December 24th 12pm - Bonkers and Birthday

My twenty-fourth birthday was on December 22nd. It was an epic rager. If the definition of epic rager constitutes playing Trivial Pursuit until five o'clock in the morning with three friends, my brother, and his friend Bonkers.
Bonkers was in my kindergarten class. The following year he was in my brother's kindergarten class. Over the years he has:
* Entered class after lunch break with his shirt off because he was hot.
* Purposefully lit his hair on fire inside the white molester "family" van while my mom drove.
* Snuck through my bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning so I could zombie-awake to him orchestrating my stuffed animals in various pornographic positions. I was eleven.
* Locked the sloshed babysitter (my uncle) in my parent's bedroom. This resulted in Drunk Babysitter (my uncle) stabbing Bonkers with a flagpole. The metal eagle topping the flagpole ruptured into Bonker's ribs.
* Demanded I remove my shirt to stifle the smoke alarm when I set our kitchen on fire. I was twelve. My breasts were the size of a three-year-old male's.

My twenty-fourth birthday party was as eventful as a church sermon delivered by my God-preaching recovering drug addict uncle who currently flaunts his sexual prowess through exhibiting photos of twenty-something skankasaurus breasts. My eighteenth birthday party was an epic rager.
My friend Pakistan hosted the social lubrication.
By seven-thirty my friends began tallying marks on my arms. On my right arm, each tally represented a consumed beer. On my left arm, each mark represented a consumed shot.
By nine I was belching, staggering, groping others, groping myself, and urinating in the yard.
By ten-thirty my memories plummeted into the abyss of oral diarrhea, liquid legs, and draining a cocktail down my throat constituting chew spits and cigarette butts. I thought it was a beer.
By ten thirty-two my hippocampus ceased functioning. I blacked out.
The next morning my brain became cognizant of life when I sat up and smashed my head into the bunk-bed above me.
The host's car had a shattered window from some delinquent guests.
When I saw my brother, I verbally assaulted him for not coming to my birthday party.
His response: "I held you up for an hour. You stood because of me."

December 23rd 11:10am - Glass in my Foot. Again.

At thirteen, I tore down the stairs pretending I was Batwoman. As I rounded the corner my foot collided with a glass cup. I had glass in my foot for five minutes.
At seventeen, my mom hollered that dinner was ready. I exploded from my stationary position in my bedroom staring at the wall. My foot mutilated a sheet glass picture covering. The ER surgeon sutured the slash shut, suppressing the blood parachuting out of my foot. I had an inch of glass in my toe for two months. I like to think that I don't have King Kong hands, but the glass extended the distance between my pointer finger joint and the finger tip.
At twenty-three, after five months in the land of the holy cow, I muddled down my friend's San Francisco apartment hallway to the bathroom. Russian Vodka barraged my bladder.
My friend Fi-Town had returned from Russia with a three liter bottle of Vodka. The bottle was the size of a giant panda. It required a pump to dispense the spirits. My body ricocheted off the hallway walls as I shuffled faster. I didn't want Noah's Arc urine flood gushing from my vagina, a discharge wake illuminating on the wooden floor.
I strode, my footsteps resounding off the ceiling. My right foot thundered into the floor. A piece of glass clashed into the bottom of my foot.
"Not agaiiiinnnnn," I wounded-walrus-bellowed.
I extracted the glass shard with my fingers.
It has been two weeks. I don't have health insurance. The free clinic is as functional as a down syndrome child at a spelling bee. Every time I walk, the glass in my foot taunts me.

December 22nd 2am - Navy: Out. Au Pair: In

I'm as gifted at talking my way out of situations as Angelina Jolie is at acquiring children.
My college English major required three semesters of a foreign language. I have the foreign language capabilities of a fruit fly. In my third week of Spanish I traipsed past the disabilities office. I got an idea. I walked into the office.
"Hello. How may I help you?" the receptionist asked.
"I have a foreign language disability and desperately need to talk to someone about it."
I administered my champion wretched look. I have since been informed that my champion wretched look resembles that of a two-year-old taking a poop shooter.
Leftover Queen looked at me like I had asked her what gym she belonged to.
Two weeks later, after affirming that I lost sleep over the class, didn't comprehend anything, cheated on quizzes and tests, and was suffering emotionally and physically from a condition I invented, the University of San Francisco waived my foreign language requirement. I love private schools.
When I embarked on compiling quotes for an unwritten twenty-page Shakespeare final essay due in two days, a friend called and informed me I was going to Reno with two of our friends. After internally protesting for one point two seconds, I agreed. I went to Reno. I brought my laptop with the intention of writing the essay. The first night, I exploited it's jukebox aptitude. We got plotzed off Jager and rum. My laptop's second occupation for the night was as a shield in a pillow-fight. The screen ruptured. I turned in the final paper, worth twenty percent of my grade, eight days late. My great-grandfather died, I was emotionally and physically encumbered from a situation I invented, and received an A in the class. I love private schools.

In June I signed up for the Navy. In July I "depped" in. As a DEP (Delayed Enlistment Program), they tested my eyesight (right eye: 20/400, left eye: 20/FC - I couldn't read the one large letter at the top of the chart), asked me questions like do I have any scars, withdrew blood after missing the vein three times, had me sign contracts, and get sworn in by an all-mighty uniform man.
In December I established that being caged in a five-year military contract was as appealing to me as eating a baby. My great-aunt was dying from the swine flu, my family needed me, and I was grieved mentally and physically from circumstances I invented. The US Navy dropped me from the program.
Instead, I'm going to be an au pair in New Zealand for five young terrors aged nine weeks to nine years.

December 19th 2:30pm - December 2009 Quote of the Month

BG: "Hey you guys, I will no longer be saying racist jokes. Racism is a crime and crime is for black people."

December 16th 8:45am - December 2009 Photo of the Month

Location: Santa Rosa mall, California
Apparently people on the roof is enough of a problem that they needed to erect a ten-door-wide sign?

December 15th 8:00pm - Ya, I Did It

I returned to California without telling anyone. The resulting hysteria was comparable to the time my friend's mom unearthed a black dildo while helping her unpack for university. It was called the Cock Locker Monster Dildo and flaunted twelve inches of black fake penis glory.
When I surprised them one of my friends almost fell down. Two cried. All screeched, shrieked and shouted. My mom had a conniption in a peacocky hotel in downtown San Francisco. Security discreetly arrived and then ebbed behind oversized sculptures and paintings when they realized nobody's fingernails were being torn off.
One of the first stories my friends told me involved an airport, a jersey, an old woman, and assault.
A male named Whiskey maintained his ardor and devotion for Michael Vick regardless of the eighteen months he spent in prison for an illegal dog fighting ring transpiring on his Virginia property. Whiskey sustained his support for the football quarterback based on his "athletic achievements." Like a douche bag, Whiskey sported a Michael Vick jersey at LAX, LA's airport, soon after Vick had served his felony charges, was released, and resigned with the Philadelphia Eagles.
Whiskey stood in line, the name Vick mounting the top back of his red jersey. Whiskey's mind was as blank as a whore's sexual slate when she's decided she's a born-again virgin. And then he heard a spitting sound behind him.
"What the..." he ejaculated, turning around to look behind him.
Mildred, an eighty-year-old woman, looked up at him with the rebelliousness of a preacher's daughter who drinks, smokes, and has sex.
"Ya, I did it," she replied, her white hair staggering.
Whiskey punched her in the face.
Both Whiskey and Mildred were detained at the airport, but ultimately released. Punching someone in the face is assault, but so is spitting on someone.

December 12th 11:15am - India Insights

India is as predictable as a bipolar schizophrenics disposition. In Rajasthan's Pushkar, I couldn't walk onto a ghat because I was "too sexy." I hadn't showered in four days, hadn't worn make-up in seven, and was attired in shapeless clothes more befitting a bum than a middle-class traveler. But my shoulder's weren't covered.
I have had my breasts grasped by Indian men while walking, sleeping in an overnight bus, and seated by the window inside a moving train. In Hampi, when a male friend and I rode bicycles, a throng of twelve-year-olds abandoned their cricket game to accost us. He rode ahead as they high-fived him and shouted their love for him. One lifted my dress while another seized my breasts. I have had bug bites larger than my boobs. However, I am white, and white women are whores.
In ninety-nine percent of India, women and men do not demonstrate signs of affection. Men commonly hold hands while walking on the streets and beaches, and while seated in trains, buses, or restaurants. During movies, walking, conversing, or smoking, men caress and cuddle each other. On motorbikes and scooters, women sit sidesaddle and clutch the bike. Straddling a man or gripping his waist would denote slut.
In Goa, I purchased a silver anklet. An Indian man informed me two months later that wearing one anklet denotes prostitution. All Indian women wear an anklet on each ankle.
On trains, chai and coffee sellers will awaken you. It is not unusual for the vendors to rape your eardrums at four in the morning with foghorn cries of, "chaaaiiiii, chaaaiiiiiiii, chaaiii," "cooffeeee, cooffeeee, chaaiiii, chaaiiii." Train peddlers sell everything from newspapers, food and drinks, to fake gold watches, CD's, children's stickers, batteries, and gluttonies of items you couldn't invent uses for even if you were Santa Claus.
Price is always negotiable. Accommodation, material purchases, and even food can be bargained. What starts at twelve hundred rupees can often be bought for five hundred.
On buses, trains, or waiting for public transport, Indians do not read books. It is as common to see someone reading a newspaper as it is for a bear to trundle around hugging humans. A white woman reading a book does not indicate said woman being busy or engaged. Indian men will attempt to absorb you in conversation regardless.
Cows are everywhere - with a few minor exceptions. Cows triumph the road hierarchy. Then come trucks, cars, auto rickshaws, motorbikes, bicycle rickshaws, bicycles, man-powered rickshaws and carts, and, last, pedestrians. Oftentimes, as a traveler, when walking or bicycling, you need transportation as much as a fire hydrant requires a dog. Walking on Goan beaches, you will be asked ten thousand times if you need a rickshaw or taxi. If you're in a city and a rickshaw driver has seen you wave on the previous fifteen rickshaws, he will still stop and ask if you need a ride. If you answer no, the Indian head wobble surfaces.
The bobble-head appears in answer to every question. If you ask a restaurant if they sell beer, you'll get a head wobble. When inquiring if the transit halts at your destination: bobble-head. Result of asking a street vendor if they sell talking white tigers: head wobble. The head bob translates as yes, no, maybe, alright, greetings, and every other humanely possible use. The head wobble is as cryptic as my bra size.
However, everything is possible in India. Thus, there is potential for whatever you're attempting to accomplish.
Especially in the south, cows and squalid dogs are as common as bicycles. Arambol boasts a pig dog. Literally, a pig bred with a dog. Watch out for rabies. Additionally, cows adorn Goa's beaches. It is almost inevitable that you, someone you're with, or someone you meet will traipse through the sand and step in cow shit.

December 7th 10:45am - No Officer, I Don't Have Any Weed

In Manali, India, travelers wade through marijuana to access their guesthouses. Manali locals pick leaves for you with specific detailed step-by-step drying instructions: they thrust it at you in handfuls and motion towards the sun. In Goa, India, weed is illegal.
After traveling for five months, I returned to Goa, my final destination before a three-day train ride to Delhi, a five hour hiatus, a six hour flight to Hong Kong, a twelve hour layover, and a fifteen hour flight to San Francisco.
Throughout India I traveled with people who smoked three packs of cigarettes a day, drug abusers from the British circus, and those who were more concerned with public displays of affection then they were with public ganja devotionals.
A Swede, German, and I settled in the sand at Arambol beach accompanied by brew nectar as the easy December heat traced our faces. When we sprawled in the sand and sipped our beers I felt like Superwoman. The waves licked the shore. A dog yipped in the separation of tangible and ostensible. The Swede prepared a chillum, an oblong cannabis smoking device. When two men shrouded in shadows approached, I didn't notice them until they were two steps away. They were policemen. I felt like a four-hundred-pound Superwoman with diabetes of the eye.
"Cops!" I whispered as emphatically as possible without sounding like a lunatic.
The Swede garnered his eight grams of hash together with the speed of a twelve-year-old's feet at a Dance Dance Revolution contest and slung the pouch overhand into the nearby bushes as the cops slithered up.
"Arrest him, arrest him," a fossil of a man wheezed.
The other officer elevated the empty chillum and snatched our backpacks from the sand. I prostrated myself, sipped beer, and regarded the new addition as I perceive a soup can's lid when it persists in falling in every time I open it.
"He was smoking. Arrest him!" Fossil hissed before a whooping cough convulsion struck his throat and his body rippled.
Other Officer wrenched Swede's hands behind his back. An antique gun daggered in our direction. At this point I converted to the slightly concerned.
"He threw the hash bag into the bushes. Arrest him!" Fossil ordered, slanting his pointer finger in the Swede's face and his flashlight into the bushes. Stories of tourists imprisoned or blackmailed into paying thousands of dollars raped my brain, and my heartbeat increased to a speed that I imagine can only be achieved by a coke and coffee cocktail.
"I don't have any weed, I was just using the chillum for tobacco," the Swede said soothingly. The German was mute. Hallucinations of the three of us shipwrecked in a jail cell addled my cerebrum.
"You have weed. Arrest him," Fossil repeated.
"I don't have any weed on me, I didn't smoke any, you can't arrest me," Swede asserted, monk-calm.
The policemen searched the bushes with a flashlight for ten minutes. The Swede and I made eye contact. My savage eye vibrated with visions of starvation and deterioration into skeletons. I gave him the run-like-hell-escape-side-glance. Swede blinked tranquility.
Fossil and Other Cop returned without the incriminating weed. They apologized and retreated into the shadows.
Swede said that was his fourth encounter with police officers.
"Just get rid of the weed and they can't do anything," he said.
This seemed as logical as consuming warm beer, but I accepted it. Just like I accept the fact that I will never have a penis and the ability to urinate standing up.

December 5th 5:05pm- Trance Party and Illegal Substances

The Flintstones should live in Hampi. Indian jungle interspersed by lakes and rivers mirroring the jungle's barbarian jade vegetation straddle colossal rock formations and archaic ruins. I continually expected a stream of tyrannosaurus rexes and brontosaurus' to ramble out of the emerald brush and eat me. I subconsciously carried a stick with me for protection. Protection against nonexistent Jurassic beasts.
One night a Dane, German, Swiss and I staged a dance party in the Dane's room at Laughing Buddha Guesthouse. After three minutes our twenty-something unaccustomed dance muscles atrophied in paroxysms of resistance. Sweat spiraled down our faces while wheezes and chokes strangled us. A South African female named Tits McGee entered our room demanding to know what we were doing. We looked like we had just completed a hopscotch marathon. We told her we'd danced for three minutes. We joined her drum circle and joints.
Hampi's nightlife is as sensational as Saturday night in a Mormon priest's house. After experiencing bars closing at midnight for four nights, Tits McGee and I resolved to take action. We decreed to throw a trance party.
Five days later the Dane, German and Swiss had left. I hung out with Tits McGee and a professional hula hooper. Hula Hoop and I were born in the same hospital in Long Beach, California. We went to the same college, lived in the same area in San Francisco, and our parents possessed the same occupation. We were basically the same person. Except that she had an awesome skill like hula hooping. I can't hula hoop, sing, juggle, do card tricks, or the splits. My eyes are as competent as Helen Keller's. I am extraordinarily gifted at getting lost though.
Our trance party venue was Whispering Rocks Guesthouse, a twelve-hut guesthouse as remote as the North Pole. A sprawling open-air restaurant sat thirty people, and a clearing large enough to accommodate a sumo wrestling convention swaggered with speakers procured by Whispering Rocks' manager. Tits McGee discovered two Israeli DJs.
Because the party was a billion football fields from the guesthouses, I tried to motivate people. I told them there would be a drunk tiger. Tits McGee seduced people to come with her chest cushions.
By ten at night, twenty people had arrived, three of whom were Tits McGee, Hula Hoop, and me. The highlight of the ten o'clock hour was when I saw a thirty-something Scottish male wearing a shirt that read, "Dog and wife missing. Reward for dog." By eleven, Whispering Rocks had seventy travelers. Of the seventy, three danced. Four if Hula Hoop hula hooping comprises dancing. By midnight, the numbers had dwindled to twenty. An Israeli who relocated to India to be a drug dealer supplied the masses with elephant tranquilizers.
The last Jeep returning to the guesthouses transported three Aussies, six Brits, and a South African at four in the morning. Two of the Brits and one Aussie prostrated themselves on the Jeep's roof. One of the Aussies fell off and landed in a thorn bush.
At five o'clock, Whispering Rocks' manager performed a marriage ceremony between a giggling Tits McGee and an Indian employee of his. Tits McGee, Hula Hoop and I ordered Husband to get us things, like beer, rum, and a drunk tiger. He never complied. We laughed passionately at everything. Our stomach muscles throbbed when a bird flew by. When someone inquired why we were laughing, grins commanded giggles and giggles bred hysterics. We dissolved into mirth when one of the employees said the moon had turned into the sun. Conversation topics as depressing as an AA meeting kindled frenzied chortles. We resorted to systematically shouting, "Why???" amid a stream of crippling convulsions.
By seven in the morning, Tits McGee, Hula Hoop and I craved our Laughing Buddha Guesthouse hammocks. When Whispering Rocks' manager offered to get us a taxi, and three minutes passed without arrival, we deduced walking was a good idea.
Five minutes later, having staggered one hundred feet down the road, howling "Why???" and hee-hawing in merriment, we resolved to accost the next vehicle for a ride. Tits McGee stated that she'd resort to flashing.
We did flag the next vehicle. Thirty-five minutes later. What we didn't comprehend was that the truck was driving in the opposite direction of our destination. Four minutes after we boarded, we drove by Whispering Rocks. We fractured into laughter as we retraced the bushes we had just trudged by and the dirt we had slogged through. "Why??? Why God why?" I wailed, arms in air, head back and retarded by chuckles.
"Where are we going? And whhhyyyy?" Hula Hoop replied, stumbling on words and peals of hilarity.
An hour and a half later, after looping through jungle, rocks, and ruins, Savior delivered us to Laughing Buddha's doorstep petitioning one hundred rupees for the ride.
"I'll pay you, but only because you're magical," Hula Hoop announced. We dissipated into delirium.