite o’ macaroni is only a tease,
I need the whole box to put me at ease,
I don’t mind fried Chinese,
But to best appease,
Just please pass the cheese

I smelled it, it’s melted, and calling my name
Shining and glowing it’s a cheddary flame
American on bread, or a kwik cracker spread
All this cheese has gone to my head.
It’s an incurable disease,
That I don’t much displease
Cos the cure is just cheese,
And that’s like a fresh breeze,
Layin’ cold on the floor
And shakin’ on my knees
Just pass me the cheese
Please, just pass me the cheese.

Swimmin' In The Colors

"Swimmin’ in the Colors"

Swimmin’ in the colors of the sky,
It’s blue and pink; with the birds I fly
Sometimes free and sometimes confined,
Stuck in translucent drops,
down the rainbow slide I glide,
fallin’ in a pool of liquid gold
safe today; no longer paroled

Swimmin’ in the colors of the sea,
Aqua and teal; feelin’ so free,
To cruise on out I grab onto a fin,
And catch a wave to ride back in,
A salty bath of blue and white,
Does away with doubts and fright,

Swimmin’ in the colors of the world,
Black and white,
Brown and tan,
Carbon makes us all man,
A blend of flags
make a rainbow of nations,
We’re all just tryin’
To do the best we can,
Swimmin’ through each day,
Since the day our lives began

Plowing through fields of green,
Running makes us stronger,
Soaring through skies of blue,
Grounded we are no longer,
Immersing in seas of teal,
A revival of man
with fresh new zeal

The Smile Mirror

The Smile Mirror

Our bodies are not the same,
Our lives play a different game,
My voice is chattery and loud,
Yours is deep and calm,
Born into different lives,
Different fortunes told in each of our palm

One truth, one honesty
The most obvious of all,
Is we both stand tall,
Poignant and Proud ,
With purpose we stare,
Making each other feel bare,
And form the Smile Mirror.

When you smile I smile,
When I smile you smile.
Beams of joy and beacons of bliss
Our smiles mold into a kiss

If someone were to tip me and I break,
It wouldn’t take
seven years to mend,
One look into your face,
The shattered pieces would crawl back into place
And once again we’d cast the same look
Eyes aligning and all parts equal,
There is only one possible sequel,
To smile a bit more
And know what we’re here for,

The Smile mirror work its magic
There would be nothing tragic,
‘cos when you smile I smile,
I smile for you
and because of you
You mirror my grin
And the chain begins,
The reaction of joy,
Reciprocation of boy,
Meets girl
And the smiles unfurl

Skin

Arms folding, lips molding

You hold me,

You told me there was no where else

You’d rather be,

Folded up in soft black cotton,

Caught up in

A dark heaven of satin

Wrapped in warmth and comfort,

Trapped in ecstasy

Next to me

you kiss my chin

Skin on skin we lay

Your body eclipses mine

Divinely surrounds

me in comfort and bliss

A kiss of

Utopia in bronze and gold

Rhythmic breathing in the way you hold

Me, enfolded in you,

Forming a duo, we begin to

Minds recess and we slowly breath,

Skin on skin is where it begins,

Grazing the chin with soft lips,

Nibbling down to the hips,

Milky and smooth,

Golden and bronze,

Come on, to my skin

Feel me breathe

Ecstasy

You’re next to me

Fingers tracing my spine

Shining, your eyes

Unveil my shield,

I’m revealed to you

In one magnetic field

Skin on skin

Within your power

A delicate flower

In ecstasy

You’re next to me

I won't be wearing earrings tomorrow

“I won’t be wearing earrings tomorrow.”

“Oh well that looks a little low today” I pondered as I smoothed my hair down around my face. But looking more closely, I noticed that today it seemed more than odd. I inched towards the bathroom mirror and what I found made me drop my arms down, smacking them on the hard plastic countertop, eyes went wide with fear and mouth transformed into a half-wide open panic.
It wasn’t noticeable to the outside world, but the two lobes wobbling to and fro were definitely from the same ear. My earring had finally descended right on out of my right ear lobe and softly fell onto my blue shirt. “Okay, so now I don’t know what to do.” Frustrated and annoyed with all the thoughts that came flooding into my psyche I marched back into the office. Eyes wide I pulled my hair back, “Cassie, look.” Another surprised pair of eyes stared back at me, “How did that happen?” I told the not-so-long story of which had no introduction, body or conclusion: “I don’t know.”

I went back over to my desk and stared at the computer screen. Pondering what should be the first step in what plan of action I should take. I chose to text some friends and share with them my little personal calamity. I spoke with the boss, made some phone calls and took an early lunch, which would later turn into a long lunch, an even longer lunch and then calling it a day.

The friend, who offered to help me out, on what she deemed as our “quite catastrophic day”, was the perfect choice. We both had recently been broken up with and were feeling a little bummed about life (knowing on the inside it would be okay and pass with time), but for now were still in the teary and emotional draining stage. I could feel my own emotions being leaked out through my eyes and pouring out in the summer sweat. My friend’s emotions were being suppressed by a pill bottle, but lashing out in intermittent sets of times during the day.

For example, when she decided she needed to get gas. Kit drove on E for about 12 miles, looked at a gas station on the access road, stared at it, forgot about it, passed the exit and then when the co-pilot (me) looked over with the most confused look on my face, the pilot of the SUV slapped her forehead, “oh yeah! DUH! GAS! Dangit! I’m just not myself today.”… “or any other day.” we pulled in and Kit pulled right on up to the front door, almost turned off the ignition, but stopped herself when I looked over with a twitching I’m-making-fun-of-you-face. Kit slapped her head again, “right. Gas. Okay.” and maneuvered the SUV through a series of circle 8’s and wiggled into a gas pump. Kit ran back from inside the store with a coke and way excited look on her face. “I got you this!” She thrust something in my lap. Her face had almost a devilish evil glow to it. In my lap was the most GINORMOUS Sugar Free Red Bull either one of us had EVER seen. Was it really necessary?
“Holy crap!” Was my instantaneous reply, “What the heck? Why? This is so much cow bile! And I’m gonna enjoy ever second of it”…we drove for a few minutes. “Why Kit? This is so much.”
“I know,” She kept her hands on the wheel but peered over with a smirk, “I thought it would be funny to watch you guzzle down 16 fl. Oz’s of Red Bull and have to wait in a doctors office for 3 hours with nothing to do, but jitter your leg.”…….then a little snicker.
“You!” I replied with a fake almost flirty punch in the arm (neither one of us were lesbians). “lame-o!” But continued sucking down the yellow MANERGY liquid.
We found what we designated to be the hospital very quickly and pulled off into a parking garage and parked the car. The sign that read Brackenridge Hospital at the top of the building was the big clue that pointed us in the right direction, however after speaking with the white haired smiley lady behind the parking booth we were told otherwise. Smiles and information were exchanged and we headed back to the car and took a handful of right turns and found an even BIGGER sign that read, “Brackendrige Hospital”. But this time it had more options, like Información, Emergencia and Sala de Esperar. We clicked (still clad in my work high heels and BLACK polyester pants) past the information desk and were informally directed by a civilian in a waiting chair who incessantly yelled “’MA’AM!” – “MA’AM!” – “MA’AM!” down the hallway until we were out of sight. I become more nervous with each corner we turned, and body on a stretcher I saw. There were signs, which Kit pointed out, “look so totally 80’s.” to which I replied “yeah their font and coloring isn’t the best” (I don’t know why I went there). We pushed open the final door and found our landing pad.

I approached the desk and managed to choke out, “um hi!”
What followed was probably the most spasmodic and advertent flow of conversation the hospital had ever seen from a totally conscious white female with no history of drug abuse or psychological melt downs.
“Do you need to check in?” The busy male nurse inquired.
“Umm – yeah. But!” head swiveled around back and forth, “I don’t have an appointment.”
Big eyes fluttered under bewildered eyebrows, “this is an emergency room ma’am.”
“oh, right. Well-uhhh I’ve never been to a hospital before.”
“You were most certainly born in one, were you not?”
“Yeah – uh – I think so.” In a semi-patient semi-calm manner he directed me over to where another matching blue scrub suit would have me print my name. I began to do the pee dance and butt wiggle. Thanks a lot Kit. I got my forms and filled ‘em out while Kit stared in aww as the emergency helicopter was filled with attractive young EMT’s and hovered away into the scorching clear blue sky. The incessant chop-chop-chop of the blades was muffled by the screaming babies and the double paned windows.
I was soon summoned by a male blond nurse with long hair, who smelled of organics. He sat me down in a little cubicle and took my vital signs and asked me a series of superfluous questions (which I would later be asked 6 times in that visit to Austin): when was your last cycle? Do you use street drugs? How old are you? Do you smoke? (I was then branded with the hard-to-remove white bracelet, which turned my soul into a birth date and a barcode). I was shuffled out, I quickly jumped into the ladies room to relieve myself of the 16ozs of Red Bull. Peed as fast as possible, who knew what else to expect with this place? As soon as I stepped back into the room and caught Kit’s eye, she pointed to yet ANOTHER counter with a man and a computer. ‘That guy over there called you.”
My eyes darted left, then right, and my black heels clicked over yonder. Instead of a clipboard and pencil this time the member of the Blue Scrubs Dance Team he had a keyboard and a screen, but the questions were the same.
Again with the extemporaneous answers to questions that weren’t even asked for some reason I thought it appropriate for now to be the time I would test the waters of being poor: “I HAVE NO INSURANCE!” He looked at me, nodded and like an android proceeded with what he knew how to do, “What happened today?”
I went and sat back with Kit, “This is so weird.” And profusely thanked her for her goodness, patience, and generosity for spending her day in a white sterile room.
“The guy at the desk said it could be a couple of hours. Dude, I’m really sorry. I had no idea.”
“Hey it’s okay, no problem. I have nothing to do today.”

“Yeah, we’re DEFINITELY getting a drink afterwards.” And we made plans to scour the streets for some happy hour sushi and spirits after it was said and done.
And what do you know? Fortunately we did not have to wait long at all. Because ANOTHER male member in the same Blue Scrubs Drill Team performed the monotonous two-step and called “Miss Lillian Jones.” I grabbed my bag, looked back at Kit and ventured into the unknown.
His young demeanor, genial face and WWJD bracelet were a nice change from the plasticity in the faceless droids out front. But what came next made me turn it all off: “So what happened today Miss Jones?” He asked as I was pushed into a room with walls scuffed up by shoes (“why were there shoe marks so high on the wall?” I explained my story.
He proceeded to do what I wanted no one to EVER do again: “well, you could get them both pierced and start a new fad.”
My eyes squinted, and the corners of my mouth twitched up to say “dude, look it. I appreciate you trying to make light of the situation, but it’s not funny. I don’t want you to make fun of me. I may seem vain, but I’m not really. This is just a big bummer and I want it to get fixed RIGHT NOW and I don’t need your superficial I don’t care about you anyways-lame attempts to make light of this horrible situation. It might not be to you, but it’s me right now. It’s a big issue in MY world right now. AND YOU blond blue scrubs team friend are not helping.” In my head I was big and bold enough, but what came out was a meek little carpet-mat who knew she was being irrational and didn’t want to offend anyone who really hadn’t done anything mean at all, “ ha ha, yeah that’d be funny.” And my top lip sneered up and my eyes opened wide, “so….now what?”
“Well what happened?” So I recounted the story (number 4).
After making a few more “don’t worry about it”, “three lobes will be the new two” and “just tell people you got into a super bad ass fight and you kicked the crap outta someone” jokes the young dancing trainee pirouetted away to grab The Man. Apparently the next guy coming was going to be the one; the one and only; the lead in the blue scrubs marching band. He’d yell “Guide Right” and they’d follow, he’d wave the band to a crescendo and do a little solo in the dancing number at the end. He’d play Red in the movie The Shawshank Redemption or the computer in The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and tell me the answer to my ear problem was 42.

Although I never like to “expect” anything, as not to be let down, honestly I was expecting this to be a “quick fix” and done and over with in a few minutes. What I got was not what I wanted to hear. And that’s not the most fun when you’re feelin’ like a bottom-feeding slime-sucker with a moldy broken mush-pile of a heart and emotions are in a rut. And my most favorite was how he started the conversation: “Lillian? Hi, I’m Dr. Michael Dell” [handshake]. “Not to be confused with the computer guy.”
Oh, you’re gonna be like that huh. Great.
“Hey!” I looked up at him in a mocking way, “are you the computer guy?”
He didn’t notice my attempt at humor in my dire situation. Apparently it’s only okay for the staff to make lame jokes.
“Hi, nice to meet you.”
And then, “So Miss Jones. What happened?” (number 5). I explained.
Some very brief ear examination. And then, what I didn’t want to hear, “well it looks like we’re not going to be able to fix this right now.”
Crush.
“It’s not a normal earring tear because the wound, very strangely, is so cleanly cut and you have no open cut skin.”
Stomp.
“So we will need to refer you to our residency plastic surgeon.”
Pang.
$$$$ Signs flashed in my brainpan.

“I’m going to get him on the phone. You just sit tight here for a minute. I’ll see what I can find out.”

What you can find out huh?! What? YOU Mr. I’m Dr. Michael funny-man Dell who makes big bucks to herd you out to someone else. Mr. Ph.D in Austin has to call and ask someone? You gonna phone a friend? You need a lifeline? Hey Blue Suit leader, go call the surgeon and see what he has to say about this little girl from San Marcos who just wants her ear sewn back up so she can go face the judgmental world of all the people that aren’t coming into the office this week! Dr. Dell was like a pimp and all these nurses running around following his orders in matching blues were his bitches. Ooooo Lily, come on, he’s doing what he does know and he didn’t get this far without a rhyme or reason for things. Just breathe. Hey! ask me again when my next menstrual cycle was ‘cos IT MIGHT BEGIN RIGHT NOW!!!! Lily! Calm down. Yes, this is frustrating, but you can’t blow up at the dr. who doesn’t know you from any other patient because your heart hurts, you’re hungry, and you’re upset that he’s is telling you no. It’ll work out the way it’s supposed to.

All of this plowed through my head in the amount of time it took him to cross from the bed to the door.
“Okay, thank you.” A few tears slid down my cheek and I turned my attention to texting Kit in the waiting room and watching mourners of Michael Jackson get teary eyed on a flickering screen mounted to the wall with a green tint to the pixels.
I thought he was long gone, but it wasn’t more than a millisecond that the doc peeked his head around the door, “hey you know, you could always safety pin it!” He tone implied he thought this sentence was entirely his own and he was the first person ever to think of the joke.
Why do you still work here? My eyes squinted.
“Just be a grunge kid and safety pin ‘em all over. You could start a new fad.” He just kept going.
Why are you still talking? I bit down hard on my tongue and pursed my lips together so hard as to avoid making any harsh statement as his attempt to keep me up beat.
You don’t know what you’re dealing with. I know I look like a spoiled princess from a small town who needs and wants immediate answers. You don’t know of the broken heart, lack of money, missing friends and that she just wants to spend the rest of the afternoon working out and running off some steam.
But that’s just the thing. He doesn’t know all that. Which is why I shoot a half-ass smile in his direction and say, “yeah.” I continue to watch recaps of the ghost-like figure grabbing his crotch and moon-walking around the stage while the doc goes to catch up with his buddy-ol’ pal of a surgeon.
They’re probably in this together. I won’t help her, so I’ll recommend her to you. We both can’t do anything, but we’ll get paid anyhow and she’ll have to go seek out OUTSIDE medical attention, while the world of medicine gets paid, and her plans for the fall fall through. Lily you’re being ridiculous, the world is not out to get you. You’re a little irate right now and have 16oz.’s of sixteen different kinds of caffeine pumping through your veins.
By the time I’m calmer, he has left and I can see young and jaunty Jonathan coming down the hallway.
He slyly steps into the room and amidst the slight tears that drizzle down my cheeks he asks, “So…what’d the doctor say?”
“oh you know, basically the same as you. He told me to put a pin in it and I’d be good to go.”
He laughs excessively loud. Maybe Dr. Dell and him were related.
We talk for a minute and then he sauntered out again.
The most real and human conversation I had in that place was with the Blue Scrub Squad’s black sheep. He slowly lumbered down the hallway, towing a yellow mop bucket behind him in a comatose pace. His tired eyes caught mine, he looked around and decided to come in and change out the garbage bag. He asked, “Hello, how are you ma’am?” At first I felt apprehensive, but decide that with the door open he isn’t a threat, and why should I be so sketched out by him just because he has a different demeanor than the rest of the staff? He’s obviously been accepted onto the dancing blue droids squad so he can’t have much of a criminal background, if any.
“Fine thank you.” I spoke kind of short, but quickly reverted back to my normal sefl, “Well do people ever really tell you they’re fine in here?
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s not the most fun place to ask that question.”
“The small talk isn’t the best in here, huh?”
“Yeah, I don’t know why I ask that question.” He replied as he grabbed a clear spray bottle of a fluorescent liquid and sprayed it on the walls. This was the most interesting part of the hospital visit. It was the most amazing floor cleaner I’ve never seen! There are shoe scuff marks informally branding the wall. Why are there shoe prints up so high? Black Sheep Dancer didn’t blink an eye and began to wipe down the wall. The marks instantly disappeared.
“Wow! That stuff is heavy duty.” I said as I watched in awe.
“Yea,” He groaned as he stood up and his knees creaked a bit, “It’s pretty heavy duty (not really a big deal or anything –he doesn’t actually say this, but I know I’d laugh about it with a friend of mine if anyone else was there). I love this stuff. I just zoom around and spray it on anything I can. I get all the germs outta here.”
I nodded in appreciation and felt glad that I had accepted his invitation for a slight conversation.
“Alright lady, you be well.” And he crept out of the room to spray his miracle gunk on the remaining tainted walls of the Emergency ward.
Dr. Pimp Blue Suit came back and explained to me, first without any reciprocating comprehension as I have not attended medical school, but then after a second time I finally geot what he’d been trying to tell me amidst a deluge of medical jargon: “Well I can’t fix it today because it’s not a fresh wound.”
How come it took more tears, misunderstanding, and 5 minutes to say that?
The first attempt at his people skills were as follows, “Because your right oricula lobe is lacking a neoteric laceration, I am incapacitated to administer any form of operation at this moment. “
My eyes opened and there was no look of comprehension. My head cocked to the side.
I’m sorry, what now?
He tried again. After a few more clarifications I got what he was trying to tell me. That he really couldn’t do anything about it and he would refer me to the Brackenridge affiliated plastic surgeon and see what they recommended for me. He left me with a few things to chew on and Jonathan came back along with a lady who had conjured up some highly scientific dish of water and hydrogen peroxide in which to wash off the “discharge” from my ear.
Thank you, I couldn’t have done that with your help; the Ace Ventura voice ringing in my ears.
Jonathan showed me over to the discharge area. Out this door, through that one and I’m plopped once again in a hard plastic chair awaiting my turn with the most fun room of them all: $$$$. $$$$. $$$$.
Before walking away he made one last attempt at a Blue Team Joke and tells me to be well and moved along for patient #1234 of the day.
I sit there with a small trickle of tears sliding down my face, some dried on the bottom and my head shaking in malcontent.
“MISS JONES!” Shouts a shrill matter-of-fact, down-to-business voice from inside a small musky office.
Aunt Jamima sat behind a desk smaller than her right thigh and got right down to the blunt end of the stick: “How will you be paying for this?” After her requests and information was divulged more tears streamed down my cheeks. My pitiful little notion of what I want to do in this big ol’ world that really doesn’t care less about Lillian Catherine Jones was shot to the wind. My puny little world flashed in front of my eyes and I imagined only the worse. Lily Jones not going to Spain, would be living with Dad for the rest of her life, using he step-mom’s credit card to pay off the Emergency Room bill for having absolutely nothing done to her. I saw myself working at a dead end job making no money and not living my dreams. SNAP BACK TO REALITY BOZO! And pull yourself together!
The two sister nurses, performing a duet on the blue dance team, stared at me with uncaring expectant eyes. I could hardly choke out anything. I tried to calmly ask a few questions without blowing up in their faces. It’s not their fault and I really am just another person in their mundane android dance of life.
“Do you all have any tissues in here?” I requested politely.
The head nurse looked over to her minion and asks her to see if she can find some. She did and I delicately blotted at what I could only assume looked like remnants of a KISS concert with flooding black make up circling under my eyes and dripping down onto my chin. We discussed money and filled out some forms. I cried, she didn’t. I signed, she didn’t. She filed, I sat. She said, “and we’re done.” I said, “ Thanks.” But why? ‘cos it’s a habit. ‘cos WHAT THE HECK did any of these people do?! Their job I suppose.
Back into the hallway and I turned in a circle twice, looking for how to get out of this joint. Before I actually use my eyes to look for words, I asked. A lady points to a big grande sign that says EXIT TO WAITING ROOM. The words lashed out at me and I laughed a bit, “oh right! Thanks. I can read. Here we go. Okay great” Again with the arbitrary utterances that I have been vomiting out for the last few hours. I stumbled out of the doors and as soon as my eyes met up with Kits it’s all over. I silently sob as we found our way down the ramp and into the parking garage. I even felt bad for the people with whom we shared an elevator while I obtrusively released a plethora of personal patient information (my own) and rip Dr. Dell a new one (with no real evidentiary support on my part, except that I’m annoyed with how things went down) to the collection of civilians that were unfortunate enough to have been on elevator #2. Yes, I was sadly, “that guy.”
As we were fixin’ to pay the attendant at the parking garage, another smiley Seasoned Citizen with silvery hair, I was still on my rampage of hospital frustration. We weren’t really paying much attention to anything except my shrill voice and Kit robotically handed over her credit card to pay the $3.
“I’m sorry girls, but we don’t accept credit cards,” The lady was friendly and informative, “We only accept cash.”
Only accept cash? What does that even mean? Cash…oh yeah that green stuff that the government produces to try to make us spend to better the economy, but doesn’t actually give it to you in green form anymore. That hard to rip green paper that is going extinct. Don’t except a plastic card? Hum….how would we go about this flash from the past. I’ll bet the bum later on that day would have whipped out a credit card machine had we told him we had no cash.
“Oh man I don’t think we have any cash.” Kit explained as I began to dig through my purse.
“Well could you at least come up with a $1.50?” She asked us.
We scrounged and counted change, a penny here and a dime there; we barely collected $1.50, but did so in fact.
“Alright ladies” she giggled a bit, “I’ll just give you the Senior Citizen discount.” She smiled again and waved us through. That was probably the highlight of her day.

I wore the Bar Code bracelet for the rest of the afternoon.

We decided to drive downtown in the blazing summer heat. Austin in the middle of July is flooded. Not so much with natural precipitation, as the San Marcos & Guadalupe are in dire need of any liquids to fill their beds, but Austin is flooded with sweat. Human sweat drips off of businessmen in grey suits taking a quick lunch, waitresses clad in all black and the many joggers that sporadically jump from around corners. The sun is elevated high above the shiny skyscrapers and the snowflake obelisk of Frost Bank spreads pointy shadows across the streets.
My outfit for the day would have been a perfect office choice. Cute high-wasted black polyester pants, with moderately comfortable high black heels so the cuffs of the pants barely lifted up off the floor. A mid-length sleeved airy light blue button down topped off the workplace costume. Sitting under fluorescent lights, engulfed in A/C, munching on ice for 8 hours would have been an adequate situation for the outfit. Marching around a hospital, then a scorching hot sun blasted city block after block in search of a happy hour Sushi bar was not. Honestly I wasn’t worried about my outfit. Yea, my feet were tired and my pants were literally stuck to my backside, but I really just wanted to funnel in some happy hour priced Gin and lean back, or rather fall face first onto a ice blue covered bar and have people dart me strange looks of, “wow what an alcoholic” or “she must have had a really bad day.” I didn’t really need or want the sympathy, but there is something so soothing about flattening your face on your arms stretched out and just letting a huge sigh out, knowing you will be taken care of in a top-drawer manner. Of course a bigger tip or phone number could be an ulterior motive to the compassionate tone of voice that asks what your poison is, but at that moment, whatever their reasoning is doesn’t matter because they’ve got the goods, it’s air conditioned and my feet were up and my ear was dangling in half.

Before finding our first refuge we are accosted by a man with an Eastern European accent. We couldn’t really decipher what exactly was his true story through his mix of accent, story about just getting off the bus from Florida, and then instructing us to go to China Town and tell the owner that Mark sent us. They would know him because he takes out the trash for them sometimes.

We found the perfect little not busy, clean and modern restaurant specializing in Sushi and Liquor.
I don’t need a minute. “I would please like a Dirty Martini with Gin.”
The bartender looked to Kit, who always seems to need a minute, but generally sticks with the same few drinks. She chose to indulge in a Long-island Iced Tea on this first bar stop.
The next hour or so we spent picking at some California rolls and Edamame, suckling on tiny baby straws and taking free shots of “this and that” perfected by the bartender. We shared stories, got our buzz on and the bartender, Josh (we were all now on a first-name basis), kept insisting that in 3 and half Monday’s he would join up with us in San Marcos for some Salty G (the nickname that we had given Salt Grass employees a while back and thought was the funniest thing in the whole world) time. We thought it was funnier with each drink we ingested.

The funniest part could have been when Kit decided she needed to cut the California roll in half. Apparently the sticky rice, cucumbers and all were just too much for her mouth. The bartender had refused to give her a fork upon her request and instead had attached a bright orange plastic nifty lil’ doohicky at the end of her chopsticks, training wheels for Texan bred Americans basically. Watching her massacre the poor heap of rice with a smooth wooden stick was very amusing. Nothing at all was happening. Well, nothing that resembled a clean and closed laceration at all, nothing like the perfectly punctured double lobes dripping from my right ear. She heaved and sighed a bit and on Josh’s way out for a smoke harassed him for some “normal” eating utensils.
‘What do you need a knife for?”
“So I can cut.” She titled her head to the side, “duh.”
A rush of excitement came over me when I remembered an artifact, which I always had in my purse. It had proven to be so useful on a number of times, butI rarely removed the ridged 4” Apache Cutlery blade with a black handle and a snappy little switch to open it up. It was pretty hardcore. I felt hardcore. The Spanish hadn’t thought so when I had proceeded to try and take it with me through the Prado museum in Madrid and had later learned that that size of blade was in fact a federal offense and if they found it with me again I would get deported from their country.
It had proven useful standing in the middle of the mall, with a bunch of giggling girls purring over their recent purchases of sparkly gems from Claires, but could not remove the child and thief protection from the backs of the jewelry gizmos. It had whittled up marshmallow- skewers, and thinking of who it had been passed down from, had probably had spent some serious time cutting up a certain white powder. Never been used as a weapon in my possession, but that didn’t mean the opportunity wouldn’t soon present itself. It was useful and I feel better having it on me. The opportunity seemed perfect.
So I shrieked, “oh look what I have!” I pulled it from my bag and snapped the blade open pulling it hard to my right with a little wrist twitch. Kit’s eyes blew up wider than I’d ever seen them, her mouth was the same size and she leaned forever to examine if what she had seen was real. She leaned forward, then back and began laughing so hard she slid off the chair.
Josh, who was on his way out the door stopped dead in his tracks and watched me with what I removed from my Merry Poppins bag of surprises.
“What the---?” was all he could muster out.
I leaned over and cleanly sliced the little piece of Sushi in one quick motion, then calmly wiped the blade on the black napkin in my lap, did a little extra cleaning and politely put it back in my purse.
Josh stared at my bag for a second, taking in what had just happened, ”that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in here.”
Kit was still laughing, “Thanks Lily. I cannot believe you have that in there!”
“Why not, it’s proven itself worthy on a number of occasions.” I cut myself a piece and we both continued chowing down.

At the end of the day when Kit and I were talking we both decided that a favorite part of that experience was when I decided to bust it out and let loose on my white girl rapping or flowing skillz and proceeded to “flow” the song I had just written called, Japanese Love Motel. This song was inspired by the Kit’s hardship when her significant other had had a little episode on a trip to the Orient. It was crude, and I was white. It had flow, and I wanted to grow. So I sat there and proceeded to blubber my way through the song. I was rhyming words with hotel, sex, Ho Chi Min, double-chins, please and grease. The bartender was half smirking while watching in disbelief and Kit was laughing so hard she had tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Wow, Lily, I thought it was funny when I read it, but –“ she choked for a second, “watching your “rap-”, she shook her head and swallowed, “-was the best thing ever. I can’t believe you did that! That was priceless.”
Our new friend Josh applauded.
“Well thanks guys.” I turned a little red and sat back down. I was probably just flushed from the alcoholic and intense heat from outside, but I blamed it on being a “little embarrassed from the attention.”
“Oh stop,” I fake flirted, “ya’ll are gonna make me blush” I waved my hand in front of my face and rolled my eyes back, beating long black lashes.
More time passed.
We drank water and chatted. When we rose to leave, we were discussing our next move. Should we walk around and get some more air and water or could Kit drive back to San Marcos? She said she’d need some more time, so in my obtrusively loud intoxicated voice I blasted out, “hey I can drive! I’m totally fine.” Which really was the truth. I could have driven. Probably shouldn’t, but I was way less intoxicated than Kit.
Nobody asked, but I felt the need to prove my point. “Helz yeah I could drive! Heck I can walk the line right here, right now!”
Kit and Josh were silent; probably a little unsure of what I was about to do or say next.
On an impulse I jumped outta the stool, kicked off my shoes, pulled my pants up, and tested the height of the ceiling. This was making no sense to the onlookers.
“See guys?! I could even CARTWHEEL the line!” I stood, point-ready.
“You’re going to cartwheel the line…??” It was a question and a clarification statement.
“Dude yea, check it out. Straight line. I got it. I’ll drive.”
I took off! Cartwheel. Finish. TA-dA! Right there in the Sushi bar. Didn’t kick a table, rip my pants, or knock over a glass.
It couldn’t get any better. We peaced outta there, laughing, and with our tails wagging between our legs.

We entered the Gobi Desert, or rather what just felt like the Gobi desert and talked about what we wanted to do.
“I need to go pee” was Kit’s first idea.
“Okay, hey behind that dumpster.”
A headshake and she walked away.
We found a club that wasn’t open yet, but the doors were and that was good enough for us. We creeped up some red velvet stairs and the gentlemen prepping the booze and chairs were so kind. She used the bathroom and they gave me a red bull, free of sugar and charge.

Again we submerged ourselves into the Safari hot streets of Austin and giggling, we ran in directions with no purpose.

We ended up passing by a busy looking bar with a happening Happy Hour so we ventured in. No more booze, we told each other, as we were driving back later on. Well that didn’t happen since the Martini glasses were etched with Lily Jones on the side. Kit however, stayed strong, sipped on water, stole some of my green olives and we sat at the bar amidst chatter and cried, talked, laughed, giggled and talked about Gay-dar. I told her that I was not the best with deciphering if a gentleman were bisexual or not. She assured me that she was skilled in this department and the cute rabbit-cheeked blond bar tender definitely played for the other team. He had a friendly smile, cute spiky hair and was making drinks like a wizard. He began making some small talk with us.
“How was your day ladies?”
I lifted up my wrist in a drunken stupor and shook around the hospital bracelet. He nodded in understanding as I griped about the frustration and money issues, which would now be haunting me for years. But the most fun bit of this accident is when I decided that people need to see what happened and I pull my ear lobe to the side and it splits. About 99.9% of the people (that’s condom effectiveness) take a step back, squint their eyes, but come forward to peer at it again. He was too busy to perform this ritual, but definitely had a look of surprise mixed with a little disgust.
We shared opinions on how we were treated at the hospital and the foes of when the hospital bill came. He told us he’d had two stitches and when the bill came it was for $1,900!

HOLY CRAP! Are you freaking kidding me?! Oh my goodness…again my life flashed in front my eyes. This time I was living in a van down by the river.

Kit ordered a fish taco and I got some Shrimp Seviche which came with some cute lil’ three pronged forks. We chowed, drank and chatted.
After making a few too many remarks on how incredibly cute the baby forks were they somehow managed to fall into my black abyss of a purse (along with a small little dish on which the forks could rest).
Once in the bathroom we began laughing hysterically on our little “sneaking”. Although taking silverware, spices, cute plates, and pint glasses wasn’t something we were strangers too. I’d definitely taken my fair share of “memorabilia” from cute restaurants, tapas bars, and the twirly-swirly smoothie glasses from Red Robin in my day. Although I had cut back when karma got the better of me and I had severely cut the bottom of my foot on a broken Guiness pint glass, I had taken from an Irish Pub on another noche out in Spain on my Study Abroad tenure.
I was a bit giggly in the bathroom, and when I had emerged from the stall Kit had a fake plant about 2 ½ ft. tall protruding from her purse. She twirled around, “do you think they’ll notice?”
I examined her closely. “Yes, yes you know, call me crazy, but it doesn’t look like you were wearing it when you came in.” I smiled, “Come on, take it out of your bag.”
We laughed, and were so immaturely cracking up even harder when Kit started jiggling the prints that were intensely glued on to the wall.
“But I want something from here too.”
“Aye, come on. We’ll get a memoire from outside.” She put the plant down, we linked arms, opened the door, looked both ways, then slid out of the restaurant.

Once again blasted with heat, we wiped down our brows, placed our hands on our hips and casually and inconspicuously dried out our armpits and wafted away the under arm smell with the breeze that we wished was happening.

We turned onto 6th street and found the most fun looking shop, The Hat Box. “A Modern Haberdashery: Where old world charm meets contemporary style. “
Wow, you had me at Haberdashery. Haberdashery….I’m not really sure what it means, but it sounds cool. I needed to go in there so I could be part of the Haberdashery.
Thanks to fancy phones I was able to find out that, it in fact it meant, “a retail dealer in men's furnishings, as shirts, ties, gloves, socks, and hats.”

It was full of funky head ornaments of all kinds: Classic Hats, Fancy Hats, Hiking Hats, Childrens, hats, and of course contemporary favorites. There were drivers, 8 Panels and Applejacks, Cuban Cadets and 4-button cadets. There were children hats with names like The Gus Stitched Edge and Octopus Beanie. There was a Stampede Collection Hatbox, for not only winter, but SUMMER too! The Canvas Drover that came in Beige, Brown and Kahki! There was the leather “Squashy” Black Cowhide hat, and the canvas Safari Hat in Olive.

So many fun words, so little time. You had me at Haberdashery. Haberdashery, Applejacks, Gus-Stitched, Octopus, Squashy and Safari! How could this place not be fun?

We spent the next half hour or so trying on these funny fickle hats with ridiculous names. We both found about 12 “oh-my-gosh –this-is-the-best-one-ever” hats and wanted to purchase them all. However, working for $2.13 an hour plus mediocre tips in a small college town doesn’t leave you much for an extra frivolous head decoration, even if it does have a name like Borsalino Houndstooth Driver.

The male employee, we’ll call him Conor (which in Gaelic is Concobhar and means “hound lover”) was having a blast with us. He was bored out of his mind and mentioned to us that we were probably the 3rd or 4th customers of the day. He jumped in our savagely drunken photo shoot being shot with the .08” diameter lens of the iPhone. There was another female employee and at one point she partook in the fun by announcing a reminder, “don’t pick up the hats from the brim otherwise you’ll erode the outsides with your greasy fingers.”

Yea, sorry about my greasy fingers. I must have dipped them in battery acid after fixing my Ultimate Electric 4WD Hunting Cart - Titan UTV.

We left The Hat Shop and again contemplated our next plan of Action. “Well now,” I squinted my nose up and said, “have to pee.”
“hum….” Was all I got out of Kit.
“Hey lets go to the Driskill!” I exclaimed, referring to the “utterly posh 10-floored elite level of luxury and service to rank as one the world's finest hotels.” We rounded the corner and entered on the backside, where the main entrance for their bar was. We smoothed our hair, straightened our clothes, lifted our chins up, suppressed our drunken giggles, linked arms and strutted in. We crossed the expensive carpeting without tripping once, observed men in business suits talking about “mergers”, “globalization”, “capitalism” and many other –isms. There may have even been a few “Bushisms” thrown into the mix by the individuals at the bar hitting the glass a little more strongly than the rest.

"In terms of the economy, look, I inherited a recession, I am ending on a recession." --George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., Jan. 12, 2009
"I'm telling you there's an enemy that would like to attack America, Americans, again. There just is. That's the reality of the world. And I wish him all the very best."—Washington, D.C., Jan. 12, 2009
"This is my maiden voyage. My first speech since I was the president of the United States and I couldn't think of a better place to give it than Calgary, Canada."—As reported by the Associated Press, Calgary, Canada, March 17, 2009

There were women in black cocktail dresses, and office pants; wine glasses being caressed by slender white swan hands, and their backsides being inadvertently caressed by glassed over male eyeballs.
Kit and I escorted each other through the bar, down the elegant staircase and into the ladies room. It was so majestic and private. Very shiny white tile floors, reflecting gold handles, utterly soft hand towels, and a fragrance, which I’ve never once before stumbled upon in a restroom.
We politely held the door open for a seasoned citizen, but as soon as the door softly closed, our young hooligan tendencies busted loose once again. I was dancing and peeing, and Kit was on the phone with her friend making vulgar remarks about renting hotels by the hour.
We took a few quick and crude self photos in front of the mirror with a camera phone. Jerking our heads back to flip our stringy sweaty and matted hair back, made kissy faces with sloppy smiles at the mirror and attempted our best Zoolander meets Victoria Secret babe struts.

We were a couple of whackos. Here I was, in this “office appropriate” outfit, with a slicked back ponytail, ripped ear lobe and mushy heart emotions suckling down anything with an intoxication effect. Next to me was a thin brunette with big o’ Hollywood sunglasses, a sun dress, flip flops with big hair, also heavy hearted and emotionally drained. And willing to do anything to forget about the monstrosities of what goes down in a Japanese Love Motel.

We quickly left the Driskill as we didn’t want to abuse our self-generated invitation. It was still venomously hot. The air was sticky, and also still stuck upon us was our squirrely girl-time attitude and laughs. We walked past the car, threw our hands up in exhilaration of not having gotten towed (always a mini-worry when in the city. Those dang parking Nazi’s), and decided we’d like some iced coffee, juice or something that involved ice. We slithered with “silent, seamless service” into a small coffee shop on Congress Ave and stared out the window. We probably looked a little crazed to the calm crowd collectivity sipping their cups of coolness, but we weren’t ready to settle down. Conversing in strange chic dialect we sat for approximately 34 seconds, gazed out the window and abruptly left when Kit bellowed into my ear, “Dude! Look it! It’s the Jones Center. We have to go!” She pulled on my hand and we did not leave the coffee house practicing “silent, seamless service.” My baby-bearing sized hips knocked my chair into the table which created quite the rattle, my purse slid off my shoulder and I had to collect my pair of high heels, that skipped across the floor. I bid the employee in a green apron, with a bit of green polluting his head I’m sure, farewell and bowed out the door. I never really leave a place without people knowing it. The countless bruises on my hips and knees and scrapes on my elbows are evidence enough that I lead quite the “clumsy” lifestyle. Although I’m sure it’s entertaining to onlookers, which is okay with me!

In fact, just the other day I was joyfully skipping back from my lunchtime break. I had Manu Chau keeping me company with my iPod and was merrily sucking down a low calorie pineapple smoothie. The sun was on my back making the walk feel like an adventure on an Australian Walkabout. As my back fat slid off in chunks due to massive sweat loss, I was feeling pretty on top of the world. I encountered the all too familiar brick steps heading back up to the office and started on up.

I learned how to walk when I was close to turning 2. I probably mastered stairs about a year later. Since then I’d gotten around the world, flown to Spain, taken a ferry to Morocco, sipped Guinness in the factory in the heart of Dublin, been to the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum in Copenhagen, driven from Texas to the West Coast of Mexico and surfed on the pacific ocean, been chased down the dark streets of Paris, played soccer against Germans in Gotenburg, Sweden, did lunges and jumping jacks in the Alhambra, lived in Seattle for 4 years, , learned how to drive, watched the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, snowboarded down the Cascade Mountains, bought a one-way ticket to a random town in Central Texas, enjoyed indoor and outdoor soccer for a number of years, graduated from an esteemed University, hiked in the pitch dark at 5:30am to watch the sun rise at Garner State Park, ridden on a camel on the beach in Africa, attended catholic mass in Alabama, jet skied in Mazatlan, attended a Marine Core Ball, rafted the Nantahala river in North Carolina, had a bonfire on a black sand beach in Maui, put my hands in the prints at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, read the weather on the radio, stayed up ‘till 5 in the morning dancing in the Sacromonte Gypsy caves on Halloween, made it through customs in Houston bringing back “agriculture”, gotten locked in the bathroom of a bus winding around Spanish highways, wined and dined with highly acclaimed chefs and connoisseurs from Swizterland, drank Bloody Mary’s at 9:30 in the morning at the airport in Vegas, endured a bloody nose in a catholic church during communion on Easter, learned how to speak another language, and many other righteous life accomplishments, and I still can’t seem to make it through one day without tripping, falling, or knocking something over. I smack bottles off of tables completely out of reach, fall out of chairs, and trip on my own feet. Pens fly out of my hand for no reason, I run into tables and walls constantly while waiting tables, and put my panties on inside out at least once a week. And that’s while being 100% sober! It keeps life interesting I guess.

So there I was trucking up the stairs, and something in the non-existent Texas breeze made the lip of my sandal clip on the top of the stair and fall right on up the stairs. But it wasn’t just any fall, my big ol’ black bag slid to the right bringing the weight down harder, and my small pitiful Styrofoam cup was under it all. My delicious and expensive lunch was crushed under my 152 lbs + 4 more from the books in my bag. My thumb punctured the cup and yellow goo oozed all over my hand and the stair landing. A mess of white Styrofoam and yellow glop trickled into a small puddle on the bricks. There were two Asian girls walking down the stairs talking to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying as my ears were covered with my ear buds. There was an older quite attractive male student staring up at me, watching the circus with no understanding of the “pictures last longer” or “you shouldn’t stare” notions. My favorite was when the two young skater dudes passed by me and stepped OVER me, crouched down, sopping up yellow smoothie with all too thin paper towels.
“ahhh someone had an accident!” Was all the dude with girl jeans on could muster-up.
“Yep! That’d be me!” I cheerfully said. I jumped down the stairs to throw away the dripping towels, “everyday of the week man. Everyday of the week.” The guy at the bottom kept on staring. It was either disbelief or he was stoned, could have been a bit of both.
I finished up with the daily ritual of cleaning up my accidents and continued on my merry way back to the office as if nothing had happened.

So, Kit and I hopped across Congress Ave to the Arthouse at the Jones Center and examined the short, and modernistic, yet cute architecture of the black and white building. We pressed our inebriated, yet slowly descending back into a sober state, faces against the glass. Covering our eyes with our clammy hands, we peered in. It was a big hooplah, jump, hop and skip across the street for nothing. We didn’t see anything except the exciting fact that my last name was once again publicly displayed high atop another skyscraper. Not that the World Almanac ranking Jones to be the 5th most popular last name in the world in 2000 changed my world or anything, but it did kind of. Come on Lady, act like you’ve seen your last name before. So I did and we became distracted with the pretty colored rocks that decorated a small moat-like crevice near the entrance on the sidewalk.
Kit picked up a blue rock and examined it, “wow, this beautiful” She said rolling the artificial blue stone in her hand like it was the Jewel of the Nile or something.
“Find yourself a beauty. Find yourself one that’s prettier than this puppy”.
I dug out the nastiest murky brown and grey colored one I could find, “I like this one.”
In the process of standing up, a small silver object slipped out of my purse. It was the tiny three-pronged form from the Seviche dish.
“OH DEARY! The three-pronged fork” I have no idea why, but it came out in a very strong and crude British accent. I don’t know why. It just seemed right. I mean who doesn’t want to talk about a baby three-pronged fork in any other accent than one from the United Kingdom.
It was downhill from there. Kit instantly latched on to the entertaining and silly accent game.
Comments that made no sense at all filled up the remainder of the conversation for the next 5 minutes:

“oh my goodness, we’re late!”…. “Be sure to take your vitamins!”…. “The proper ingestment of this folic monstrosity shall overcome the delightful shortbread and crumpets served by her majesty.”… “I reckon we shall need to leave this delightful city promptly.”

But not before we found a bronze sculpture of a big boned hefty woman lighting a cannon into the street. It was obvious what this meant…

PHOTO SHOOT TIME!

We shot a multitude of poses in our primitive shoot: swishing our hips this way, flipping hair back, and jerking our posteriors to unnatural and uncomfortable positions. We mimicked the giant crazy lady’s fire lighting stance and ran around the entire sculpture. It was like we were little kids ALL JACKED UP ON MOUNTAIN DEW at the Zoo, on their birthday, eating cake, with ice cream dripping down their face, after seeing Mickey Mouse, and getting a big human sized American Girl doll as a gift and getting to stay up late after watching 13 Going on 30. Why the heck were we so excited?

Oh, because we were 21 and 23, full of booze, speaking in British accents, drained from the blazing sun, jaded from the day in the hospital and emotionally debilitated, jacked up on thoughts of swimming later on and more boozing that could be done upon return to our town. After our little quick blast to the past of childhood excitement over nothing, we jumped back into the SUV and cruised our way onto I35 south.

Along the way Kit pulled up a funny YouTube comedian video that Anjelah Johnson does on “Pretty Nail” and laughed about “ahhh honey that’s why you don’t have”…
“beautiful nail”… “just one”….just one nail….do I get to pick which one?.....whatev you like we do fo’ you…..really nice….okay honey, do you like pedicuuuu too?....ahhhh honey why you you don’t like?.....pedicoo is sooo sexy…..it’s bette fooo youuuuu…..only 20 dolla mo’ sit down….you have boyfrwend?....honey why you don’t have?....you like long o’ shot nail?...oh honey, that’s why you don’t have boyfwend....


So naturally our accents had to change from The United Kingdom and talking about three pronged forks to mocking the cute women from the orient and discussing pink nail gel.
Me, loud, boisterous, still intoxicated with a very fast blabbing mouth: “Ahhh Honeyyyyy why you don’t have….oooo long nail, me do you you long, not sho’t!”….to which Kit would reply, “Awwww honey, why you don’t have? You have boyfwend?...you need long nail!” She was funnier because she had seen the movie more than once in her life. I’m guessing she’d probably watched it a few times, shared it with a few friends, seen it in a group and then viewed it in private so should could practice her mocking accent and laugh with herself. So we blazed back to San Marcos and bombarded up the stairs to my third floor apartment. I’m not sure how I was still slightly inebriated. Yes, it had worn off some, but I guess having an empty stomach and getting all I was worth sucked out of by the sun, helped out in that department. Because when we got in to my place, I leaned against the wall and started yanking on my ear, spilling my story to my roommate and tearing off my clothes to change into a bathing suit. Right, good idea to go swimming at this point in time.
We changed and decided it would be a good idea to make a quick stop over at the neighboring Mexican food restaurant and cantina to suck down some frozen margaritas. Yes, that was probably the most brilliant idea of the day. To try to suck through a straw an alcoholic liquid colder than freezing, with a lime flavoring. I got half way through and suddenly paused to squeeze my nose. Kit started pursing her lips and squeezing her forehead only after a few milliseconds.
“Lily, whose brilliant idea was this?” She asked me.
“Which part?” I said with frozen lime chunks dripping through my teeth.
“It’s so cold!”
“Knock knock?” I responded.
“who’s there?” came the reply.
“Scold.”
“Scold who?”
My nose crinkled up and my eyes glistened with the immature punch line coming, “These frozen margaritas are s’cold.”
She shoved the remaining last gulp in my direction and demanded that I finish her puke-swallow (otherwise known as backwash. The last bit of any drink that is left over at the bottom of the glass or bottle) as punishment for the juvenile, yet well placed knock-knock joke.
A pit-stop at her house to gather a bathing suit and then we proceeded to meet up with some more friends and co-workers in a nice apartment with a swimming pool. Of course, it just happened to be an apartment complex, which shared a view, and a backyard with the one person I wasn’t trying to think about all day. Of course immediately he was on my brain. We swam around, jumped around, played chicken and the boys chugged some beers. We laughed with some girls in their apartment while they got ready to go out. I inhaled a small portion of cashews (which I still need to pay back), their refrigerator was “eye-f*****” , but nothing was really removed, and then all of a sudden Meg was just eating ham. There we were discussing potential plans for the night, laughing about the adventure in Austin and piling our damp hair on top of our heads. I turned to the right and Meg was unveiling a curtain of aluminum foil covering an entire 11-pound ham. Not just a small slice of honey Baked sandwich ham, but for some reason her and her roommate had an ENTIRE baked EASTER ham in their fridge. There it was. Plain as can be and Meg was hacking away at the side with a pitiful butter knife with no sharp edge. She was half cutting, half ripping, half knawing the ham from the carcass and bones. After she’d finally extracted a healthy portion, she delicately pulled it into more delicate slivers and sofly and calmly fed herself. I didn’t say anything while I watched. I was merely fascinated where this ham had come from and why two college-aged restaurant working young girls had an entire ham just chillin’ out in their fridge.
While they finished getting ready, I went outside to “ummmm…enjoy the night air?”
It was sticky and hot, with a few stars in the Texas sky.
As soon as I was outside, the drunken texter inside got a hold of my fingers and started punching away at the keypad.

My favorite thing about my vexation to drunken texting is that I delete my inbox and outbox every few minutes. I have an issue with things needing to be clean and orderly and to me an inbox with three messages in it is a complete sty. The mornings, which follow certain nights, I wake up with no account of the night, as my memory is also splotchy at times. This particular night I went a little over kill with the drunk-texting. I was like a can of Pringles: once I popped, I couldn’t stop.
He called and said, “are you okay?” It was downhill from there. I responded with, “I am so close to you right now.”
We chatted for a minute until Kit came out and requested I give her the phone because she wanted to talk with him. I trusted her, but only for a portion of a second until she started sayings to him that I really only wanted to keep in my heart and preferred not to share. So I removed my face from the ant-ridden grass and leapt on her, trying desperately to squeal into the phone “no no no! I didn’t say that!” and at the same time remove the phone from her slightly more sober grasp. The call ended and so did the night. We both realized we were tired, had a regular sized day ahead of us and shouldn’t continue the debauchery which we found ourselves in. We jumped up and headed out. I made it back once again into my bed, safe and sound, with a new day ahead of me.

The best part was that my “friend” had saved all the texts I had sent him throughout the day and when I requested an invoice of last nights encounter he so graciously, and humorously, replied with this email:

July 8th, 2009

i enjoyed your story.
and i can understand the frustration towards the doctors makin jokes.
you'll get it fixed, and the money will work itself out. it always does.
dont worry.
5:28 pm
HAPPY HOUR. AUSTIN. HAVE TO wait out our drunken and traffic.

6:53 pm
I'm sorry nathan. Just.....bummed and mummed again. Im sorry and sorry.

6:55 pm
Suit up. I dont wanna ever be rid of u...

6:57 pm
<3 thats why.

6:59 pm
Nothing.

7:56 pm
Yea ur right. Sorry for keepin on hassllin

8:47 pm
Waah! I dont wanna have three ear lobes anymore. (this ones probably my favorite. for the sole reason that this is not a text message many people would get on a daily basis)

8:52 pm
Im not. Its just hangin loose. But i know i know. Itll heal. After green backs and trips to austi. Sorry. G!night.

9:03 pm
Yea. Para siempre y jamas.

10:24 pm
Ahhhh...Grrrr...

(then a funny phone call happened)
(then i passed out)

11:19 pm
my apologies about earlier chico.

11:40 pm
This is such a very hard and sad situation. Hard being the worst. I hate it. Not gonna lie, strait up- i have being away from u. K ok ok. Im done. 4 now .....

I'd type out my responses to them all, but my phone only saves the last 20 outgoing texts.

************************************************************************
I’ve got to stop drunk texting people. The first thing I should do would to stop being drunk with a hurtin’ heart. I guess the first step in this process would be to stop falling into positions, which cause heart torture. The moral of this story is twofold: heartaches heal with time and ear splits heal with cosmetic surgery…..
…….and a lot of cash.