So I've decided to chock this weekend up to a whole lot of fun and leave it at that. I like having the guy that I'll run into at parties and have moments with. I could call him, but I won't. If he calls me, I'll blow him off(not sexually, fuckers). Everyone that knows me knows I'd kill the relationship anyway. I'd end up lying or worse, I'd be honest and then things would get really bad.

The headache is gone so I can listen to Korn again. Whew. Here's a pic of the nurse and the abortionist. She is so fuckworthy, eh? You're welcome, fuckers.

Just Read the Dosage and Quadruple That

My brain is mush today and it might be hard to keep focused with this update.

Last night. How do I describe a night like that? I just don’t know where to begin, so I’ll begin at the beginning. We show up to the party(ies) really late. On the way, Sexyback (by... ugh... Justin Timberlake) came on the radio and I found myself walking around the parties singing the lyrics to Paxilback (The Gray Kid and Daniel Stessen, who are worthy of praise) most of the night.
Party #1 was a blast, the people are all a bunch of tattooed freaks, deviants, weirdos and punks- not the common, neo-punk asshats that think punk means dirty and stupid. These people go all-out with their parties. There was a badass electric chair (it vibrated, but not QUITE enough) black lights, badass music, a giant hooka, and many, many hot people. Oh, and the best weed I’ve ever smoked. Truly.
One guy- the pics are online so I am going to post a few here- made the BEST costume ever. He was an abortionist. He had scrubs splashed with red paint and there were a whole slew of tiny babies stuck all over the place. He should have won the costume contest, as far as I am concerned, but he didn’t qualify as host. He loved my breasts. Yeah. They became the topic of conversation several times throughout the night. I thought a wife was going to attack me.
There was another guy (just happened to look like he could be brothers with an Aussie I once new) that I was lusting over, but I adored his gf. She was spunky and man, she was sexy as hell. I don’t think I’d have had a chance. With either of them. I admit defeat. Also, the gf could have kicked my ass.
Last time I’d gone to one of these parties, I ended up hanging out with this guy Derek, who’s nestled into the Detroit area music (rap) scene. Well, he’s normally far from my type since I tend to prefer more punky sorts. I’m not sure why, but last year, I had a great night with him and then left without either of us handing over a phone number. Since then, he and I have been asking mutual friends, at different functions, if the other was supposed to show up… and then we’d miss each other. Well, last night, I started getting excited about the possibility of seeing him again. And I get to party #1, and this guy that looks at me and goes, “Hey, Sarah! Your boy was just here, looking for you.” My boy, eh? Well, he COULD be, eventually. “Yeah, he went across to the other party.” So I say hellos and grab a drink and head over to the party across the street. When, after having to been to both parties, I couldn’t find him, I assumed he had left and parked my happy ass at party #1 and proceeded to get lit. I was considering hooking up with this one guy when I looked up and locked eyes with Derek. I don’t know if it was the beers, the jello shots, or The Liquor Luge*, but he was suddenly just there and I don’t know how but we were instantly attached at the hip. Lip. Whatever. He wanted me to stay the night with him, but I declined, going against every natural urge of my body. Still, I went home at 5 am. He said, “You can’t forget my phone number. Don‘t forget it.” and guess what... Sarah forgot all about his phone number. Life is funny like that. Now I have to make an ass of myself and call people. Ah, well.
So now I am recuperating from last night’s festivities. I woke up a little while ago, dyed my hair… ugh. It was supposed to be a dark brown but it’s black. Now, I’ll have to wear lipstick everywhere I go for it to work.

*The Liquor Luge is an alternative method to the standard in shot-taking. What you do is take a big tinfoil tray thing (think turkey dinner) and you fill it with water and freeze it. Then, you place it at an incline so the shots you pour over it run down to someone’s waiting mouth. The alcohol eats a path into the ice and blah, blah, blah, I’m sure you get the idea. My last “shot” was really about 4. Should I be proud? The guys were impressed. I almost threw up when they switched to Cuervo. Ugh.

P.S. If I had a decent grasp of HTML, I’d add that little thingy at the bottom of the post that shows the songs I’m listening to. I really have no clue. I am fully aware that if I start screwing with the coding, the whole blog is toast. So, any volunteers?

Happy Halloween, fuckers. If things got any better, I'd be dead in a bathroom stall with a needle in my arm and some really nasty guy railing my still-warm corpse.

Sometimes, every single plan falls through. Last night was one of those times. It's almost as if there really is some big, cosmic skydaddy out there... and rather than tossing lightning bolts my way, he's hurling the negative, uncomfortable crap at me. I wanted to just enjoy, to feel but not dwell. I was expecting the E. Just E. No blow because I was worried about it's interaction with the opiates already in my veins. I just wanted to do a little rollin' with some friends, a nice, fun, stress-free night where I danced and touched everything that had beautiful dimensions. Maybe a lick here or there, but no stress.... did it work out that way? FUCK NO.
I find it sad when something is left unexplored- A high. An emotion. Whatever. But since I SUCK at relationships (I have the morals of a turnip, it's been said), nothing more than "just fun" seems possible unless I want the stress, the guilt, whatever. BUT there are still very important lines that must be drawn. ABSOLUTE lines
Like sex with non-hot friends.
Now, I love my friends. I do. but when the evening goes from "hey, let's roll" to "Hey, we should really fuck Sarah" or worse, "I have loved you for 10 years," it's time to get the flinging, flanging fuck out of the situation.

Frankly, he's not smart enough and she's not hot enough. Good thing, too. I spent all day trying to get over a hangover and every person on the damn planet called to tell me about the sex they had last night. I even had a few stop over so that they could give me the extra-descriptive version... you know, the one with all the faces and hand gestures. Anyway, it seems that everyone but me got laid last night and not one person used a damn condom. Not one. Do we not remember the lessons of our 7th grade sex ed teachers? hmmm? Oh, and half the stories were about friends that had relationships going with someone other than the person they went to bed with. So now I can't mention Joe to Lisa, Bob to Sue, Kim to Dan, Eric to Sue (same one, yeah), etc. etc. Keeping other people's shit straight is just not entertaining. Know why? because I am going to get drunk one of these days and I will then say something that incriminates them. There will be yelling, maybe some hair-pulling, who knows? What I do know is that the hair-pulling will not lead to sex with me because..... yep, no one used any condoms. Morons.
Tonight is a whole new night, though. I'm going to this block party that I fluttered around last year and man, it's like trick-or-treating for adults. Every house, a different substance. Yay! Not that I'd normally classify myself as an adult, mind you. But apparently I am. mostly.

P.S. I might be going to see Bob Dylan on the 2nd. wahoo!

you know, you are free to change your mind at any time.

Ever have a moment where you're like "FUCK! I tried to do the right thing and it all fucking backfired and things would have been better had I never told the fucking truth in the first place?" I'm there. Right fucking there. and yes, I could say fuck a thousand more times but still, it wouldn't really have the effect I was hoping for. Vulgarity is a wonderful linguistic tool, but I just don't have words to say anything to fix what I have done so.... I'll not say anything.
I leave you all with a quote.
"Profanity is the inevitable linguistic crutch of the inarticulate motherfucker."
~Bruce Sherrod

What to write aboot?
I've come to the conclusion that I should never, ever write about anything other than all the neat little drug-related stories based on my experiences and/or fantastical insight into the subject. Yep. sounds good, eh? Whatever I have written, be it for college or something online, whatever.. the only huge responses come from, "this time when I dropped all this acid" or "That time we got wasted and I fucked the crazy-hot guy in the closet at that massive UofM party." and everyone lives vicariously through Sarah's crazy exploits. I suppose I am okay with that. Realistically, even though things are changing and non-lameasses (dorks, prudes, churchies, etc) are hanging out online and blogging their fucked-up experiences, the majority of you e-people have never had sex in any lovely, deviant-like positions, you have never dropped acid and smashed out the car windows of the bitch who is fucking your ex... you know, normal, everyday, all-american activities that could land a girlie like me in jail or rehab, if not for my exceptional breasts and the family member that works for the police department. Shhhh.

So after that epiphany, I just so happened to discover.... insert drumroll here.....well, it's just a quote. BUT it's a damn good one.

Freud, you know, the father of modern psychology (horrifying thought, him being such a large part of the world of psychology, since the dude had some really serious issues) said this:

"A patient that is depressed or fatigued will almost certainly feel better with a liberal supply of cocaine."

You know, I agree. The man did manage to get something right. I know that when I'm down or tired, a nice, thick rail always perks me up. mmmm mmmm good. Now, everyone that's everyone knows that opiates hit the spot, but blow will suffice. Oh yes, it will suffice. Anyway, I'm out to find me some pills to wash down with my WILD CHERRY DIET PEPSI. Good stuff. The diet pepsi and the pills. Maybe I should just find me some E and make a night of it. But given my current mood, that's not likely a good idea. Yeah, I'll stick to the opiates.
Peace.

So I am wanting a new job at a local hospital.
Scrubs make everyone’s ass look cute and there’s easy access to meds.
I’m joking.
Scrubs make MY ass look cute, not yours.
So I was told to go to human resources in a building nowhere near the hospital to fill out papers. I was told specifically to bring 5 copies of my resume and to be prepared for all sorts of testing (not blood, hair or urine. Whew!) SO, I show up at human resources with my multiple copies of my resume- that have been fluffed to perfection (I should be in porn)- and (See how I just toss commas and quotes and brackets and shit into my writing? Amen for editing, bitches.) when I get there, this bitch (probably the one that told me to come down to human resources with 5 copies of my resume) stares at me for like a full minute before telling me that they no longer take resumes in person… everyfuckingthing is done online. Nay, I do not leap across the counter and choke the bitch who dashed my hopes upon the crack rocks. Instead, I take my 5 copies of my resume, come back to my motherfucking house and fill out like 47 pages of online bullshit in hopes of finding the fantastic job with all the perks(drugs). I was told to wait a week and then call humanmotherfuckingresources. So I call them and they say that one line didn’t post in the e-bullshit and that I need to fill it all out again. I asked if I could just please, for fuck’s sake, take them my 5 fucking copies of my perfectly-polished resume and she said no, they no longer do anything in the human resources department that has anything to do with motherfucking resumes and that I have to fill out all 47 fucking pages AGAIN before they’ll hire me. Wahoo. And then I have to go in a different day for testing.. but not blood, hair or urine testing. Whew.
I just want the drugs, people.
MUST they make it that fucking difficult?
I mean, I just want to help people.
That’s all I want.

That and my friend with the vicodin to hurry the fuck over here and give me some.
xoxox

I've been trying to come up with things to say that wouldn't freak out my family whenever they stumble onto this blog, but I can't seem to come up with much. You see, I was stupid and gave a few people my email address and they put my name on a damn group-mailing and now, at least one will be heading here. That's why everything is erased. I don't want my dad to read the things I've said in the past. that might be bad. and also, I've put too much about other people out there. here. whatever. Things about the ex could come back to haunt me. Anyway, I just sent another story to mace at Terribly Wrong and it's funny. Thanks for the editing help. you are appreciated.
The one person I know who won't find her way here is my mother. Yesterday, she had me planting flowers for her during a damn blizzard. a blizzard. The first snowfall of the year. I wish she'd be able to see them bloom, whatever the hell kind of flowers they are.
P.S.
Dad, it's all lies. I have never, never so much as smoked a joint. I am an angel and I just may vote republican in the next election. haha yeah, I know. Just keep me in the damn will, ok?

I wasn't in the proper mental state to blog the other day, apparently. ha. I guess I'm rarely in the proper mental state. anyway, my aunt died, my family is crazy, I can't stand Ann Taylor. I was looking for clothes with my cousin and wanted to choke this cute little asian girl. I'm sorry, but like said asian girl, Ann Taylor must not have breasts, whatsoever. So I went to the damn viewing all casual-like. For the funeral I'm getting.... a POWERSUIT. wahoo. maybe a cami for underneath, 4" heels. I'll find out. Who the hell cares about this kind of thing? well, my family turns most every event into a fashion show. We pop pills and dress schwank. fanfuckingtastic. I have a lot to write about but don't have the time so I'm done for the day's blog.
word to your mothers.

I love my mom

We're going to say this is a hypothetical. Yep, that's what'll be said.

My aunt died 2 days ago. She had cancer that matastasized(sp?), crushing a lung completely and spread into her pulmonary artery. She also had some tumors you could feel, just under the skin surface of her abdomen. There were also 9 tumors in her brain. It was a mess.
I was there for the family and my help and support were appreciated, that's what matters the most to me. That and the fact that now I have seen death. I've seen dying people. I've seen dead people, but I've never really witnessed the transformation until now. I thought that given my own mother's terminal condition, I should stay and watch and learn, and hopefully help prepare myself for what'll be happening to mom soon.
You see, I hate my family. They're mean, so fucking manipulative and greedy as shit. The only time we come together is when someone's dying. We actually bring cameras to funeral so we can get pictures of each other.
Anyway, I sat at the hospital, watching the plastic vultures drooling, listening to my dying aunt moaning and moaning in pain, non-stop for days. I also got to listen to an alzheimer's patient screaming "Hey! Let's go!" at the strangest points during my family conversations(each time, I thought of the ramones). My cousin, auntie's only daughter, was losing her mind so I volunteered to stay the night so she could go to the hotel and sleep and shower.
During one of the nights I spent in her room, my aunt woke up. She had a moment of clarity and looked at me, right in the eye, told me she loved me and then said not to let her go. Now, I just don't know what she meant. "Don't let me go" has unnerved me since she said it.
Anyway, this is the point of my writing today: this is what my strange, strange, mother did that almost got her not only banned from her dying sister's room, it nearly got her arrested.

One of my plastic cousins works for the hospital. It was she that first took note of my mother, standing over her sister, my dying aunt, pulling the breather bag from her face.

"What are you doing, Aunt Brenda?"
(You couldn't miss the craziness in my mother's eyes,or the grotesque snarl which revealed that she'd neglected to "put in her teeth.")
"You know exactly what I'm doing!"
"Put the damn mask back on. Look at her vitals."
"I'm well aware of her vital signs."
"Then you can see that they're going down. That'll kill her. You can't do that."
My mother, my tiny, sickly, insane mother responded by yelling, "Don't tell me what I can't do!" and pulled the breather bag even farther away.

The stats dropped rapidly, alarms went off, it was quite a fantastical, slo-motion kinda moment. The nurses flew into the room, likely expecting to reconnect a hose, reattach a sensor or something, then their mouths fell open and eyes widened in horror when they saw my mother hovering over her sister's unconscious form, taking from her the one thing sustaining her life.
They didn't arrest her, but because of the "suituation", no longer allowed my mom in the room without proper supervision.
Man, it was fucking priceless.

On another note, I've been diagnosed with depression and anxiety. That's right, folks! I've officially joined the ranks of nut-jobs world-wide. Tomorrow I'm getting colonipin? I don't know how it's spelled, but I was given some and wowee. me likey.

Also, I have been contacted by someone that has created a server, and wants contributors to some of the branches available via his homepage. ? I can't describe comp-things well, obviously. Anyway, he'll pay writers, photographers, artists (Ford, I suggested you when he said he'd like a weekly political cartoon), and oodles of other contributors. Anyway, he's helping me get my novel published and he's giving me a motherfucking job. I'm still going to school, just in case, but some really good shit happened to me over the last few days (aside from death and being diagnosed as a crazy) that'll I'll be blogging about soon. Not that anyone's reading this anymore. I linked it back to my yahoo profile so that should change. Anyway, I'm happy. Fucking geeked, actually. That and crazy. wahoo.