01/21/2005 - 2:06 p.m. | i still live off my mouth

So I got the telemarketing job, joy knowing no bounds. That still leaves me 'til the 29th to crawl my way through absolute poverty, but still! A job! In my raccous celebratory mood, I splurged and went to the gas station for a huge 59 cent watered-down Coke! Revel in it! Then, on the walk home, me and this stoned bum guy had the following conversation: "Dude, is that a soda?" "Yeah, man." "Aren't you cold??"

Today is a happy day, with a teacher's institute, so I don't have to cross the guard, and no class because the one I do have on Fridays was cancelled. I swear I had things to write about, but they all vanished like smoke in the wind. Instead, some things that are very important for you to read by others:

1) Kathy Griffin, who I used to hate (for obvious reasons), has earned some big time respect for being an irreverent jackass to everyone at the Golden Globes as red carpet interviewer, pissing off co-host Star Jones-Reynolds in the process. (Yes, fellas. Star's off the market. Tought luck).

2) Oh my God, someone who finally agrees with me in my theory that the Rob Thomas (Santana-addled) hit "Smooth" is, in fact, about his penis! We even use the same logic, even if his words are a little more pretentious than my own. But it's all there - 7 inches, "little doll," "give my world to lift you up." If two people agree on the same far-fetched theory, that pretty much makes it fact, right? Yes.

Shelly and I decided to get krunk and go out to the bars last night. Unfortunately, there is a small problem in that we drink in the same way. This is fine for Shelly because, being a girl, the alcohol tends to flow through her easily. However, the fact that I am a total wuss when it comes to drinking - can't chug, can't handle hard or bad shit (unless it makes me laugh), can only pretty much take small sucking sips of anything I drink - is a rather huge detriment. I can't get anywhere fast. Once again, my feminine countenance is outfoxed by my masculine accoutrements. So, anyway, we get CRAZY and go about ten shots of Blue Island Punch Pucker (or some such ridiculous shit). And by shots, I mean "half shots," which means all-in-all we had about a quarter of the alcohol a normal person would have per shot. Occasionally, we'd kick it up to triple sec and then stumble around hacking and coughing with how strong it is. Anyway, thoroughly sloshed (OK, no), we ran outside to slide on the snow and take the bus to Murphy's.

Once on the bus, Shelly tried to down her spiked orange juice quickly (impossible) as I was noticing this fucked up black guy sitting next to us, making the hand signal for a telephone, smiling, and saying, "Fuck yeah! Fuckin' A, man!" over and over again. A little more jovial than I might normally be, I started talking to the fellow to see what had made him so darn happy (and, if possible, where I could score some). He had a gold filling. Or gold gums or something, I dunno. "What's your name, man?" I asked. He starts pumping my hand furiously. "I'm Fucking Black, man!" he repeats a few times. I start laughing my stupid laugh and while Shelly is occupied with her juice, he calls me over.

"Is that your girlfriend, man?"
"Naw, dude. She's my roommate."
"Are you in love?"
"Uh, yeah, man, whatever! I love everyone."
"Do you think maybe we could have a threesome?"
"What?! Uh, I'm not so sure about that one, man."
"Come on, man, don't tell you don't want to hit that."
"Dude, that's fucked up! She's like my sister or something!"
"Just ask her, man!"

At which point he starts asking Shelly if he can come to the bar with us. I am trying to send her subtle signals that this guy is batshit, but I unfortunately do not know the international symbol for threesome. Luckily, I learned it like two minutes later when Shelly and I got off the bus. Fucking Black stood in the doorway, held up three fingers (the Italian way), and pointed at them. "Naw, man," I yell. "She ain't down for that shit!" Another close call averted.

Shelly got the whole bar scene out of her system pretty fast. Apparently we had already missed the best part of the evening: Becky throwing up all over the stairs four plus times. The number varies depending on how drunk Brytne is when you ask her. Anyway, the whole bar was talking about it all night. Seems it was fairly impressive. Anyway, Shelly and I had our single beer and lingered for a while. I bought some people some drinks (Having already purchased $95 in alcohol for Smacko and Shanks earlier in the evening), got my kickin' Bacardi watch from the Hot Bacardi Chick, which I promptly lost somehow - lost even when Spritz somehow retained his, despite being "drunk as fuck" and whipping it at the wall. "This is gay." KLONK Brytne: "Yeah, gay!" KLONK causing the stoner table behind us to turn around and stare. Although a couple of chicks were already staring... at me! Shit, man, delusional vanity is all I've got.

On the way home, Smacko (in his highest form) stole a bundle of firewood from the gas station, which I helped him carry home to burn. Kyle is forced into the rare position where he is the only sober person in the house. "Dude, you can't burn all those boxes," he says. "It builds up residue in the chimney that could eventually catch fire." I'm glad it only took six months of me screaming this at his drunk ass for it to sink in.

And then I tried to sleep and couldn't. My mind was focused on some stupid shit, namely Truth or Dare. I dunno what it is about that particular game, but I always felt like it had such potential. Wasted potential, however, because no one has any balls. Or perhaps too much balls, at which point nothing happens anyway. In his creepy health food package from his relatives, Spritz received this truth or dare book, and I was so excited about it. "Maybe some good shit for once!" Nope. "What CD are you most embarrased to own?" "Put on a puppet show with dirty socks!" Oh man, that is too wacky for words! But wait, let me try a couple: Sucks. Balls. So I sat here trying to find a more interesting version, and I'm stuck between the clean-cut, idiotic stuff and then the sickeningly perverse. "Blindfolded, let two people suck any part of your body and try to guess who sucked what." Sorry, friend, but I don't think we live in a porno. I don't really have a solution to this problem. I could try inventing my own game, but the idea of me being a little risque is silly to me, let alone others.

While I was waited to be group interviewed (always the sign of a selective position) at the telemarketing place, I listened to the two guys I was with chat about their lives. I live on a world two tiers down from everyone, I feel. Their whole world revolves around alcohol and parties. I don't think there's a night when they don't go out. I mean, this was a Tuesday, and they're like, "Well, I won't be able to make it out 'til 12:30, but that's still enough time to get wasted and have a good time." It is?! At 12:30 on most nights, I'm getting ready to pass out, it feels like. I can't even imagine what their world is like, and I sometimes wish I had the disposition to find out. Then again, I always get like this when I read Tucker Max's shit - I have a feeling most everyone does - so I guess I can't feel too bad really about how I'm, you know, "wasting my existence." I would have to be a totally different type of person to let that slide, and like I already said, I'll never drop my girlish tendencies. God. Damn.