Flying Fresh from the Forgotten Friday
So I could have birthed almost-two babies between the last time I updated this and now, but it's no spoiler that there have been -35653378 opportunities for me to realize even having one. To provide a rather abridged synopsis of the hillocks, hills, goombas, piranha plants, bomb-ombs, koopa troopas and Koopas I had to Super Marioa over since last year at the adventurous age of 19:
RuPaul's Drag Race and Project Runway collaborated on Memorial Day Eve and finally called on me to graduate from being the basic pH-14 bitch in basic sneakers to being the basic pH-13.99 bitch in wedges; they also subsequently made me solemnly swear to spend Memorial Day thenceforth never remembering the fallen shoes of yesterdays and yesteryears.
This shoe revolution transformed my life enough to qualify me for a qualifying life event so life-changing I thought it would have let me change my Obamacare (SPOILER ALERT: IT DIDN'T): I was courted, piggyback-driven, and kissed by a bisexual at the gays' pride parade...transient, hit-it-and-quit-it opportunity though it may have been for me to start a shotgun-family.
After the lost opportunity of the startup of a shotgun family, the rest of the summer comprised a smorgasbord of events that transpired between the summer-long sundry club-/bar-hoppings and libational indulgences:
I dared, with unprecedented audacity, to venture into one of those places Mufasa warned Simba never to go -- like, Florida, Michigan, Chiraqistan, The Confederate Republic of Alabamassippistan -- met some of the drag queens from RuPaul's Drag Race (I was proselytized to take up membership with the Team Adore team as well, and the fangirl feels were felt for the first time in life when I shed a few tears meeting Willam), who beat my life for a second:
I accomplished my goal of daily alcoholic indulgence, a goal which lasted longer than 98% f my other goals like New Year's resolutions (usually abandoned after an average of a day) and that one goal I had about a decade ago of working out to trim my planetary waistline (time of death: two days).
I had an epiphany and changed my government name from Tatianna Buchanan to, conveniently -- though unbefittingly -- Thotianna, after having been educated on the meaning of the word-acronym.
I met some rather noteworthy people who at least still have me on their Facebook friends list -- and whom I would call out, were I the one to do so in this secret-ish, anonymous-ish blog-or-something of mine.
♫ Iiiiiii've...haaaaaad the scares of my liiiiiiiiiiiife♫ You know, those automagic conception-scares (especially in Summer) that have one sprinting to the nearest Walgreens...even though there was no Dirty "Dancing" involved? Or maybe this just happens to me. The fact that they were all false alarms notwithstanding, I'm warning my fellow girlfolk against these guys because those Walgreens trips can become quite costly. See the threats to our child-free life here:
Last Summer culminated in me getting my life for a minute or about five split-seconds, after having been introduced to Tipsy Bartender à la YouTube. There was only so much Summer left that I could emulate only two or three of the drinks all the skinny 36-negative24-36s 12-negative100-12s in the video were making.
Fast-forward past coming closer to winning the Prom Queen title than Mitt Romney came to winning the electoral vote in the 2012 election...and past my all-day Halloween costume preparation for what was all but a less-than-two-hour Halloween night out, I started with new beginnings by being courted by a brilliant app called Tinder. Determined to find my cure to my Unlaid-itis, I created an account; gained a relatively respectable number of matches from my slavishright-swiping; was rejected about 2048 times before I could even get here:connected with my cuckolded ex-husband's, Aladdin's, replacement -- which resulted in us taking it to the next level of Snapchat friends; and I may or may have been rejected by bacon before what, to this day, has been the eternal lockout of the key to my thotty, delusional happiness. I could get more help from the W(orkaholics)ILFs from Workaholics than I could from the helpdesk of Tinder.
The year 2014 came to a close as someone who had become one of my best friends basically saying, "I'm out" right before Christmas -- but actually great friends helped turn the very end of 2014 around, and I ultimately ended up celebrating the last hour of New Year's Eve at my bar-home away from home, where those toiling at that New Year's Eve shift ensured that I lost neither my phone nor my wallet.
Notwithstanding the above, my driver's license and the life savings on my card were missing/stolen -- resulting in me basically spending New Year's Day living in the parking garage, in my car, being sustained by my cell phone, which managed to stay intact. (Fortunately, it wasn't worse; I mean, my car keys could have been missing...where I would have known a veritable enough feeling of indigence.) Thank the very Lord that I also had enough cash on my person to exit the garage.
Fast-forwarding, there was a family loss; there was the loss of my car, which couldn't even-ed for one last time; and there was another family loss, which still stabs me with the feels to this day (but thank the very Lord her suffering ended).
My 18th birthday following just a couple of days after aforementioned losses, there was then, shortly thereafter, loss of friends and good people when cotwerkers were evicted and made to twerk elsewhere. To have been one of the survivors felt like the equivalent of having won Battle Royale...until it felt like Battle Royale all over again.
Fast-forwarding past: turbulent times -- from kiki to emotional muay thai -- with a couple of cotwerking squirrel-friends; Battle Royale becoming real enough to induce phantom heart attacks; being detoured for over three hours until the Gay Pride Parade was over (as a girl who likes boys who like boys, this was a grave issue); getting an XBox and becoming a gamer girl in search for gaymer boys (and being occupied by almost every male character as I lie with them in waiting to be whiteknighted by the nonexistent gaymer boy who likes girls); this eternal wait for my eternal lustmate, Sterling Archer; tossing and turning in flustersome wait for the sire of Empire's Generation Z: Hakeem Lyon; and missing the opportunity for this to propose to me at the rally:
Here, at the mature age of 18, I'm sitting here in my new humble abode of my dreams, with most of my friends still intact -- and with just as many single girl problems (I mean, I moved to an area saturated with gay men; watch Murder, She Wrote on Friday nights; and am still considering a cat) and just as much uncertainty as there was before my current twerking-grounds. Started from the bottom, now I'm...a billionth of an inch from the bottom, but still thinking I'd be a bottom if I were a gay man. .
