The Raspberry Buttermilk Layer Cake
All nunga business aside, I don't drink anymore..and they KNOW this. I know that they know this...so why do I feel like such a complete douchbag macfaggins when I turn down the invite?
I was talking to my cousin about this, and she could only suggest making new friends.
That's fine, but what about the old ones?
What about the times that Aubri and I were plastered and almost had a threesome with our two guy friends at our p.e. substitute teacher's house?
What about the time Laura and I went to incahoots completely wasted off of vodka that we had downed in the parking lot, and booty popped for 3 hours straight in heels?
Even though most of those memories seem completely fucked (yet, still hilarious), they're really special to me. So when they invite me to smoke out or drink at a party or a club, I can't. I can go, sure, but it's not the same. The awesomeness that would've been is replaced by silent awkwardness, filled with slurps of water on my part, and rum on theirs.
It's just so lonely, that sometimes I question whether or not a shot or two would REALLY make that big of a difference. Maybe not, but then it would become an expected behavior.. "well, you drank at my birthday, so come on pussy!"
I've also been having really demented nightmares lately, which i've decided to just let go, since dream interpretation is lost and pointless art.
One, involving the bananas in pajamas being eaten alive...internal organs spewing out and blood squirting every which way.
Two, involving ballroom dancing with a corpse in a large red room.
Starbucks can suck a nut also.
Not really, the people that work there (for the most part) are actually genuinely nice.
I'm also SUPPPER stoked about the fact that I can now successfully imitate CAKE texture and taste.