Koneechewa!!! :)

Shalom all you rude boiz and gurlz!  It is 12:40am on a Friday night so you know what that means – Selena Gomez is blasting from my credit-card purchased (i.e. why i am in massive debt) MacBook, there is a glass of 5% cheap sparkling wine from me that probably came from LiLo’s left teet, and all my friends are out partying while I contemplate love, life, and how Anne Frank survived years without chocolate or Kim’s sex tape.  But I digress….

To address the zebra in the room, it has been like…4 months since I last blogged.  I KNOW THAT many of you assume it is because (shit my gay uncle just called and he is telling me about how he is getting hit on…right in front of the guys…and im like DUDE IM ALONE ON A FRIDAY NIGHT STFU I H8 U! oh now the guys tryna get diirttty w him are talking to me and trying to flirt with the “young naive homo who recently came out… ya dooshbags bcuz 23 years and 6 months is “recently” when you remember when electricity was invented ASSHOLES).

(2.5 hours later)

I’ve had a few more glasses of wine and after talking to my uncle about his love life, I can sufficiently say I never ever ever want to grow up.  Here I am, a young (im)mature adult feeling like this

carrie bradshaw…so angsty and melodramatic and vulnerable…only to find out that in 30 years I will be the EXACT same way, except looking like this…Number-1-Player-On-All-Games-Ugly-Fat-Man

FUCK.

But back to the rainbow zebra in the room.  I took a leave of absence because I actually did commit to a summer of abstinence from sex, alcohol, and cigarettes. And honestly, I never felt better…it was like Amanda Bynes visited me in a dream, lent me her meds, and I floated in a sky full of possibilities, no anxiety, and college cafeteria buffets (thank you JHU for all dem delic salad bars!!!).

Then I returned to Miami…the land of…the complete opposite.

Anyway, I want to start blogging again if only to hold myself accountable.  For instance, the next time I am craving that Big Mac with extra bacon and “special sauce”, I can ask myself as I wait 20 minutes in the ridiculous drive thru line because the person in front of me can’t tell the difference between dollars and cents “when I blog about my day, do I really want the highlight of my day to be indulging in a meaty, greasy, 2-month-cholesterol-intake burger?”.  The answer, my dear readers, will most likely be yes, so stay tuned.  And I realize I kinda contradicted myself there – you thought I would say no, because I want to hold myself accountable..but that is the kinda stream-of-consciousness vibe I want you to enjoy, or love-to-hate, about this blog (just like i love-to-hate Mellie).  And if you don’t know whom I am referring to, you have two choices:  1) Watch Scandal 2) Kill yourself for not watching Scandal.  I hope you choose the former.

Until next time betches,

GG

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Days 9 and 10: Country and the Heat

Wazzup goin dowwwwwn mah homIe Gs?

I’m just gonna jump right into the thick of where I left off yesterday…which was ugh IDK and too lazy to look back so I’m just gonna start my journey at 3:23pm the day of yesterday past.  I found myself cruising in an elevator up one level to frequent my favorite gym located conveniently in my hotel/condominium.  I know most of you are probably thinking “what a fat ass he has to take an elevator up one floor when he is about to work out.”.  But no! There is a method to my madness as my dear friend Sherlock would say.  When I get in the elevator and push ever so evilly the number ‘2’ I am usually surrounded by those exact types who EVERY TIME push the elevator button for one floor up/down.  You know the types…the ones who practiced their arithmetic by counting how many XXL Mickey D combos they can devour in one sitting.  So when they expect to go up to the 7th floor but really have to wait for an extra 30 seconds as my fat ass gets off the elevator, I flash them a second long triumphant “look at the misery you put me through ass holes – i could get to my destination 30 seconds early too and actually start watching Honey Boo Boo on time but no…I miss the ‘previously on Honey Boo Boo’ part because I have to wait for your lazy asses to go up one flight how does it feel now bitch” smirk.  And before you readers get angry at me because that was a) a really unnecessary rant and b) you might be a lazy elevator person too…don’t worry it is 12:46 am and I am shoveling my face with Chef Boyardee Cheesy Meatball Macaroni.  And it tastes like shit.

Anyway, as I was saying, I get to the gym and slowly drag myself to the dumbbell section.  I absolutely LOATHE free weights because I have this nagging insecurity that every time I do a certain “move” or “lift” or whatever steroid users call their actions in the gym, I am always thisclose from dropping the 10 pound weight on my face OR I am always exhaling these weirdly sensual but painful sounding yelps as my frail body struggles to bench 45 pounds.  So I’m beginning my weirdly sensual but painful sounding routine when I start to glance around the gym and see who I could be embarrassing myself in front of today.  And it’s the usual suspects…the brunette runner with pigtails who seems to be much more enthralled with the Golf Network than actually running on the treadmill, or the really old guy with (I suppose formerly) huge muscles that have turned to flab but he insists on wearing muscle Ts probably to remind the old grannies pedaling 0.01 mph watching Oprah reruns that in his heyday, he thought he was a good run in the hay. (yoooo see what I just did there!  I think that’s a pun!) I wasn’t too worried then about embarrassing myself until I saw this actually kinda cute looking guy grinning at me.  And not just like the guy grinning who you think is looking at you but is really looking at his reflection in the mirror behind you.  We made eye connection, and his grin WIDENED.  It was so alarming my weirdly sensual but painful sounding yelps almost ceased because I was about to go into full panic mode as I debated whether he was a serial killer or mentally unstable because who in their right mind would be grinning at me while I make THOSE noises!?  So I quickly divert my attention to the mirror, power up JLO’s newest hit (long live the Queen), and start lifting again.   5 minutes later, and I muster up the courage to look at him again…and he’s still grinning.  at me. and then, to top it off, he NODS at me and winks.  I swear to god I was about to dial my emergency number (thankfully I changed it from Dominos to 911) because I felt my heart a-swellin.  Just to test the water, my genius intellect thought to itself “show him what you can REALLY do…on the treadmill”.  So I drop the weights quickly and approach the treadmill – the gym equipment I feel most comfortable with because somehow my thighs of jello become strangely rigid when I’m running to Katy Perry.  My hypothesis is this…if he is smiling just to be friendly he won’t come over…but if he is smiling because of something more…he will definitely come over 😉 😉 😉 .  And lo and behold, 3 minutes later he was running next to me and I was like YES, ITS ON!

…thank Hershey I’m not a scientist because my hypothesis was completely wrong – it should have been restated…”if he is smiling just to be friendly he won’t come over…but if he comes over he probably wants to have a workout free of sweat/smell from the person running next to him”.  Unfort, when I run, I sweat like every sweat gland in my body has been condemned to the fires of Hell, which creates a rather unpleasant a) odor and b) spray of salty sweat.  And due to my (fabulously curly) long hair, this constant waterfall of sweat gets whipped around EVERYWHERE with each step I take to “E.T.”  So…alas…3 minutes later after getting the full effects of my workout regiment, poor cute guy with the awkward smile scurried away to a safer, drier environment.  C’est la vie.

After the gym, I had a skype interview for a job in which I would be a mentor/RA for RICH high school kids taking collegiate level classes/extracurriculars at Johns Hopkins.  I know..if the thought of me mentoring impressionable young children doesn’t send shivers down your spines then you are probably desensitized from watching Wet Hot American Summer too many times.  The interview went extremely well thank God until the interviewer casually dropped the fact that one of the rules is a “zero tolerance” policy for RCs (my possible job) drinking OR smoking on the job.  The ‘or’ is everything..if it had been an ‘and’, that would have implied I can’t drink and smoke at the same time… so I would have used the loophole where I would take a sip of my purple drank and then fag afterwards so technically I’m not “drinking and smoking”.  I know, this is the same logic that Lindsey Lohan uses every time she drinks and drives…anyway, thank God I have a poker face like this guy:

funny-pictures-happycat-poker-face

because I immediately pretended to brush that off as if “no biggie; obviously I am an immensely responsible adult and no i was not twerking it to ‘Birthday Song’ in the shower 5 minutes ago”.  The great thing about the job is that it acknowledges the fact that traveling across the country is ya know…expensive…so they would pay for all expenses except personal ones AND I would live on Johns Hopkins campus which is 10 minutes away from my favorite family in Baltimore!  Given the fact that my only personal expenses would be bulletproof vests and neutral gang color v-necks (when in doubt about how to look like a safe homo, rainbow v-necks are NOT your answer), I was pretty excited about the fact that I could potentially save money this summer.  We will see if I get it!!! Toes crossed!

After, I had the  CMT music video awards to look forward to after such an awkwardly humiliating workout.  I should have known that the CMT awards would be yet another exercise in awkward humiliation because I still have not learned to control my emotions when Carrie wins/loses to Ms. Piggy Lambert and She who shall not be named Swift.  (oops…I just avada kadavrad myself 😦 😦  ).  Case in point…when Carrie loses to Ms. Piggy for Female Video of the Year, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror and my whole posture resembled something close to this: Image

Yet when Carrie won 15 minutes later for Video of the Year, my reaction instantaneously turned to this:

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Sigmund Freud would have a field day with my id and ego.  Carrie seems to have an instant effect on both…and usually for the more awkward and humiliating. And isn’t it strange that my face contorts in the same way whether I am about to punch-the-nearest-person angry or hug-the-nearest-person  happy?  oy. Nevertheless thankfully I was about to go to bed extremely happy and my dreams were filled of dueting with Carrie while eating a crunchy wrap supreme from Taco Campanilla.

(editor’s note: in between the previous and future babble, the author took a 8 hour sleep break so any sense of time now is completely effed.  As I type this it is Friday at 10:32am if that helps.)

Nothing major happened during the day yesterday except for the fact that at my last day on the job someone whipped out condoms and offered me one.

WTF_5869c0_78795

Thank god my hair doesn’t look like that even though the facial expression is as close to perfect as possible! (although that guys parents clearly didn’t believe in braces…smh)

No, yesterday didn’t get extremely interesting/aggravating until last night after I had a delicious dinner with my friend Lucy.  If you can believe this, Lucy has never tasted the calorific taste of Spaghetti-Os!!! And naturally, my attempt at cooking them probably led her to believe the O at the end of the title does not imply what a big O should imply.  She had one bite and was like “I don’t think Spaghetti-Os are really my thing…” which is polite girl code for “never again will I let something that tastes that horrific enter my mouth until I’m drunk and make out with a chain smoker”.  Afterwards, I went over to my first party sober!  And dear god as this was my first experience hanging out with drunk people in 6 years I never realized how unnecessarily LOUD alchies are.  I was trying to have a conversation with my old friend Wilma but couldn’t hear her despite her close proximity to my body because my eardrums were being raped by Lil Wayne’s codeine flavored voice talking about million $$$ _____ies(horribly offensive word referring to a girl’s babymaker).  blech.  I was proud of myself for staying 2 hours though, so as soon as the Heat lost I left for mah bed and dis blog.

…I shouldn’t have left as soon as the Heat lost.  Because I was extremely tired I forgot the main street that leads to my apt is directly next to the American Airlines stadium where the Heat play.  So as I’m casually humming along to Tic Tok when all of a sudden the floodgates of hell open from the arena and there are people EVERYWHERE.  Traffic immediately started becoming stand-still because we poor drivers were playing Frogger with human lives!  And as seconds turned into minutes and minutes into cigarettes of me not moving and watching the Human Flood wash over me, I had half a mind to pretend these human lives were indeed annoying frogs and just WIPE THEM OUT BWAAHAHAHAH (future employers reading this: I am completely joking and have never had a homicidal thought in my life, like eva except for when Carrie loses but you should already know that…).  Instead of giving these fools a game-over, I began a lengthy route home that involved 3.5 U-turns and countless wrong turns into ghettos, where homeless people became the new frogs.  Little white boy gets lost in big urban city part 3434028 :(.  Finally I meander my way home and make a steaming bowl of Chef Boyardee to wipe away the pain and horror I just experienced …and I realize we’ve come full circle since yesterday/two days ago/whenever (editor’s note: our village idiot writer is still confused about the time…) so I guess I will leave yall here.  I’ll obvi keep you posted about the job search – hopefully this works out!  I can then delay crossing off “69th st lightpole dancer” off my rock bottom bucket list.  Snaps for that!

Days 7 and 8: The P Word and the Neverending Journey (to find a part time job)

Kokneechewa mis amigos!  Sorry I’m not sorry for the delay in my blagging; I have been too busy muttering made up Hail Marys in between puffs of cigarettes as I plead with Carrie to help me find a job.

Carrie hasn’t answered my prayers (yet…).

Regardless, there has been some excitement over the past 3 days.  Monday started with me actually looking forward to go to work because it was the last week and that only means one things: movies on movies on movies.  Sadly, I was in for a ruder awakening than Whitney experienced after her bath. Oh wait. Anyway, yea…movies are great except when you have to rewatch them over and over again with each class.  And Sandra Bullock is great, but when the only thing kids can take away from the Blind Side is that “da white shone haz a nice ass”, I had half a mind to write her a letter complaining her ass needs to make like my lesson on modern racism…fall completely flat.  I’ll add that to this weekend’s list of To-Do, alongside making more than $25 at the nearest streetcorner and ordering a boat to Cuba so that I can finally have someone delivered who can fix my air conditioner.  No…it’s still not fixed. UGH.

After work, I had to go take my bartending exam in South Beach with ScaManagement and the MTV Rejects.  As I’m taking my test – which was literally so easy I thought to myself “whoever is having problems answering what is in a long island and how to make a martini probably comes from the same dumpster as Sarah Palin” – I realize that it seems some of the rejects actually do have something in common with Palin (aside from the obvious fact they were all rejected from some form of an MTV reality show…good ole Sarah just got lucky with her 7th choice – Discovery.  It’s like, really Bravo?  You can have a Real Housewives of like Bumfuck, TN but you can’t have a RH of Alaska?  Sarah and her gaggle of moose (meese?) would make THRILLING tv as they try to travel to Russia while keeping Sarah’s house in their line of vision ok this is off topic i apologize)REGARDLESS the rejects were having problems with the test.  So many problems that the supposed 20 minute test took 95 MINUTES! Now I’m not a math teacher or anything, but there were only 10 questions (MC/fill in blank) on the test….and it took 95 minutes for 8 people to finish….so 7 people took at least…9.5 minutes on each question.  I don’t know if they kept on getting confused between the difference between answer choice ‘A’ and ‘C’ or whether they thought short answer meant minimum of 10-12 sentences, but I was about to drop the ‘R’ word and just be like ‘peace out, [R word]s’.  Alas, as the word Helen Keller and Susan Boyle both dread came slipping out of my lips, they finished and they failed. Womp wompppp sucks to suck etc etc.  I rolled out of the test site with my license and was like “hip hip hooray now i can be a rich brat in sobe once I find my bartending job!!!’ except jokes on me…I fear that job is as elusive as Amanda Bynes real hair 😦 😦 😦

After leaving the site of R words, I go meet my friend Sophia and Britney for dinner.  Dinner was succulent until Britney’s BF decided to compare my (literally heaven sent) fries topped with pesto sauce to the P word.  Now, I don’t know if many of you know how I feel about the P word, but let’s put it this way:  Superman has kryptonite, Clinton has hos in blue dresses, and Taylor Swift has “dooshbag” penises – my weakness is the P word.  It is the SINGLE most disgusting revolting inhumane word out there…and it is all formed with two simple letters…’O’ and ‘P’.  As soon as Vin Diesel (Britney’s BF) uttered the P word, I slowly transformed from looking like this (just not as suggestive…)Image

to this….

Image

(Notice the weight fluctuation – those pesto fries were GOOOOOOD until Vin Diesel was a huge doosh)

By uttering those damned words, Vin Diesel prompted a horrifying 36 hour nightmare filled with the P word. but that comes later on here..

From 5:57am-6:17am, Tuesday was GREAT! I jammed to Miley’s new songs about E and Coke in the shower, barely burnt my microwave bacon, and remembered to put on hair gel!  Without hair gel/moose (mouse? mousses? damn I didn’t realize how bad/lazy I am at spelling until I quit alcohol…)my hair gets so bent out of shape that I look like Frankenstein’s 3rd wife.  So I’m in a fine and dandy mood -practically skipping to my car – until I pull out of my parking space and here the LOUDEST, UGLIEST grind noise ever.  For a second, and I’m not even joking, I thought my biggest wish/nightmare came true: Carrie was visiting me in the form of her “Before He Cheats” character (wish), but instead of keying my imaginary boyfriend’s (notice the singular possessive) car, she got confused and keyed mine!!!! I quickly realize that alas/thank god Carrie isn’t keying my car but rather I backed up into the side of the one of THOUSANDS of random stone pillars jutting around my parking garage like an inbred’s mouth before dental.  When I finally fixed my Darcar Toyota’s car I’m leasing, it looked like I painted a big white racing stripe on it.  F MY L.

I get to work barely with enough time to buy the donuts I promised my 4th period I’d bring in for the class party. It seemed MTV Rejects applied to Dunkin Donuts when they failed the bar test because naturally the dozen glazed donuts that I ordered turned into a dozen mixed. When 4th enters, all they see are the gross, summer special DD donuts – key lime pie filled and lemon filled – and they immediately FREAK OUT like I was trying to poison them and start SCREAMING “ohmagawwwdddd its [insert P word]”.

family-guy-vomiting

I came *thisclose* to shattering the wall of hetero I built with them and having a hugeeee drama queen moment, like I do when my friends rudely drop the P word.  Thankfully, I swallowed the gay/bile and just told them to sit down, eat the donut, and watch Sandra’s ass save the world. (seriously though I need to send her that letter…)

After school, I had 2 job opportunities I wanted to jump on.  Each one involved open interviews at bars/restaurants I thought I could make alot of money at and also have a good chance of getting the job.  So I jump into my pretty little souped up 4 wheel drive and set off for Palace – South Beach – home of Miami’s finest drag queens (the same place I blagged about earlier  on Sunday).  Yes, I was going to apply to be a bartender or server at a bar whose weekly special is “cosmos and bacon” and weekend special is “fake vag and laxative” . I show up at 2pm looking sooo cute in a black button down shirt/khaki pants combo (ok yes the one I wear like every week to work) but I was so proud of my hair for staying perfect as I whistled down the highway with windows down.  I show up and am directed to the manager.  I had high hopes for this interview – I am such a frequent visitor that I am practically one of the drag queens baby daddy – so imagine my dismay when the manager takes my resume and dismisses me right away.  Apparently they are simply COLLECTING resumes and then giving call backs for interviews next week.  DAMN YOU CRAIGSLIST. I still had one more job to apply for though, so I hope in my car and head to Coral Gables.

For those of you that don’t know Miami, Coral Gables is protected from the unwanted scum of South Beach by hours of traffic and 1 lane roads.  When I finally get there I am furiously agitated by the unwanted scum trying to drive to Coral Gables that I had to think of Taylor getting dumped again to put a smile on before my interview for a serving position at a BBQ place (i know right…from drag queens to pulled pork…my life couldn’t be any more thrilling).  Except apparently the manager effed up the craigslist posting and this inteview was instead for a DISHWASHING position.  I probably looked so affronted that I wanted to cry proud tears of shame, because the manager quickly covered up the ugly truth with the ugly lie that he will probably be looking to hire servers in end of June.  UGHWTHMAN

Tuesday ended on a bright note as I got dinner with my dear friend Cameron.  In a few weeks Cameron is leaving for bigger and better things 😉 and we are tryna hang out a lot beforehand.  As we chomped away at a local Sushi parlor, Cameron let slip the P word.  Yea…I’m not even going to describe my reaction this time.  Sushi and the P word never mix.

Finally, the night ended with trivia with Denzel, Seinfeld, Marlo, James, Joey, and Katherine.  This is one of the first times I have been tempted with alcohol so far on this journey, and I was so proud of myself for choosing 9.5 waters with lemon instead (I did feel like I had a UTI though because I had to pee like every 10 minutes…stupid water).  One of the categories was Dance…and naturally James assumed I would pwn this category because I’m not a dirty breeder like he is.  As the category came to a close I realized just how far I have to go to fill Tom Brady’s shoes as “World’s Biggest Fairy” because I literally had no idea about a) any dance movies b) any dance songs c) any dancing period.  I guess this is why the hump-n-grind is so acceptable nowadays…no one except our grandparents would be able to dance at all 😦 😦

I was going to add more stories from today but I’ll leave with this because I’m tired…I am on my balcony tiredly typing and below me some vacationers were gabbing away about what they wanted to do this weekend and it sounded vehemently disgusting so thankfully the next voice I hear is “ey you over der…chill the F out…go to sleep…stop it”.  It was a glorious moment of an old tired grumpy Latino verbally bitch slapping two annoying bitches who would have probably kept me up because my door has become my form of air conditioning.   Old dancing people FTW.

Days 5 & 6: Friends with Benefits and How to Not Apply for a Job

Hi HI HIiiiiiii,

I can’t believe it is already Sunday…Sundays used to be the BEST day of the week.  For those of you who have not experienced a Sunday in Miami yet, it works like this:

9:30am: Wake up next to four a piece of half eaten supreme pizza from Dominoes.  Finish eating it.

10:30am: Wake up and start chugging water.  It’s Drag Brunch Day!!!

10:47am: Call your fag hags and start BEGGING them to come.  Never mind their pounding headaches, missing wallets, or lost virginity.  It’s time to see some TRANNIES!!!

11:11am:  Jump in the shower so you can try to make the 11:30am showtime.  Daydrinking can’t start at 2…it has to be done ALL day.

11:26am:  Pick up your fag hags from their building.  Fight over what should be played on the radio: “Blown Away” or “All Gold Everything”.  (Sadly, Carrie always loses…I need new fag hags 😦 😦 😦 🙂

11:40am: After breaking countless speed laws, arrive at your destination:  PALACE bar.

From 11:40am – ??? (whenever we decided to cab/”drive” home), Sunday’s would be filled with showstopping performances from trannies skinnier than Xtina Aguilera and with less make up than *insert ugly celebrities here*: ImageImage

(Well, maybe Kelly needs to start wearing makeup after that lypo…)

Anyways, Sundays were awesome because we all used to just day drink and thank Carrie that we didn’t have to resort to this to make money:Image

Regardless, now that I’m 6 days sober..the weekend was full of…other…exciting adventures.

Saturday nothing really major happened, except if you think me binge eating coconut ice cream topped with peanut butter and German Cake icing is exciting.  Seriously, my logic is so whack…I’m like “if I’m not going out, then I won’t drink empty calories…so that means instead I can EAT empty calories”!  And then whenever I see a picture of Matthew McConohey shirtless I’m just like… 😦

Thankfully, my friend Sophia V. saved me from my night of binge eating while crying to Grey’s Anatomy.  And that isn’t supposed to be funny – I know that each and everyone one of you chicas have done the exact same thing at least once in your life.  So STFU.  She picked me up and we cahorted across Miami to walk our friend Britney’s dog.  Unfortunately, as we were watching, we almost got attacked by the werewolves from True Blood.  I wish I was joking.  Sophia and I were just walking in the street, catching up on casual gossip (but no seriously Sophia…WTF was she thinking) when all of a sudden I hear the sounds of death and destruction behind me.  I whirl around as my scream gets caught in my throat…I can’t move because two HUGE BLACK HOUNDS are coming RIGHT at us.  If those direwolves had rabies, poor Sophia probably would be 8 feet under right now, because I was *thisclose* to booking it and leaving Sophia behind (remember, I was almost paralyzed and completely mute with fear).  Carrie must have been watching out for us from her humble home in Oklahoma, because we both made it out alive, albeit with my dignity dripping from me like how it drips when I wake up from a blackout.

Sophia and I then decide to go back home and have a nice Saturday night sleepover.  As you might have remembered, Jesus failed at fixing my air conditioner and I was not about to spend another night in Hell’s Kitchen.  Sophia, however, completely forgot to mention the fact that a nice Saturday night sleepover, for her, included rescuing baby toads from gutters.  Like seriously, WTF.  All I want to do is walk to the effing corner store, buy my Doritos Nacho Picante chips (THEY ARE THE BEST EVERRRRR) and flavored water (closest thing to flavored vodka, amIright?) and pass out watching Netflix.  But no.  Sophia must have a Girl Scouts card tucked away in her bra, because she goes into FULL animal preservation mode on me when she sees a little toad happily bouncing along on the street.  PETA should seriously reach out and hire her…I’m sure she could rescue all those misplaced alligators and crockidiles (how the F do u spell that) from the gutters too.  And it’s not like the toad was in DANGER…it was just minding its own business when Captain Planet decides the toad is in mortal danger and we must save it.  Alas, as she contemplated with what PETA strategy to implement in rescuing the happy toad, it hopped into a gutter.  Props to Sophia…her heart-wrenching cry of anguish probably could have won her a Teens Choice Award for “Saddest Cry when Toad Hops Into Gutter” category.  And me, being the IDIOT I am, decide to sarcastically be like “Oh don’t worry Sophia, I have been working out!” and attempt to lift the gutter up just so that I can show her that all hope is lost, the toad is probably drowned, and now its time to Nacho Picante our way to the corner store.  I drop down into serious benchlifting position, and lo and behold the motherfucking gutter pops off.  I completely wish I was joking.  I’m standing there, amazed, like what.the.fuck I am a puny white boy from Maryland HDF did I just life a gutter.  Sophia, again, looked equally shocked: combined we would have won the Teen’s Choice Award for “Most Shocked Face when Idiot Lifts Gutter Up to Rescue Baby Toad”.  Then, to my complete and utter dismay (and her nail parlor’s), Sophia drops down and starts sifting through the gutter to rescue this toad.  ewwwwwwwwwwww. She finally rescues it and literally walks 5 feet away and is like…the shrubbery should do…and drops it off.  I wasted 10 minutes of my precious, (possibly soon)cancerous life watching Captain Planet walk 5 ft for a baby toad.  Ugh.

We end up in the apartment with our goodies from the cornerstore and select the movie “Friends with Kids”.  Absolutely amazing movie – it’s like the whole cast of Bridesmaids, except no Melissa McCarthy 😦 .  The plot involves male and female best friends who decide to have a baby together so they avoid the whole messy parenting aspect of marriage (I know right? such a hetero movie…these breeders are trying to AVOID marriage when millions of fags/dykes can’t even legally have sex let alone tie the knot….)  Sophia and I joke about the fact that could be us.  It was a cute and funny joke.  Up until we watched the part of…like the conception of the child, the birth of the child, aaannnd the way a child kindaaaa takes over your life.  Nope.  It was cute while it lasted, Sophia.

Passing out in an air conditioned apartment was heavenly.  When Sophia breathed on me to wake me up (just kidding honey boo boo 😉 ), I felt refreshed and ready to tackle the day.  That luxurious moment fell flat when I stepped on the treadmill, but that’s another story (the bad part of Nacho Picante Doritos is they add like 14.8 percent belly fat).  However, I did have a job lead I wanted to take, which leads me to my Sunday adventure in a parking lot.

On my way to apply for this job, I have to park in a parking lot so I can walk across the street into the restaurant.  Except it’s a parking garage, so unless I have a validated ticket I have to pay money to leave it.  That’s fine, I’m cheap, but not like counting pennies cheap (yet).  I’ll just get it validated from the grocery store containing the garage.  So I’m walking to apply to this job all happy and cheerful because I’m feeeelllin good about this.  Good like the Big Lebowski drinking a white russian good.  And it goes great!  Except when I find out they have no applications on file, so I need to go back, print out an application, and turn it in with my resume.  I’m like, no sweat. Staples is 10 minutes away…I got all the time in the world.  Except when I get back to the grocery store and realize I lost my goddamn ticket somewhere between my car and the garage.  And I literally look like Image.

To lose a ticket in a Miami garage means you have to pay/sign a contract stating you will give them your firstborn child as soon as you get one.  It’s just ridic. and for a brokeass mofo like me, I wanted to get out of this dilemma even if it meant breaking the rules.  So naturally I walk across the parking garage to the ticket dispenser and push the button, thinking that even if I get caught I can give them an earful about how unethical their ticket policy, on some human level, is.  Unfortunately, the ticket dispensers must be programmed to only dispense the effing tickets when a car/someone the size of Rosie O Donnell approaches. Because no luck.  So I’m one unborn baby down (Sophia, you said you would do two egg donations after Friends with Kids, right? 🙂 )

After that, I pretty much laid in bed all day and discovered Blockbusters actually exists. Which is FANTASTIC, because that means I can rent movies for 99 cents for FIVE DAYS which means I can show movies ALL WEEK.  Yea, just call me Cameron Diaz.

Aaaand then my roommate asked me if I want to drink tonight and I just looked at him like Image

Until next time, betches.

Day 4 – Little Jew in Big Hip Hop Club

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Shalom! I hope this late blog entry finds all you partiers and sl00ts chugging gallons of water and vomiting up all that nastay leftover Chinese food you ate at 3:30am.  

Anyway, I’m here, sweatily typing out my adventures from last night while I wait for Jesus to come to my apartment and save me.  No, not Jesus Christ sillies!  Jesus the air conditioning fixer…I don’t know how to add the Latin(o?) symbol that looks like a squirrely apostrophe.  Whatevs.  Living the past 6 days without air conditioning in Miami is the first time I ever truly have been able to identify with Anne Frank…our curly hair is NOT made for this type of humidity!!!  

So yesterday, or rather last night, was Night 2 of my temporary bartending gig with the ScaManagement.  And, thank God, it was on South Beach!  So obviously that means toooonnnsssss of money and big things poppin little things droppin just like that TI song.  I thought, that after tonight, I would meet my suga daddy and live happily ever after. Alas.

To begin, we were told via sketchy cryptic text messages to meet at the club at 9pm.  Not learning my lesson about ScaManagement’s idea of professional punctuality, I left a happy hour where I enjoyed 4 cranberry clubs 2.5 hours early so I would get to the club on time. And I do get to the club on time.  All of the MTV rejects crew and I do.  And we wait outside…and wait…and wait…and wait…until 10:30!!!!!!  Returning to my similarity with good ole Anne, DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO CURLY HAIR WHEN IT IS EXPOSED TO HOT HUMID MIAMI HEAT?!!??! IT GOES FROM LOOKING LIKE THIS —-Image 

to this —Image

U.G.L.Y. Not to mention I was sweating like…never mind. Already had 1 Anne F. joke…

So finally, the ScaManagement shows up and brings us inside the club, where everyone was setting up.  The club itself was really nice, for Miami.  Like, you walked inside, and if you didn’t pass out from the smell of stale cigarette smoke/ripe marijuana smoke, you probably did pass out when you went to the bathroom and it looked like the scene from Bridesmaids was filmed there.  However, they did have upholstry like couches?  Stay classy, Miami.  The club was set up like a reggae bar with live music on the first floor, and a hip hop room on the second.  I was hoping we would be working downstairs because I felt with all the weed fumes I could probably get high from secondhand smoke and feel like Bob Marley was singing his stoner cruise ship songs.  But no, myself and 7 other people are working UPSTAIRS, so I will have to try to gyrate my hips while attempting to make fast and delicious dranks.  Perfect.  

Now 2 things before I start telling you about the actual night: when the owner of ScaManagement showed up, all my suspicions about him having a bigger drug problem than Courtney Love was confirmed…ya try to ask him one question and he would tell you maybe 3 relevant words before launching into a story he told over…and over…and over..

Sample conversation:

Me: “So, I’m really trying to find a job ASAP or else I might be homeless this summer *laughs nervously*.  What tips can you give me to find a job?”

Courtney Love w/Penis: “Oh we can definitely help you – you know, bartending is a business that never goes out of style!  Everyone needs to drink no matter if they are happy, sad, mad! When I was a bartender in Miami, I would make all TYPES of people drinks: straights, fags, dykes, trans…”

Me: “Wait, man, that sounds AWESOME, but like, I kinda need help on figuring out my next step. What should I do to find a good job so I know I won’t be sleeping under a bridge?”

CL w/P: “Oh great question – guys, did you hear his question!? You just need to know that bartending is a business that never goes out of style!  Everyone needs to drink no matter if they are happy, sad, mad! When I was a bartender in Miami, I would make all TYPES of people drinks, straight…”

You get the point.

By the time he finished telling the story a 4th time, I had half a mind to tell him that because of my current job, they should be BEGGING me to work for them because NO FUCK I can be responsible for $50,000 worth of alcohol behind a bar when I am responsible for 173 HUMAN LIVES EVERY DAY THAT FACE THE ACHIEVEMENT GAP!!!!!K3RR3805Y9-34.  I hate Miami sometimes.

The second story I completely forgot as I got livid typing that exchange BUT it probably had to do with the fact that my only  friends in this whole bartending program ditched because they were like “fuck this guy, we are just gonna go party on SoBe”.  And then they left me 😦

Anyway, my shift ended at 5am, and it was 11:30pm, (and omg the air conditioner guy just got here praise carrieeeeee), and each of us (7 total) would work 30 minute shifts.  I was #6 in line, so I had a while to wait.  So, after ordering yet another cranberry club, I took a seat at the pool table that looked like many a Miami child would be horrified to know that’s where they came from.  It was still early, so I made a few initial observations:

1) The 3 people next to me are all wearing sunglasses in a room where only like Batman would be able to function without knocking into someone.  I thought it would be funny to ask them “coke or pepsi?”, but then I thought twice when I realized I could be shagged/shanked/whatever and no one would know the difference.

2) The clientele that started trickling in looked like the club was about to become a “whos who” of the Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I have never seen so much jiggling booty/shaking boobies IN MY LIFE.  Which leads me to….

3) All the men could NOT keep it down.  At all.  In fact, some of Miami’s finest were like, putting their hands on their crotch, shaking what their daddy gave them blatantly at their soon to be baby mama.  Matty, we are NOT in Williamsburg anymore.

4) There were couples that looked like this…everywhere…Image.

Except the dude was usually really attractive whereas the chick looked like Hagrid’s wife draped in leopard print.  The grossest part was when the two would usually share black and milds while grinding to “Bandz a Make Her Dance”.  Just nightmare inducing.

5) I should be used to this, but the clientele of that club are NOT used to white boys with jew fros.  Especially when the said white boy with jew fro looks like he is trying to outdo JLO in the ass category (what can I say…I only have one pair of dark jeans and they are the ones that make me look like a gay miner 😦 ).  So naturally their immediate response was to come up to me, cautiously, and be like “yo…we gotz sum bud if yu wants sum”.  and then retreat as if my next breath would give them AIDS. Relax boys, I’d have to spit on you first. I thought about getting some “bud” for a certain friend but then realized I would probably get arrested from trying to buy it because I would have NO idea what to do.  Just like Tim Tebow in a strip club (SEE HATERS I CAN MAKE SPORTS JOKES). 

Anyway, when it was my turn to bartend, naturally its like 2am and I’m about to pass out on Hagrid’s wife.  And then, naturally naturally, the bar becomes SLAMMED.  Like I’m there just casually opening a Corona for a nice young lady who made Nicki Minaj look flat when I am hearing, all around me, “2 LONG ISLANDS NO ICE!”  “NO YOU MOTHA-EFFING BITCH I WAS FIRST AND I WANTS 2 APPLETINIS!” (i know..i was like..wut…). Anyway, for a good hour I was bartending like my life depended on it, which it probably did,…..but it was fun because it made the time go by fast.  

I finally escaped by 4 am. Unfortunately the clienele also does NOT tip at ALL so in cash tips we all made $200…divided by 7 and it was like $28 😦 😦 Parking cost $15 😦 😦 WHAT A POINTLESS NIGHT. My uncle wants me to come down to Key West for the summer and live there..I am seriously considering that.

Anyway, I’m going to go to apply for more jobs now.  Hopefully I will be like Daft Punk’s new song that will NOT go away (seriously WTF first Justin Timberlake now Daft Punk…we need more Carrie on the radio 😦 ) Get Lucky and…get lucky with a job.  Wish me luck. If you are reading this.  😦 😦 and mother of pearls the air conditioner won’t be fixed till like Monday.  Thanks alot, Jesus.

Day 3: Part 2: When Life Gives You Lemons, Become a Bartender to Make Lemon Shots

It is 1:54am and I just got done my first “bartending” shift.  Yes, this means that the business was not a complete fraud, but if you call what I just experienced “bartending”, then Helen Keller could have been an astrophysicist and Snookie’s illegitimate crack baby WILL be President of the universe one day.  ANYONE WITH HALF A THUMB AND TWO WANDERING EYES COULD BARTEND.  But let me rewind.

Yesterday, as I’m standing on the brink of despair…or a curb on South Beach…pondering what to do with this situation, the MTV rejects decided to study instead and hope that what the management said was true – we will still meet tomorrow, take the certification test, and bartend at the Hard Rock.  Now, given the fact that this management was also just EVICTED, I didn’t put much faith in those words.  I would probably believe Star Jone’s claim that she never had surgery to stop looking like a burnt elephant before I would believe anything this management said.  Anyway, persuaded by the belief that even if it is a scam by studying I will still gain more expertise about dranks (as if I needed any more expertise…what I really need to learn is how NOT to make drinks…) I went along with my group and studied.  But when I say study, I mean this 42 year old former bartender who DOESN’T drink who also cameos as a “teacher for actors in Miami” taught my group everything that would NOT be on the bartending test.  Seriously, we were like “we just need to memorize 100 drinks…why are you teaching us where blue agave comes from and no…that is not how a blackout works amigo…it does not mean you ONLY WANT TO ORDER DARK COLORED OR BLACK DRINKS”. Seriously, if this is how sober bartenders think, I’m just going to walk to my fridge RIGHT NOW and start taking Jose to the face.  Regardless, the study session ended THANK GOD and I went home and stuffed my face with mac and cheese and *chewy* chips ahoy cookies because if I can’t drink, I can most definitely eat.

Today, after school, I made a spur of the moment decision to end this phoneless predicament once and for all.  I also didn’t think the scam management would listen to my plea to email me or send me smoke signals about what we were supposed to do about the test/Hard Rock today.  So I cruise to the nearest phone store and waste half a paycheck to buy a new phone.  Some of you might think this is irresponsible, because I’ll probably lose the phone in like 11.3 days.  And while this is normally true, the fact that I won’t be drinking for…36 more days 22 hours 17 minutes 49 seconds means I also won’t be blacking out and forgetting if I left my phone in the taxi while I tried to seduce the taxi driver (I don’t want to talk about my drunk decisions) or if I left it at the bar I was trying to sexy dance on but really probably ended up breaking.  So, I won’t be needing a new phone for at least 36 more days 22 hours 16 minutes and 38 seconds.  BOOM.

But I get my phone, and activate it to find a text from the scam management telling me to “please call back ASAP; you need to wear all black to the Hard Rock in Ft. Lauterdale by 9pm please be early”.  Naturally I call back, wanting to inquire further about such a cryptic message.  I swear to god these people are spending my $500 on coke lines and pay as you go phones, because when I immediately call back, no one answers and THEN it goes to a voicemail that says “You have tried to reach Lizita, she can’t find her phone right now so please leave a message and she will try to remember when to call you back”.  LIKE WTF MIAMI WHERE DO YOU FIND THESE PEOPLE.  I can see now why aliens would never want to visit Earth now: they can see how ugly its people are (re: KimK, Miley Cyrus, Barbara Walters) and smell their incompetence from 930343433434 miles away.

Following the text message directions to a T, I arrive at the Hard Rock which is 45 minutes away at 8:55pm sharp.  Dressed in super tight gay dark jeans and a v-neck that used to fit when I worked out more, I looked passable if I was working in a gay mining club in West Virginia.  Unfortunately, this standard of attire was not quitteeeeee up to snuff here in Miami…if I was a girl, wearing a skirt that covers maybeeeee my upper thigh cellulite would suffice, but if I was a guy, I needed the Chinese-tats-barely-covered-up-by-an-extra-small-T-with-no-ass outfit.  Luckily I have a small tattoo of my dead dogs (RIP CHASE AND BAILEY), but that was hidden by my ginormous wrist.  So yeah. I looked stupid.  (And tomorrow I will start my gym regimen again!!!! SO LONGGGG DORITO BOXES TACO BELL).

When I arrive in my outfit that would have made Perez Hilton have that heart attack we all have longed for, I wait with Project MTV for 45 minutes until the management shows up.  FORTY FIVE MINUTES I COULD HAVE WATCHED OLIVIA POPE AND BLOGGED IN 45 MINUTES.  We don’t take any test, and instead we split up into groups so a different group is behind the bar for 30 minutes before switching.  Fine.  We can all split the goddamn tips – I just want to start making some drannnnks.

3 hours later.

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We helped MAYBE 5 customers.  There were 12 of us there, and at the end of the night, we each received $19 in tips, not including the $2 we had to tip our barback who must have stolen Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak before work, because I never saw him a goddamn time.  What makes matters worse (and yes, they get worse) is that the scam management tipped us $200 to split BEFORE WE EVEN STARTED.  That means, right away, we were all guaranteed to take home AT LEAST $17.  akdslfhd;f34308qopha;fkdfd;lfd;cnd;ldlaf

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I WAS ALMOST THIS ANGRY.  And my girlfriends know how much I love boobs.  When a gay man is drunk, they are like the mecca of the universe (until of course 3am when McDonalds/Taco Bell/Checkers/my roommates’ food takes over).

I actually went to the casino right next door, was like fuck it, I’m about to make some lemon shots from these rotten lemons life has squeezed for me so far.  And of course, I put $10 in the slot and accidentally press the $10 credit, and of course, I.lost.

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So, because I will end on a good note today, at least it’s not TOTALLY a scam and later *tonight* I will be bartending in South Beach where we are pretty much guaranteed to make *more* money. But that’s like guaranteeing that Ashlee Simpson will never perform on SNL again.  YOU CAN’T REPEAT ROCK BOTTOM.

And if you are like me and love bad news too, I’d suggest: re-reading these first 3 blogs, then picture me at 2:27a.m. with a #6 (medium!!!! 🙂 ) from McDonald’s surrounding me, and a cigarette tucked into my ear.  And then think of Melissa McCarthy naked.

HAPPY BAD NEWS! NIGHT LOVAAAAHS Until tomorrow xoxoxoxoxo

Day 2: Part 1: When Life Gives You Lemons, Become a Bartender to Make Lemon Shots

Wazzup rude boiz and girls,

Since I last blagged (obvi the past tense of wrote here), I thought my life was falling apart mainly because I kept losing my phones due to alcoholic tendencies.  Well, today I realized I might be ruining my life due to myself being a complete and total dumbass.  No seriously…Image^^that is me, albeit it with uglier hair and a wider ass. ^ needs to meet an elliptical, amiright ladies?!

Anyway, here is what prompted these nagging questions:  In my stress of deciding to find a summer job, I turned to Craigslist – the ultimate website of pedophiles, stolen iPhones (hey, maybe mine is somewhere there, being sold for 400 pesos!?!?), and bazillions of real, authentic job postings…or so I thought.  One in particular struck my eye:  “SoBe Bartenders – take a $100 class and become a bartender in the party city of the world!”  Doesn’t that sound good? Almost too good to be true?  Like seriously, I just take a simple class for $100 and I can work at Liv or Mansion and charge some poor chic’s unborn child for a drink?  Holllaaaaaa.  I promptly jumped in my beat up leased Toyota Corolla (’12…keepin it soooo classay) and hurried to 1234 Washington Ave, South Beach, Miami.

As soon as I walk in, I feel the sand beneath my toes.  Not even joking.  The small two room business was modeled after a freakin tiki hut.  Some Bob Marley ripoff band was playing in the background, and Christmas lights decorated the place like my old fraternity had just used the joint for a Christmas/Easter party.  The only thing missing in the room was the smell of alcohol…my finely tuned nose immediately honed in on the imposing faint queef smell of water and food coloring posing in hundreds of liquor bottles.  But what the hell – there was some quasi cute guy sitting in the desk, probably thinking “who the fuck is this jew and what does he want with my liquor!?!?”  (he was only 1/3 correct).

I introduce myself, babbling on about how I ‘need a good summer job’ and ‘I love meeting people’ and ‘I’ve always wanted to bartend in SoBe’.  To him, I just became a bunch of $$$$$$$ dolla dolla billz.  Which is why he quickly asked me if I had the registration fee – $100.  Naturally I beam at him and exclaim “why of course sir!  I’m just so happy this class is affordable – as a [job that pays less than Honey Boo Boo can count to], I can’t afford much more!”  In hindsight, the look of disgust/horror/$$$$$$ dolla dolla billz in his eyes should have clued me in to sign #1 that this mighhhhtttt not be legit.  Nevertheless, as he tried to explain to me that the class actually costs $495 after a $300 discount I’m sure he invented to lure me back in, all I could think about how cute his face was (not his body!!!!) and how it might be worth it if I can make this money back in a week working on SoBe, where half coked out bartenders can make $2000 in tips in a NIGHT just for opening up some gross bottle of Ciroc for a flash in the pan rapper *cough cough 2chainz*.  So, I was like, what the hell….I’ll just dip into raid my enormous meager savings and pay him.  In 2 weeks I’ll be a bartender and making so much money Rihanna would have to write the sequel version to “Pour it Up” in memory of me.

So for 6 days, T-Fri and the following T, I worked 7 hours and then sat from 6-10pm learning the ins and outs of bartending in sobe.  Except they sounded eerily familiar to how bartending in college was, sans the fact that people actually..had $$$$ dolla dolla billz.  It didn’t help that the people in my class a) must have never ordered a freakin drink in their life or b) were so perpetually fucked up on sobe drugs that their short and long term memories were completely malfunctioned so they thought a rum and coke was something the Romans snorted before war.  I WAS SURROUNDED BY MTV REALITY SHOW REJECTS.  But whatever…that $2000 was a mere weeks away, and I thought that my vast knowledge of alcohol would impress the teacher and he would hire me away to be a bartender with him and then propose and then id be rich and then…..never mind completely jk.

Then today happens.  After fighting the insane traffic to get into Sobe and inhaling 4 cigs in the process, I smelled enough of cancer and looked like a homeless kretin from Israel that I knew it was going to be a bad night.  That is, until I show up and MY WHOLE ENTIRE CLASS OF MTV REJECTS IS SITTING ON THE CURB yakking about how there was no class tonight because “the business was evicted today”.  I’m not even fucking joking.  Yesterday, our cute faced ugly body teacher was telling us Wednesday would be the night of “mixology – I’ll bring in ingredients and make everyone drinks while showing how bartending is a beautiful mix of creativity and drugs”.  What he should have said is Wednesday will be the night “your plans of being a rich brat in Sobe this summer comes crashing down as you realize in 7 seconds that I swindled you $595 and made your life even more pathetic than you thought possible”.

Naturally my reaction is to light up another cigarette and contemplate whether the better choice now would be to jump in front of the next taxi promoting Madonna, the naked womens’ clubs, and sue those dirty whores for breaking, not caressing, my bones OR turn around and drive home amid a faceful of tears and beg my parents to help me out this summer because I got swindled on Craigslist.  However, I didn’t choose either.

Stay tuned – as tomorrow we will find out if my choice (AND THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE PART OF THE ENDING BLOG THAT MAKES YOU WANT TO READ MORE TOMORROW) is smart, or if I am actually missing a few brain cells from 6 years of amazing partying. Until tomorrow lovvaaaaahs.