21 December 2011

'Twas the Night Before a Lesbian Christmas...

‘Twas the night before their lesbian Christmas, when all through the house
Not a body part was stirring, not even under her blouse.
The Birkenstocks were hung by the lawnmower with care,
And they hoped that St. Nicholas was actually a sexy woman named Claire.

The lesbians were nestled all snug in their bed,
While visions of granola and Subarus danced in her head.
And Emily in her nightie and I in my corduroy pajama pants from the Gap,
Had just tucked in our papayas for an unusual Florida cold snap.

When out on the lawn there arose such loud obnoxious chatter,
I sprang from my bed and swear I heard my fat cat scatter.
Away to the window I ran in a flash,
Opened the curtain and landed against the wall with a loud crash.

Surprisingly I did not awaken my sleeping lesbian ho,
For she would have been as surprised as I when I saw what was below.
When, what to my curious eyes should appear,
But a brand new Jeep Wrangler and a pack of lesbians with eight cases of beer.

With a hefty and loud driver, a hick with a kick,
I knew in a moment this lesbian was that kind of chick.
Faster than she could say the L-word, her Reindykes they came,
And she whistled and waved and called them by name.

“Now Cynthia! Now, Amy Ray! Now, Ellen and Portia,
On KD Lang! On Melissa! On Tegan and Sara!
To the garage! To the shed! To the porch!
Time to install the decks and the Tiki torch!

As fast as these women can throw and dodge a ball,
They erected a backyard lesbian oasis without a brawl.
To the house and garage these women flew,
With a Jeep full of sex toys, softballs, and fanny packs too!

And then in the moment, I heard from one of the back decks,
The stomping of boots like a pack of gay rednecks.
As I closed the curtain and heard a loud click,
In through the door was Rosie O’Donnell, dressed like St. Nicholas as a chick.

She was all dressed in LL Bean flannel from head to toe,
And her chin was stained with a white powder that looked like blow.
A bundle of feminist literature and sports gear she had in her sack,
And as she bent over, I got a good look at her crack.

Her hands—how they were calloused! Her arms so thick!
Her cheeks were as red as apples and her hair was so slick!
Her big mouth was wide open like a cave,
And the beard on her chin needed a good shave.

The end of a joint she held tightly ‘tween her lips,
And the smoke billowed around her body, even around her hips.
She had a broad face and a big beer gut,
That wobbled when she coughed and even shook her butt.

She was chubby and plump, a typical older lesbian,
And I laughed when I saw her until she gave me the look of a demon.
A sly smirk and a wave of her arm,
Soon gave me to know she meant me no harm.

She spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
Filled all our Birkenstocks, but ignored our Doc Martens (what a jerk).
With her sack empty she walked towards the door,
She gave me a quick nod and ambled out like a wild boar.

She lumbered towards her Jeep, and to the Reindykes she gave a yell,
And away they drove into traffic of South Florida, also known as hell.
But I heard them exclaim, as they drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to you lesbians, and to you a gay night!”

07 November 2011

Twats and Tiaras

I need to ask a serious question that only a small percentage of America's population is asking...


I just don't understand it. Why do people care so much about these idiots? Why are there so many shows that feature this family? And why is this family famous?  The Kardashian family's fame is more more mysterious than whether or not there's actual life on Mars.

For those of you who don't know (so, anyone who lives under a rock and has no contact with any human being, a telephone, or a TV) the latest celeb scandal is Twatdashian # 1 and a b-ball player are getting divorced after 72 days of marriage.

Um, so what? Right?  That's what I thought at first too.

After reading a few headlines in the grocery store, and while reading the headlines on the screen while I watched Georgia Rule on E! the other night, I felt like I had morning sickness, food poisoning, syphilis, and the flu; that's how nauseous I was. Sickened at the fact that Americans are acting as if they are being torn apart by this divorce; acting as if it is ruining their personal lives.  I mean, it's not as awful as childhood obesity, rising airplane tickets, the state of our economy, and our relationship with Mexico at the border. THESE are things to be upset about!

Or so I told myself.

The news of KK and her husband divorcing is the most annoying thing that's been on the news since Sarah Palin was the VP candidate, OJ was acquitted, and the Balloon Boy conspiracy.  People are reacting to this news in the same way they reacted when Pope John Paul II died in Italy and MJ died in LA.  People are sobbing in the streets, tweeting words of condolences, and acting as crazy as the zombies in Zombieland. WTF?

Then I realized the news of this divorce didn't go in one ear and out the other like other celeb gossip.  This divorce had actually pissed me off!!!

This entire multi million dollar celebrity marriage is a sham and the news of their divorce has gotten more airtime than the Olympics.  I am pissed because everyone thinks it's us queers who will ruin the sanctity of marriage, but they're wrong. It's celebrities and straight couples who ruin the sanctity of marriage. Britney's 55 hour marriage. Liz Taylor's 108 marriages and 107 divorces. The cheating couple LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian. I mean, what's next? Are celebs and straights going to wreck the sanctity of funerals and taking craps too?

This divorce means that yet another famous couple is abusing the privilege of marriage while people like Emily and I cannot even TRY marriage for one day in our state. One day! Kim and Kris got 72 days, so why can't I get just one? I'll tell you why.  Because they're twats who do whatever they want while Emily and I are real, hardworking, honest people who cannot get married simply because we're both women.  Real neat America. Real fucking neat.

Because I'm giving myself the authority to do so, I'm going to crown Kim Kardashian as 2011's Queen Twatwaffle. It's like the female version of King Douche, which has been reserved for Kris Humphries. If Kim were sitting next to me and I had a bedazzled tiara, I would totally cram it up her bleached anus.  Which is probably not the first or last thing that's ever been crammed in her cramhole.  My guess is there has probably been a microphone, a foot (or a fist), and one of Bruce Jenner's gold medals up in that Armenian Anus once or twice.

Side note, but still related: This is the Queen Twatwaffle runner up contestant.  Not only did she make a collage of magazine pictures of America's Sweetfarts, but she is obviously brain dead. You NEVER use scotch tape on a collage; always RUBBER CEMENT.

01 November 2011

Book Blurb

This is a description of my debut book.  If you were to read this description on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or on the back of the actual book, would you be inclined to pick it up and read it and/or purchase it on your Kindle/Nook?

KC Kelly is not your average female.  She was often mistaken for a boy for the better part of the 90’s.  She considered becoming a stripper named KoCo Puff to supplement her income in college.  She has slept with a superhero and dumped her fiancé (for another woman, no less) four days before the wedding.  KC is a woman who is rapidly and clumsily approaching thirty and the only things she has to show for it are an abused liver, a muffin top, and this collection of hilarious, and often self-deprecating essays, You Look Like a Boy (And Other Shamefully True Tales of a Midwestern Girl)These essays capture some of the most humiliating mishaps and hilarious exploits only the most idiotic female this side of the Mason-Dixon line could experience.

Essay topics include delightful gems such as:

Being a tomboy—“I had the Justin Bieber cut way before that girl was even born.”

Becoming a woman—“The word "puberty" for me was synonymous with "atomic bomb", "end of days", and "FML".”

Losing her virginity—“Me stripping is about as hot and sexy as watching a toothless lunch lady and a bald janitor have sex in a dumpster behind the high school.”

Playing sports—“I am as coordinated as a legless gymnast who suffers from vertigo and as graceful as a ribbon dancer in a straight jacket.”

The male EX fiancé—“ I felt like I was the parent of a special needs child.  Everyone looked at him as if he had ridden the short bus to the house party.”

The current female fiancée—“Without her teaching me to have more patience with stupid people, I probably would have killed someone by now.  It's no secret I have a "hit list" in a framed magnet on my fridge.”

Supplemental income—“My parents made it sound like I was a prostitute who makes money by lying on my back like a starfish for some creep in a dirty hotel room near the city dump.”

Germs—“I swear serial killers have better manners and hygiene than 99% of people who travel on airplanes.”

Having children—“I’m far too selfish; I drink alcohol in massive quantities, swear like a pirate, and am completely irresponsible.  Plus I barely know how to wipe my own ass. Trust me, my future baby thanks me for waiting.”

Since she is often the butt of her own jokes and has absolutely no humility, there is no topic that is off limits in KC Kelly’s debut book. Her collection of entertaining essays is sure to appeal to anyone who has ever suffered from shame, embarrassment, Open Mouth Insert Foot Disease, or bad indigestion. 

28 October 2011

Special Thanks

When I publish my book, “You Look Like A Boy (And Other Shamefully True Tales of a Midwestern Girl)”, this will be my special thanks.  I just couldn’t wait to thank all of you...

Special Thanks

            I feel it’s absolutely necessary to issue an extra special thanks to my remarkable parents— J Thomas Kelly III and Kathleen Kelly—two people in this world for whom I have the utmost respect.  A short note will never be enough to show my appreciation for bringing me into this world (without you there would be no KC Kelly and the world would not be as great of a place).  Dad, thanks for your sense of humor and for teaching me all those swear words.  Mom, thanks for your advice and unconditional love and support. Although I’m sure this book is the ultimate form of shame and embarrassment I’ve brought upon you, it’s really just another day in the Kelly family. Words will simply never be enough to show you my love and gratitude.
Thanks to my siblings (Jen Wolf and Erik Kelly) for putting up with me all these years.  I'm truly lucky and blessed to have such an awesome brother and sister. Thanks to my other family members (especially Vicki & Tom Schultz, Nicci Londo, and Jackie Mosetter) for reading my stories and being an active part of my life. 
Special thanks to my sister Kate Kelly—without you, my childhood and college experience would have been boring.  Thanks for letting me share some of our more embarrassing stories and letting me make jokes at your expense. I will always treasure and value the unique experiences we shared.  The Kelly Sisters are certainly a force to be reckoned with and I pity the fools who try.
I would like to issue an extra special thanks to my amazing woman, partner, and best friend—Emily Davis. You are definitely my better half.  Without your constant unwavering love and support, this book would not exist.  Thank you for encouraging me every step of my writing journey.  Although I can be difficult at times, I’m glad I can make you laugh at least once every single day.  Your laughter and love gives me the ambition to keep writing.
I would also like to thank Emily’s family members and friends (especially Mary & Bill Davis, Andrew & Lindsay Davis, Kim Davis, Erin Burgess, Megan Hegemann, Liz Foster, Erin Brzoskowski, and Karlee Hanneman) for showing their love and support for us over the years, sometimes in unexpected ways.
             Without my best friends, Jes Winter (J-Dubz) and Rachel Schwanz by my side, I would be the only one making an ass of myself.  Thankfully, you girls are equally as embarrassing and idiotic as I am.  The two of you are the best and most remarkable friends any girl could ask for.  Despite the fact we tease each other relentlessly, the two of you are the only people in this world who can rival and keep up with my sense of humor and cleverness (even though we all know and can agree that I am the funniest one of the bunch).
A special shout out to my other funny and awesome friends—Tara Mitchell, Stacy Tesch, Amanda Mangerson, and of course J-Dubz and Rachel—the five of you have all made me laugh so loud and hard to the point where tears sometimes run down my legs.
             To my other equally amazing friends (Lindsey Schneider, Shelby Sellers, June Salzer, Toni Marie Larsen, Katie & Scott Herrem, Julie & Karl Schwartz, Listron “Blue” Mannix, Scott Belding, Jason Masloski, TJ Centinaro, Lora Hale Stryker, Sarah Hoadley Boecker, and many others—your friendship and loyalty means the world to me.  Some of you I’ve known all my life; some for only a few years; and some just recently—no matter how long we’ve been friends, just know I’ve enjoyed every single minute! Thanks to all my other friends (I appreciate you even if I haven't named you individually)!
A special thanks to my best Florida friend, Rachel Drath.  You are amazing and I thank you for being so loyal and encouraging.  You make me laugh, smile, and feel good about my height and I consider myself one lucky nugget to have you in my life.  And thanks for introducing me to the one and only Mike “Vegas” Simmonds, a handsome guy with the funniest one-liners, craziest stories, and the most glorious, life changing mustache I’ve ever seen!!!
A special thanks to Stacy Tesch, Jes Winter, EvaMarie Coe, Tara Mitchell, Sue Schrage, and Bridget Fillo for reading my manuscript and helping edit it in ways you saw fit.  Your advice and time spent reading is much appreciated.
A huge round of applause for those of you who let me tell a story that features you (whether you’re portrayed in a good or bad light) and allowing me to keep your real name.  If you try to sue me, just remember A) I can prove it all B) you gave me permission and C) it’s not my fault you embarrassed yourself and I happened to be there.  For those of you who make an appearance in this book but under a different name and are unsure if it’s actually you—it probably is (and no, you can’t sue me either).
            Lastly, thanks to my readers—without you there’s no one with whom to share my stories.
            Words can never express my gratitude for every single one of you, as you have all humbled and affected me in different but equally as special ways. I love you all. 


Book Dedication

This is the dedication I plan to feature in my book,  You Look Like A Boy (And Other Shamefully True Tales of a Midwestern Girl).

For J Thomas Kelly III & Kathleen Kelly
My incredible parents

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
The rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

—Traditional Gaelic blessing

For Emily Davis
My wonderful woman

I can't wait for you to be my wife
To live this life together
And I won't let you go
I need you to know
That you are my heart, forever

—“I Can’t Wait” –Runner Runner

16 October 2011

The F-Word #BAD11

To most people, the F-word is one of the crudest and most despicable words you can say.  I say it all the time; I'm no stranger to dropping the F-bomb.

But this F-word, although as horrific, is not the F-word you may be thinking of.  This F-word is Famine.  Famine is a widespread scarcity of food usually accompanied or followed by regional malnutrition and starvation.  It is a scary epidemic most people don't think about on a daily basis. 

During mealtime in the Kelly household, if we didn't finish the food on our plates we were lectured.  Mom would tell us to clean our plates because there are starving children in Africa.  At a young age, I wasn't sure exactly what that had to do with me finishing the disgusting brussel sprouts on my plate.  It's not like I could have packed up all my leftover food into a box and sent it to Africa.  Trust me; I had asked, but Mom told me that although the gesture was thoughtful, the food would spoil before it even got there.

As a young kid, I knew there were starving children all over the world, but I didn't know there were also starving children in America.  Probably in my own hometown! We could have easily been those children. My family wasn't rich and there were many times we struggled with money and my parents worried about putting food on the table for us four kids.  They never wanted their kids to go hungry, so it didn't matter if bills were paid or there was gas in the car; we ALWAYS had food and we never went to bed hungry.  Which is why my parents stressed that we clean our plates. Instead of arguing or refusing to clean my plate, I went along with it because I couldn't imagine what it felt like to go hungry.

But it always seemed to me that the starving children in Africa were more important.  Probably because they were far away; out of sight, out of mind.  And I had seen more "sponsor a child in Africa" commercials than I had seen the affects of hunger in our own country on our own children.  Was it possible there were starving children in America too, the richest country in the world?  And if there were, how horrible was the famine in other countries?  There was no way I could comprehend the damaging affects of famine, but it was time I tried.

Now as an adult, I fully realize famine is a horrible epidemic affecting thousands upon thousands of people all over the world.  Because of this knowledge, I have a sense of guilt if I throw away food. Who am I to throw away food when someone somewhere else needs that food? I feel guilt in other ways as well, like going to restaurants and seeing how wasteful patrons can be, throwing out perfectly good food. Although I do not enjoy leftovers, I do try to eat them.  But I'll admit that although I feel guilt about wasting food, I am just as guilty of wasting food as everyone else.  It's something I'm conscious of and although I try not to waste any food, it's not always possible. 

What I didn't know was that with a little bit of effort on each person's part, we can put an end to this cycle of hunger. Yes, Mom was correct; there are starving children in Africa.  There are also starving children in America too.  It may seem overwhelming, but you can take action.  Find your local food pantry to help hungry people in America; donate money to Feed the Future to help hungry people all over the world. Sign a petition to end hunger at ONE.  If you don't do anything else, follow my mom's advice and clean your plates so you don't waste food. 

There are many ways you can help end this cycle; you just have to care enough to find a way.  Spread the F-word among your friends, family, coworkers.  Knowledge is power; the more people who know, the better. 

14 October 2011

Love, Your Secret Admirer

My amazing friend Amanda has decided to tackle the writing world and shared a story with me this morning.  I am posting it on my blog as a guest blog; the reason being this is one of my favorite memories I have of our amazing adventures together.  There are many, but only a couple of them can really be shared with the outside world.

Amanda and I have done things that we cannot speak of to other people and to most of you, this may seem like one of those things, but we're not embarrassed or ashamed. In fact, we are damn proud of this one!

So, please enjoy.  And Man-Duh, thanks again for sharing. Without you, I would be the only one making an ass of myself, but when we're together, it's a combined effort and I love you for that.


            Back in the day in my hometown, the place to work was Trig’s Food and Drug. I am not sure if this grocery store was a merciful employer, offering jobs to all who applied, or if it had a high turnover, but fresh meat was always in season. Whatever the case, a fair amount of my friends have at one time, worked at this particular grocery store.
            Kara was my best friend for most of my high school life and we still remain close to this day. She too, worked at Trig’s. I think part of the reason we were so close is our disgusting senses of humor combined with the inescapable desire to top the other in grossness. If there was a line, we generally pole vaulted over it. Some of the things we've done are just too terrible to tell, but I will let you in on one particular evening that may or may not still haunt some of the people involved.
            As a back story, Justin was one of our friends who happened to work the 3pm to 11pm shift at Trig’s. He drove an old red flatbed truck, which was an awesome opportunity for us to leave random things on the flatbed for him. Kara and I had taken advantage of this and started placing shopping carts, tree branches, potted plants, garbage cans, and whatever else we could find on the back of it for him to find when he left work each night. Occasionally he and his coworker Joel would retaliate and place items onto the hoods of our cars.  Unfortunately for them, they were not as creative as we were.
            One Saturday evening during the summer of 1999, I was over at Kara’s parents’ house (as usual). Justin and Joel were both working at Trig’s that evening, so we conspired to make an extra special offering to Justin’s flatbed truck. Kara and I devised a plan that we would make up a box marked “from your secret admirer” and when Justin opened it, something horrible would be waiting in it, just for him.
            At first, we started with moldy hot dog buns we found in the breadbox in the kitchen.  Then Kara's mom suggested she clean out the catbox before we left the house again when the idea suddenly came to us.  Why throw away perfectly good cat shit when we had the perfect use for it?  Cat shit hot dogs in moldy buns, complete with ketchup, mustard, and relish. After many fits of complete hysteria, we managed to perfect our hot dogs, packing the turds in the buns just right and stuffed them into a shoebox. 
            But we were still missing something.  There was still a large amount of space to occupy the box, but how do you complement cat-shit hot dogs? The wheels in our heads turned for about 30 seconds when a light bulb went off – ROADKILL! We thought that a nice flattened squirrel or chipmunk would accompany the hot dogs perfectly. We thought for a few moments as to the last time we actually saw road kill. That’s the funny thing, when you are looking for it, it’s nowhere to be found. The idea seemed impossible but then Kara’s younger sister Katie chimed in.
            “I think I saw a dead squirrel behind pizza hut today on my way home from school.”
            In unison, Kara and I screamed, “YES!” and to the DY-Nasty (Kara's awesome car) we flew to retrieve our prize. Time seemed to stand still as we drove down Lincoln Street. After about eight minutes, we finally made it to Pizza Hut. As we rounded the corner, there it was in all of its glory – a week-old flattened squirrel.
            We parked the car and fumbled to get out when it dawned on us.  We have a box with cat-shit hot dogs in it, but we didn’t bring anything to pick up the road kill. SHIT! I am thoroughly disgusting, but I was not about to pick up a dead-ass squirrel with my bare hands. Neither was Kara.
            We ran to the nearby bushes in search of some twigs to use as makeshift chopsticks. The closest thing we were able to find were some dried up flower stems that felt more like straw than sticks, but they would have to do. After some stem breakage and fumbling, we finally got the squirrel in a satisfactory position in the box. We put the cover back on and carefully placed the box into the trunk of the DY-Nasty and headed back for Casa de Kara.
            By this time it was around 9:45pm, which gave us a little over an hour before Justin would get done with work. This would be just enough time to put the finishing touches on the box. We wrote a beautiful note and attached it to the box with a gorgeous bow made of toilet paper. Between Kara and me, my handwriting was more “adult-like” so I was the scribe.
            After careful consideration, we realized the note needed to be simple, but meaningful so as to not draw suspicion. The note read:
To Justin
Your Secret Admirer
            Hey, I didn't say we were smart or overly creative; I just said the note needed to be simple.
            It was now 10:35pm and our gift box was complete. To avoid any suspicion, we decided to take my ride verses Kara's car. My sweet 1989 Brown Toyota Station Wagon. Nothing was classier than the Brown Beastly Bastard. We had to ride in style you know.
            We nonchalantly pulled into Trig’s parking lot and headed toward Justin’s flatbed truck. We parked and exited the car in a calm manor, as to not attract any attention. Justin was working express that night, and if he was really looking, I think that he could have seen us mid-delivery. We carefully placed the expertly prepared box onto the truck’s hood, (driver’s side of course). We then quietly got back into the BBB and drove to the top of a small hill into the Rhinelander Post Office’s parking lot.
            At approximately twenty yards away, we had a perfect view and were inconspicuous. It was the perfect spot to watch all of our handy work come to fruition. Minutes passed like hours as Kara and I sat and waited. It was silent, except for the occasional breathy laughter that was difficult to contain.
            It was now 11 p.m. and the suspense was excruciating. We watched as people walked out of Trig’s express doors, hoping each time that it was Justin. At approximately 11:08, Justin and Joel both emerged together. We were laughing so hard we were both out of breath and on the verge of passing out.  Kara and I both covered our mouths to stifle our laughter as best we could.
            Justin and Joel casually strolled over to Justin’s truck, talking and laughing, but none the wiser of the gift or of our presence. As Justin made his way to the driver’s side of his truck, he noticed the box. He gave it a look which said, “Seriously?!” but he also appeared quite curious. He slowly untied the TP bow and removed the box top. A look of horror came across his face as he looked in the box, leaned back, and then leaned in close, disbelieving what he saw. Joel had a similar reaction as Justin backed away.
            Suddenly, to our disbelief, Joel picked up the box and dropkicked it like a soccer ball, flinging our cat shit hot dog masterpieces and dead squirrel into the air. Turds and chunks of hot dog bun scattered across the pavement and the squirrel seemed to do a slow-motion cartwheel as it flew ten feet up.
            In unison Kara and I both screamed, “SICK!”, and laughed so hard we almost threw up. I made the brown beastly bastard roar to life and as I peeled out of the parking lot, I saw Justin and Joel in my rearview mirror looking around, totally flabbergasted. 
            Although we were proud of our gift to Justin, we didn't want him to know it was us for fear of retaliation of something far more disgusting; he came from a family of hunters and it was nearing deer season, which gave him ample opportunity to do something equally as horrifying and disgusting to us.
            To this day, we're not sure if Justin ever really knew it was us.  He might have been suspicious because we were probably the only two females he knew who were capable of such atrocities. 
            I'd like to think he doesn't because if he had known, I can almost guarantee you I would have ended up with a deer head on the hood of my car and Kara would have had her DY-Nasty decorated with deer entrails.
            That's the thing about secret admirers though; you never know who you're dealing with!
Written by Amanda Mangerson

07 October 2011

KCommander In KChief

Lately it seems as though there are more people announcing they are not running for president than people who are.  In keeping with this trend, I too have an announcement to make.

I, KC Kelly, will not be running for US president in 2012.

There, there.  Wipe your tears. It's a sad day for me too.

For those of you who were anxiously waiting for Sarah Palin, Chris Christie, and KC Kelly to square off and fight to be the next leaders of the free world--you will have to wait just a while longer.  That would have been a good fight though.  I would have seduced Christie by wearing some Italian meat, Lady GaGa style, and would have enticed Palin with a moose mating call and a lifetime supply of shotgun ammo.  Then I would have forced them to make a decision; Italian meat and unlimited ammo, or a presidential candidacy? Let's face it; we all know what they would have chosen. But I digress.

Like Christie who is probably auditioning for a role on The Jersey Shore and Palin who is probably busy building igloos and hunting for moose, I too have good reasons for my decision.  One of them being I am not a current or former governor, which seems to be a prerequisite for most presidential resumes . And I am also not yet 37 years of age. Thankfully.

There also might be a question of the legitimacy behind my birth certificate.  I'm not sure either of my parents were willing to sign it when I was born, knowing what they had just created.  I don't blame them; I don't take responsibility for myself either.

I also often humiliate myself in public.  I've been known to strip off my clothing for no apparent reason (hey, Janet Jackson became more popular after her clothing mishap).  I often drink too much and always say something I regret in the morning.  Swear words fly out my mouth at the speed of sound and I'm about as attractive on camera as Courtney Love, who coincidentally also embarrasses herself in public and can swear up a storm.   

If all that's not reason enough, I'm also not big on politics. Just the word "politician" can evoke a yawn from my mouth. I got kicked out of more poli sci classes for sleeping than I got kicked out of sex ed classes for laughing. I'd rather take a bubble bath with my brother than learn about our government. I just don't have the political bone in my body, so to speak.

Although I think most Americans are ready for a woman president (and no, Sarah Palin doesn't count; she's a gun slinging Republican, which basically qualifies her as a man), America is not ready for me.  Our current president has done more for gay rights in this country than any other leader of the free world, but I'm not sure the free world is ready for a lesbian leader like me.

To be president, you need to be a leader and to be a leader you need to influence people.  I can barely influence certain family members of mine to read my blog, let alone convince strangers to vote for me.  I only have 116 followers on Twitter (so far; getting a cult following takes time and patience; people don't just drink the Kool-Aid without peer pressure) and I can't seem to charm and convince an agent to publish my book.  A president needs influence!

Earlier this week I read that Obama's Klout score is 88, which is pretty impressive considering Lady GaGa has a score of 90.  Then I got curious to see what my Klout score was and two days ago, my score was 25.  Today, it has doubled to 54.  I'm only 34 points less influential than Prez Obama!!  17 points less influential than that crazy bitch Michelle Bachmann.  And I'm 25 points behind that Sarah Palin dude.

I actually have more in common with Prez Obama than I thought.  We are both good with words, drink beer, and have amazing first ladies.  I think more people are attracted to his wife than to his platform and politics.  Michelle Obama (Shellie O as I like to call her) is our modern day Jackie O.  Shellie O is one bad ass fashionista/childhood obesity crusader. And I have a hunch that she could swing over to our side in the right situation, if you know what I mean.

If I were to get elected, I think people would feel the same about Emily.  For many reasons, but the most important is that she's a far better person than I am.  She helps teach parenting education, helps foster kids, and walks puppies!!   Like Shellie O, Emily has a killer smile and her laugh is as contagious as the swine flu.  Even the Westboro Baptist Church whose members hate "fags" would find it difficult to not like Emily.  It's like hating a puppy, ice cream, or flowers. It's impossible. The only things I contribute to society are paying taxes and...well, I think that's it. 

This country does need change.  We need a new leader.  Someone who's not a homophobe (Michelle Bachmann), a massive douchebag (Newt Gingrich), or a Texan (Ron Paul).  Voting for the token black guy didn't work out so well so it's obviously time we get a woman up in that joint! Even though Shellie O and Emily are badass first ladies who run the "house", I can't see them running the white house.  Nor can I see me successfully running anything more than my shitty Saturn, and even my driving skills are debatable.

At this juncture in my life, I think I need to stay out of politics and I hope politicians continue to stay out of me.

21 September 2011

Magma Money

            If you were a college student like me, then you were always short on cash.
            At an early age, my parents told me if I wanted to go to college I would have to pay my own way, but I was going to college no matter what.  That still doesn't make sense to me.  They told me not going to college was not an option, yet I had to pay for it?  Since I save money as quickly as this country gets out of debt, I had to apply for student loans and I get a full time job to supplement my income. Although my parents didn't pay tuition, they often paid for my books and sent me back from a home visit with a full tank of gas and a trunk full of groceries.
            When the student loans, paychecks, and occasional help from my parents weren't enough to cover my bills and lifestyle, I had to look for alternate sources of income. I already had a full time job and a full class load.  I barely had time to do homework, let alone party and have a social life.  And let's be real; a college student's priorities aren't always homework and work. 
            Honestly, I needed the money to support my drinking habit and my parents, measly paychecks, or the leftover loan money could cover.
            After I looked in the phone book (yes, this was before the days of smart phones) for local strip clubs to inquire about employment, I realized although I like to take off my clothes in front of some strangers, I couldn't see myself as a stripper.  My boobs aren't that big, I am too short, and I knew I'd only look like a drag queen.  Plus the first time some fat man put a dollar bill in my underwear with his grubby hands, I knew I would instantly become homicidal and end up in prison for shanking that pervert. 
            So stripping was not an option, although I do sometimes regret that KoCo Puff (my chosen stripper name) never got a chance to debut on stage. 
            I considered becoming an underground campus call girl, but then I realized there were many girls like me who were more than willing to sex up some horny college boys for nothing more than a few rum and cokes and sometimes for free, I knew I wouldn't get paid squat for squatting naked on someone's lap. If I couldn't even manage stripping, then certainly prostitution was out.
            Then I thought about taking a road trip to Mexico and hooking up with some gangsters and offering them my spleen or appendix to sell on the black market.  When one of my friends in the nursing program informed me that neither of those organs were vital organs, I realized that was a crapshoot.  No one would pay for a spleen, but a chunk of liver or a kidney would make serious bank.  So would a basket of my eggs.  I was broke, not desperate.  I needed my kidneys and all of my liver if I were to survive college.  And I wasn't ready for a mini me to be roaming this planet without my knowledge.  So the liver steak and eggs was officially off the table.
            The only option I had left was to find a wealthy old man, seduce him, convince him to add me to his will, then fuck him so hard his heart exploded in his chest and I was left with all his riches.  Then I remembered a) I lived in Wisconsin and the nearest extremely wealthy man was probably located in Chicago and b) the thought of old man balls gross me out and c) I was barely eighteen and I'm pretty sure in several states and possibly Puerto Rico, that was still considered statutory rape.  So having a sugar daddy was out.
            Short of selling my left kidney and my eggs, stripping, giving $10 hand jobs in the campus library, or finding a man as ugly and wealthy as Donald Trump, I was destined to be poor throughout my entire college career.
            That is until my friend from the nursing program told me about plasma donation.  We were at a house party one weekend and I had been complaining about spending $5 on a cup for beer at the door (years later, I realize how good of a deal that really was, considering I could drink a quarter barrel all on my own).
            "You get paid how much?"
            "$200 a month!"
            I know it might not seem like much money to most of you, but you have to remember I was in college in a small town in Wisconsin, where beers, pizza, and girls were cheap.
            $200 a month for me was striking it rich!
            "But what do I have to do?" I asked her, slightly worried about the words "plasma" and "donation".  First of all, I had no idea what plasma was.  Was it similar to magma and did I even have magma in my body?
            "You go to the Biolife center, they give you a physical, have you answer some questions, and then you sit with a needle in your arm for about an hour and get paid!"
            "How much do you get paid?"
            "Well, if you go twice a week, you get paid $50.  If you only go once a week, it's $20.  You can go twice a week, but not two days in a row," she explained.
            "What's the catch?" I asked.  "Getting $200 a month for donating magma seems a bit suspicious and there has to be some fine print."
            "It's plasma, not magma, first of all.  Second of all, there is no catch.  Easy peasy!"
            "Whatever. Where do I sign up? I'm not crazy about someone taking magma from my body, but I'm desperate."
            "It's NOT magma! It's plasma!"
            How was I to know that magma is a mixture of molten rock from a volcano and not something that could be found in a human body, or that plasma is the pale yellow liquid portion of your blood that can be easily replaced by the body, which is why you can sell it?
            I said I was in college, not that I was smart.
            The following week I made an appointment for a physical and was told I would be giving my first donation that day if I qualified.  Apparently, to qualify you have to weigh at least 110 pounds (check), be in relatively good health (questionable), and not have HIV (check).  Obviously, there are other qualifications but those are the ones that I have stuck in my mind.
            When I walked into the Biolife Plasma Services building, I didn't know what to expect.  I thought there would be private rooms and each room would come with a private nurse, but I was wrong.  There was a waiting room, private booths for answering the questionnaire that was required at every visit, and a large room with at least 30 donation stations.  I felt almost like they were aliens in a spaceship, giving our bodily fluids to the extra terrestrials, and I had willingly just jumped on-board their ship.
            Every person was seated in a medical chair that looked more like a La-Z-Boy recliner and had needles in the fold in one of their arms.  At the bottom of each person's machine there was a large, bulging bag of a yellowish liquid that was as dark and ominous as my urine after a night of drinking (I quickly learned if you drank enough water before donating, the entire process went more quickly and the plasma would come out clearer).
            I passed the physical and the questionnaire and then I was called out to the floor.  When I was first introduced to the term "phlebotomists", I was convinced my friend set me up and I was about to have my brain removed.  Not that it would make much of a difference; hell, it might even be an improvement.
            I asked for clarification.
            "No, we don't remove brains.  You're not getting a lobotomy; you're donating plasma.  We only remove blood," my phlebotomist Sarah told me, putting on a blood pressure cuff and squeezing until my fingers turned blue.
            "Like a vampire?"
            "Sure," she said in the same tone of voice she would use on a small child or a special needs adult.
            Sarah handed me a stress ball and told me squeeze it, as it keep blood pumping through my arm.  I looked down at my arm and saw my vein was bulging and was threatening to poke through my arm.
            "Wow. You have a fantastic vein in your right arm!" Sarah exclaimed with as much excitement as Dr. Frankenstein when he first created his monster.
            I swear Sarah was on the verge of orgasm while she touched my vein.  She motioned for her coworkers to come over and have a look.
            Once she had an audience that stood two deep around my chair, she put the needle in the crook of my elbow and we all gasped in amazement at how fast the blood was flowing. I was more impressed that a machine could separate the plasma from my blood and return the blood back to my body!  Even a vampire wasn't that talented, and if you've ever watched True Blood, you know how badass they really are!
            At every visit, I was the test subject for interning phlebotomists.  I was treated like a cadaver, being poked, prodded and used as a learning tool.  Apparently, not everyone was as lucky in vein size as I was.  The majority of people who donated plasma actually had small, jumpy veins in the arms.  For those people, it was difficult to find the vein, hold it in place, and stick a needle inside and more often than not, resulted in large, yellow and purple bruises.  My sister Kate also donated plasma with me and she often had difficulty and sometimes couldn't donate and wouldn't get paid, so I often shared my magma money with her.
            Not for me though.  I had a drug user vein in my right arm, and a needle hole to match it.  At first I was proud of the small, crater like scar I had in my arm until the first time I went home after donating plasma around Thanksgiving and my parents suspected me of doing drugs.
            "I swear I don't do drugs!" I said.  "Well, except for smoking weed occasionally, but last time I checked you don't take that intravenously."
            "Well then explain the hole in your arm then! And your bloodshot eyes!  And your sudden weight loss! Last time you were here you were chunkier!"
            "Thanks for the compliments.  I'm hungover and my allergies are bad today, so that explains why I look like I have pink eye.  I can't afford food, so that explains my shrinking waist.  And since I can't afford alcohol I donate plasma so I can," I explained to them in a calm voice.
            "What is plasma?" my dad asked, not bothering to look up from his crossword puzzle while his wife accused their daughter of being a druggie.
            "I have no idea.  All I know is that I have it, I give it away, and I get paid to do so."
            "I'm glad you have your priorities, selling parts of your body for money to support your drinking habit.  If you spent as much time studying as you do drinking, you could have gone to Northwestern! Or Harvard!" my mom lectured me, her voice dripping with disappointment.
            "Harvard? Let's be real.  And I'm a C and sometimes a B+ student! What more could you ask for?  It's not like I sell my body for money; I just sell my bodily fluids for money," I defended myself.
            After that holiday weekend back home, I started to feel guilty.  Should I be selling plasma for selfish reasons like money?  What about all those people who need blood too? Perhaps I should do something out of the kindness of my heart, not for the thickness of my wallet.
            I don't know if it was the holiday season that inspired me, or my mother's disdain, but I decided to try this "being a good person" on and see how it made me look. 
            During a blood drive on campus two weeks before Christmas, I marched my jolly self into the giant RV and filled out the necessary paperwork to donate blood.  I felt like I was taking a Scantron test for one of my classes with as many questions as they ask.
            "What brought you in here today?" a person in a white coat asked me.  I could only assume he was a phlebotomist, but what do I know?
            "I wanted the free cookies and orange juice."
            He laughed, but I was serious.
            "Well, for whatever reason you came in, we certainly do appreciate it.  You could save a life today, and just in time for Christmas!" he said excitedly. 
            "That's another reason I came in.  Guilt, or as you may call it, holiday spirit."
            He laughed again, but I was still serious.
            Only twice before in my life had I donated blood, and that was back in high school just so I could get out of classes for the rest of the day.  I didn't care about humanity or saving lives back then, just getting out of sociology was satisfying enough.  
            But as a college student and relatively shitty person who had just banked a grand from donating plasma, I was there donating blood strictly out of guilt.
            About twenty minutes later after I had stepped foot on the blood mobile, I had made my pint sized donation, assured everyone I was fine, and stood up.  The next thing I know I'm face down on the floor of the RV.  Picture Cousin Eddie (Randy Quaid) from National Lampoon's Vegas Vacation, only a smidgeon more graceful.
            The people in white coats had to pick me up off the ground, put me back in the chair, and hook me up to saline again.  Instead of using smelling salt, they used a Snickerdoodle cookie to bring me back to consciousness.  Which actually works by the way.  Smelling almost any type of food will definitely arouse consciousness, or just simply arouse me.
            After donating blood, I really did feel like I had made the right decision.  My blood could soon be pumping through someone's heart and keeping them alive, and I felt like fucking Santa Claus! I was smitten with myself!
            The feeling of selfless euphoria didn't last long.  I went back to the Plasma center the next week to earn a few more bucks.  Not for alcohol but for Christmas gifts.  I'm not that selfish.
            "Have you donated blood in the last 8 weeks?" they asked me during the mandatory questionnaire.  This was a test; I could lie and get paid today.  Or I could maintain my "good person" streak, be honest, and tell them the truth.
            Sorry, I needed the money.
            Besides the fact that I was dehydrated, I was also a pint of blood short.  I passed out halfway through the process and the alarms on my machine blared louder than fire alarms in a public building.  I could feel the color drain from my face, my blood sugar bottomed out, and I felt like death! I needed my blood back! 
            That plasma donation was the worst and last donation I would ever make.  I was out of commission for two days, skipping classes and calling in sick to work.  I probably needed dialysis or some sort of surgery to compensate for the fluid I had just drained from my body, but I figured orange juice and Ramen noodles would be enough for survival.
            Both my arm and ego were bruised.  I thought I could help save a life and make bank by donating my bodily fluids.  I concluded that since trying to be a good person had made me physically ill, I should just stick to what I know, and what I know is that being a good person doesn't pay.  Ever.
            "I hate to say it, but I told you so. I knew donating your plasma was a bad idea, KC.  It sounded dangerous from the beginning and I'm glad you're done with the whole thing.  Now you can be done sticking needles in your arm like some drug addict," my mom said when I went home for Christmas that year.
            "Well, those needles helped pay for that new digital camera you just opened," I said matter-of-factly.  Mom's jaw dropped and she was speechless.
            "That was bought with drug money?" my dad asked, not looking up from the crossword puzzle book I had bought for him.
            "Sure," I answered him with the same tone of voice Sarah had used on me when I asked her if she was like a vampire.  My father has never been a good listener and I know for a fact that he passed that valuable trait onto me.  It wasn't worth explaining the difference between donating plasma and shooting heroin into my arm.
            "You didn't have to sell your body to buy us a camera," Mom said. I love my parents dearly, but choosing the right words has never been their strong suit.  They always mean well but sometimes the words that come out of their mouth have a completely different meaning than intended.  This was one of those times.  I also inherited this trait from them and am often misunderstood.
            I was running out of ways to tell them that I was not selling my body nor was I doing drugs, simply because I had a needle scar in my arm.  They were making it sound like I was a prostitute who makes money by lying on my back like a starfish for some guy in a dirty hotel room near the city dump.
            "You're right Mom. I didn't have to but I wanted to sell my body to get you that camera."           
            My parents still use that Olympus digital camera I bought for them in 2002 by selling my body, according to my mom.  According to my dad, I bought them a camera AND a DVD player with my "drug money".  To me, it's "magma money".
            Because my parents didn't (rather, couldn't afford to) pay my college tuition, I actually learned many valuable lessons from them.  I learned the importance of money because I never had any and learned my limit as to how far I was willing to go to get it.  I also appreciate my education and degree more because I paid for it (still am paying for it actually).  It may not be a degree from Northwestern or Harvard, but it's a degree I paid for by working a legitimate job, using student loans, and selling my plasma. 
            After my last plasma donation, I went back to being broke and considered starting back at square one, but then I realized if my parents had so profoundly misunderstood my donating plasma, how would they react if they ever had to meet KoCo?

16 September 2011

KC and Kate Plus 8

            Nothing makes two sisters in college happier than free beer on Ladies' Night at the bar or living next door to eight cute college boys. 
            Which is exactly where Kate and I found ourselves the summer before my senior year of college.  She had just turned twenty-one and we had moved into a house with our friends Jes and Jen. 
            The day after we moved in, Kate and I noticed two U-Haul vans outside the house next door.  Then we saw the reason for the moving vans.  Standing there in the early light of a fall morning were eight boys wearing Lame-bercombie & Fitch shirts, cargo shorts, and aviator sunglasses.  My heart went pitter-patter and my naughties started tingling.
            Immediately, I called my boyfriend Mickey and broke up with him. 
            Joking.  That would come a few weeks later.
            Kate and I camped out in our driveway all day, chain smoking, drinking beer, and drooling while we watched the eight boys unload their cars, trucks, and the moving vans.  Their muscles flexed and sweat rolled off their backs. 
            Apparently our roommates were too busy being pacifying and servicing their lame ass boyfriends to pay any attention to the hot pieces of ass that had moved in.  I mean, I had a boyfriend too, but that didn't stop me from fantasizing.  Kate and I were like two bitches in heat, worked up and crazy for some new meat.
            This new meat was also the source of one of my more embarrassing sexual exploits to date.
            Although I can't recall all of their names now, I do remember Mike, Erik, Russ, Dan, and Rex.  Rex lived upstairs with three other boys, and the other four lived downstairs.  Their house was set up like a duplex, so each apartment had separate entrances.  There was a large deck on the front, decorated with a beer pong table and an extremely comfortable couch. 
            We preferred the company of the downstairs boys.  Russ was a cool guy, but he had a weird haircut that resembled a mullet.  His rich parents lived just outside of town in a huge house on Lake Winnebago, so it was nice to have that connection.  And Dan was a weirdo.  He preferred to play computer games rather than socialize and I'm fairly certain he's probably a serial killer by now.  And Rex was a charming ladies man who had a big dong, snorted cocaine, and could probably even convince a nun to sleep with him.
            Out of all eight boys, Mike and Erik were our favorite, even though they both wanted to have sex with us (preferably together; most guys we met in college had a Kelly sister fantasy).  But to us they always just seemed like boys who had our backs.  They looked out for us at the bars if some douche was hitting on us, and when some asshole stole all my CDs out of my car while I was at class, they went around the neighborhood knocking on doors and ruffling some feathers. 
            Despite how awesome they were, both Mike and Erik had the maturity of an eight-year old boy.  Put them together and they were sixteen.  An extremely horny sixteen.  I told them time and again I was spoken for (unfortunately), but they still tried relentlessly to get me to sleep with them, or at the very least, give them head.  They refused to believe I had a boyfriend though; they thought I was making it up because they couldn't believe I didn't want to blow them.
            We wasted no time in welcoming these boys to the neighborhood, Kate especially.  I'm fairly certain the first night we met them, she dry humped one of the boys until they were both chafed from rubbing their blue jeans together.  I, on the other hand, simply flirted and kissed a couple of the boys on the cheek before I felt a small pang of guilt and then called Mickey after I stumbled all of fifty feet home.  Not guilty enough to stop me from returning to their house after I made my obligatory call to the BF though.
            "If you have a boyfriend, how come we never see him?" Mike asked one day.
            "Trust me, I've invited him over here several times and he's never agreed to it," I said.  Mickey was extremely jealous that I lived next door to eight boys, and he lived with three computer nerds.  As much as I tried to convince Mickey they were just my friends and I had no interest in any of them sexually (not completely true), he wouldn't believe me.  I'm not even sure I believed me.
            "If you don't believe me, maybe you should accept one of their house party invites," I told Mickey after he argued that I spend too much time there and he was worried I'd break up with him.  I told him he had nothing to worry about and if he would just come over and meet the guys, he would see that too. 
            The night he finally met the boys, he made a complete fool of himself.  He drank far too much Smirnoff Ice, almost fell into the fire pit, and puked on himself in the backyard. 
            That in itself seems embarrassing, but this all happened after he proclaimed loudly during a conversation over a game of cards that he knew everything there was to know about Lord of the Rings and admitted he had only had sex with two girls in his whole life (me being the second) and I was the only one who had ever given him head. 
            No one was impressed, especially not me.  I felt like I was the parent of a special needs child.  The boys looked at Mickey as if he had ridden the short bus to the house party.  And Mickey looked at us like he was the coolest cat on the block.
            "Your boyfriend is a douche," Mike said as he stood next to me on the porch a few minutes later.  I chain smoked while we watched Mickey fumble for the zipper on his jeans to take a piss in the bushes.  Instead, he fell face first into the hedge that separated our yards.  To this day, I have no idea how he got home.
            "Tell me about it. I mean, he's usually like this, but I thought alcohol would make him more fun.  Guess I was wrong," I replied.  I was irate that Mickey had embarrassed me in front of my boy friends.  He was so much fun when he was with his friends, probably because his friends were huge dorks like he was, but when he was with my friends (who have always been way cooler than his), he was jealous, territorial, and downright moronic, magnified a thousand times with just a few drops of alcohol. 
            Mickey was right about one thing though; I did break up with him but only because when he wasn't acting like a complete asshat, he was acting like a jealous girlfriend and I was fed up.  So, I dumped Mickey the next morning after the party.  He begged me not to, but I told him I didn't want to be a babysitter anymore.  He acted more foolish at a party than Anna Nicole Smith, and we all know how that ended. 
            Once I was single again, I'll admit I started to look at a few of the boys differently.  I contemplated taking Mike up on his many offers for him to show me his Polish sausage, but something always held me back.  Every time I had a great opportunity to kiss him, he would get a tiny bit of white foam in the corners of his mouth.  Unfortunate too because despite his being about fifty pounds overweight, he was a really cute and fun boy.  I was attracted to him; I just couldn't get past the corners of his mouth.  I could never figure out the source either; perhaps he had cotton chops from smoking too much weed, or on the other end of the spectrum, perhaps he just salivated excessively.  Either way, nothing made my sheboner shrink more than seeing the frothy corners of his lips.  Well, that and his pancake sized nipples.  We would just have to remain friends.
            About a month after classes had started, Mike and Erik informed me they were having another yard party before the weather got too cold.  The party wasn't until later in the evening, but we were welcome to come over early Saturday if we wanted. 
            And that's exactly what we did.  We had driven with the boys to Jordy's Liquor to stock up on kegs (which we never pitched in for), and headed to the grocery store to stock up on food, (which we also never paid for).  Gracing the eight boys with our presence was present enough.
            By four o'clock, I was a bit drunk.  We had played a nice afternoon session of beer pong (the Kelly sisters won), and I had even done a keg stand as practice for later that night.  And the party hadn't even started yet.  Luckily I was on a thirty day drinking binge at that point, and I made a promise I would never get completely sober because if I did, I would have an epic hangover and would most likely fail all my classes and life itself.  As long as I had some trace of alcohol in my system, I was good to go.
            By seven o'clock, most of our friends had shown up and the house was packed with people.  I had consumed my fair share of alcohol, so some things between the hours of seven and midnight are a little fuzzy.  I do remember being in a kiddie pool filled with chocolate pudding, cutting lemons, dousing them with sugar and alcohol and then lighting the lemons and shot glasses on fire before downing them, and taking off my top several times throughout the night.  But that seemed to happen at every party, so I can't really be sure.
            By 4 o'clock the following morning, the party had ended.  Everyone had either walked back to their respective college residences or had passed out in the house.  I was looking around the house for Kate so we could walk across the yard back to our house for the night when I caught her coming out of the bathroom.
            "Are you ready to go home?"  I asked her, yawning.  My buzz had definitely worn off and I needed a few hours of sleep before I woke up to the smell of my morning mimosa.
            "Um, I'm actually going to spend the night with Rex upstairs," she informed me.  I was both happy and nervous for her at the same time.  Rex was a nice guy, but he changed vaginas more often than he changed boxers.
            "Make sure he wears a condom and you soak in bleach afterwards.  Who knows how many human holes he's pocked," I half-joked.  Kate laughed and assured me she would make him wrap it up.
            "Also, if you see white powder anywhere, it is not powdered sugar.  And don't get roofied," I said to her.  Rex used drugs recreationally and was usually polite enough to hide his stash, but anything can happen at a party.
            I said goodnight to her and walked outside onto the porch.  I was so exhausted I could almost hear my bed (read: futon) calling my name.
            "Hey! Where you goin'?" I heard someone ask me, and I almost pissed myself.
            "Holy shit Erik! I didn't know you were sitting out here," I said, taking a seat next to him on the couch.  I was exhausted so I put my legs in his lap and stretched out on the couch.
            Erik handed me his pipe and I accepted.  It had been a while since I had gotten high, and since one buzz was wearing off, why not start another?
            "I was going to go home, but I guess not," I giggled, exhaling.
            "You can sleep in my room if you want," he offered.  I handed him the pipe, and contemplated his offer.  I had never considered Erik as a sexual acquisition before.  He was tall, had just buzzed his hair short, and had a smile that could rival Brad Pitt.  I guess he was pretty cute.  I could see myself messing around with him, but I wasn't sure I wanted him to audition for a recurring roll in my vagina just yet. 
            "And sleep where?  On the couch next to your serial killer roommate who passed out there not ten feet from his room?  Or how about upstairs where I could hear my sister getting Rexed," I joked.
            "She's upstairs with Rex?" he asked, laughing. 
            "Right on."
            Spoken like true potheads.
            We sat in silence for a few more minutes before I lit another cigarette.  No matter how tired I was I was actually pretty content.
            "We could sleep out here Erik.  It's gorgeous out here," I said, sitting up and cuddling him for warmth.  The temperature was cool enough to be fall, but warm enough to still be summer.
            "We could...or, we could go into my room, stay high, and watch Salute Your Shorts," Erik suggested.
            My world came to a screeching halt.  He wanted to take me into his bedroom, smoke weed, and watch Salute Your mother freakin' Shorts?
            Hellz to the yes!
            Rewind about ten years and picture me as an awkward tomboy again, watching Snick on Nickelodeon on Saturday nights.  One of my favorite shows, besides The Adventures of Pete & Pete was Salute Your Shorts.  For those of you not familiar with the show, it's a comedy that takes place at a summer camp called Camp Anawanna.  A common prank the campers play on each other is stealing a boy's boxer shorts and raising them up a flagpole.  The show also had an eclectic variety of characters, including a morbidly obese kid called Donkeylips. 
            I loved the show because I never went to summer camp, and knew there was no chance I would, so I lived vicariously through the campers on screen.  Although the show was only on for two seasons, I feel that it's one of the greatest shows ever produced.
            "You had me at salute."
            What made this one of my more embarrassing sexcapades wasn't that Erik and I got frisky with each other on the porch before we went inside and the scene we made could have been considered soft porn.  It wasn't even that I had crawled into Erik's bed when his bedroom smelled like a prison and looked as if a tornado had struck a locker room, tossing clothes, underwear, and paper everywhere.  It wasn't even that the sun had already come up and I had been awake for twenty-four hours and sober from alcohol for about two hours.
            It was that I gave him a hand job while he finger banged me at the same time we both watched Donkeylips try to win a wrestling tournament so he could get a free lobster dinner in the eighth episode of the first season. 

            During the walk of shame back home with Kate the next morning, we exchanged words about our sexcapades with the boys next door.
            "I got finger banged last night," I said to Kate.
            "Me too," she replied.
            "I gave a Erik a hand job while watching Salute Your Shorts."
            "I gave Rex a blow job while he watched Sportscenter."
            "We're fucking idiots."
            "Wait, Erik has Salute Your Shorts on DVD?"

            I broke three personal rules that night.
            #1: No hand jobs after the age of 18. I was an adult now, and adults give head, have sex, or take it in the arse.
            #2: No finger banging after the age of 18.  See above.
            #3: Never sober up.  Not completely anyway.
            Because I had done all three in one night, I was officially mortified and ashamed of myself.  The only consolation was that Erik had splooged his shorts while watching Salute Your Shorts, and nothing is more embarrassing than that.
Made by Lena