Destroying My Mother’s Home, Getting The Cats High, And Giving Myself Arsenic Poisoning All In Less Than 48 Hours.

(Don’t worry, it wasn’t heroin like my other post. Just Valium made for cats. And possibly marijuana.)

I went to bed yesterday morning at 5:30 am and didn’t wake up until today at noon. At first glance, everything in my mother’s room (where I passed out) seemed fine. Then I rolled out of bed, my legs buckling under me, and the giant bruises all over my body yelling at me for trying to move.

There needs to be a “Do Not Serve” sign with a picture of me in every liquor and beer store in America. Perhaps the world.

It’s really for the best.

So, [my boyfriend] and I had the best intentions. (The assumed joke here is how they pave the road to Hell, but I won’t underestimate your intelligence by explaining that. I’m just hungover.)

We bought some cheap vodka and made screwdrivers, and then started a relaxing bonfire for the evening to celebrate his 2 days off after 13 straight days of work. After a couple hours and 2 drinks (for him. I was on number 5 or 6, I always forget to count), he suddenly gets sick and has to go inside. Here’s where things get bad because I should never be left alone with alcohol and fire. That’s just common sense.

Instead of being a good girlfriend and nursing him back to health, I called some friends to come hang out with me and finish the liquor. (Except that’s never how it goes because once more than 2 people get together, shit. pops. off.) I finally got a few people to come over, only after lying to the question, “Are you sure you’re not gonna be wasted already when we get there?”

“Of course not!” lying through my goddamn teeth. “Maybe a bit tipsy, but I’ve only had like half a drink!” So my friend Crystal came over with her girlfriend (she’s a lesbian, but that’s just for background info) and also with 2 other girls who just graduated high school. I usually don’t hang out with children, but you can’t help who your friends bring over. Then my friend Ben came over with a couple guys and since it was raining, we all hung out on my patio drinking.

Crystal likes to play drinking games, so before I knew it, my mom’s glass table was in front of me covered in solo cups and I was bringing home my team in flip cup.

(I am the queen of drinking games. I will destroy everyone.)

Jump to next scene: more beer, more people, more solo cups. We’re all in my basement and I have my stepdad’s $3,000 acoustic, stumbling into everyone and playing “American Pie”. I’m making up my own lyrics in place of the ones I’ve forgotten and I make the mistake of noting how the one girl is winning beer pong because of her distracting boobs.

Suddenly, she and some other girls are taking off their shirts and my basement has become a weird, homemade version of “Girls Gone Wild”. (With the music of Don McLean in the background and everyone is smoking cigarettes.) I’ve never seen so many boobs in one place. At this point, I’m now more self-conscious than ever.

Later, we’re all outside dancing around the bonfire pit, after I’ve taken apart the actual woodbox and used the planks for fire wood. (I’m gonna get in SO MUCH TROUBLE.) People have sparklers and now I’m playing “Piano Man” on my keyboard (we brought it outside) with my stepdad’s guitar on my back, and occasionally pulling out his harmonica for those parts. People are smashing beer bottles against my siding.

Again… So. Much. Trouble.

Great fire, though.

That’s all I remember, but the scene from this morning tells the rest of the story. The bag of kitty-Valium treats is open on the kitchen floor and almost empty. The cats seem fine, but who really knows?

My house is a fucking mess, though. As usual, my alcoholism has gotten me in a jam, but hopefully more alcohol is the solution. (Also, I think the planks from the woodbox are pressure treated so I might have arsenic poisoning. My parents can’t be mad at me if I’m dead.)

Have a great day, everybody!

I Stepped On A Nail And It Went Through My Flip Flop.

(Is the word “flip flop” supposed to be hyphenated? The English language is annoying.)

This whole week has been like stepping on nails and misspelling words. (Note: I just misspelled the word “misspelling”. Exactly.) It’s been the kind of week filled with sadnosity and the quasi-suicidal-ness that only comes with being over dramatic.

Today for instance, I didn’t realize my pants were inside out until someone at the grocery store asked if I was really a size 7. I wanted to ask why they were reading my pants, but I’m nice so I said yes, and then proceeded to discuss the price of chicken for what felt like an hour.

Then yesterday, I had a “First Blood”-esque fight/manhunt with a spider that might literally have been the size of Sylvester Stallone. I hid in a corner for 30 minutes armed with a fly swatter and piece of cardboard that I made into a shield. Eventually, [my boyfriend] just came over and hit it with his shoe and then asked me to clean up the fort I made out of sheets and boxes because it was blocking his office area.

I reluctantly said yes, but Vietnam changes a man. That spider could have pursued me for weeks.

“Nothing is over! Nothing! You just don’t turn it off! It wasn’t my war!”

Then I found out that my ex boyfriend/first love got his girlfriend pregnant and I totally freaked. I realize I have no right to be upset, but we were gonna have a baby too and I lost it. (Pity me and I’ll stab you. Don’t make this blog sad.) Mostly, I’m pissed that everyone I’ve ever loved or been best friends with has replaced me with a fat and less-attractive redhead.

Seriously, even my best friend all through middle school and high school dropped me for another redhead who was just a poop version of me.

(I bet Lindsay Lohan deals with this sort of thing all the time.)

So all in all, the nail-in-the-flip-flop-thing wasn’t so bad. Things could always be worse, like being hunted by a large spider or wearing inside-out pants to church.

If You Give Heroin To Your Kitten, You Just Might Be The Worst Person Ever.

(But, ya know… there’s Hitler so… I can’t do that math.)

REGARDLESS, FUCCKKK THAT GUY!! He also dragged it behind his car which makes me sad just thinking about it. (You, however, can read about it here.)

I feel like there’s some euphemism with bats and heroin… oh well.

Anyway, the whole thing got me thinking about why no one has been commenting on my posts and I’m like, “Hey guys, uhmm… what’s the big idea?” Maybe I have to come to your houses and make you eat your keyboards.

But no one wants that. Especially me.

Still, this whole blogging thing is confusing. I spent the entire morning trying to create a mailing list and I couldn’t figure out how to get the goddamn plugin on here. I USED TO LITERALLY WRITE WEB DESIGN SCRIPTS. How the fuck am I unable to figure this WordPress shit out?? I might do this one guy‘s skype-seminar thing. I talked to him and he seems cool.

I also need to post more.

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I all honesty, I’ve been either drunk or hungover the past few days and it’s hot as shit here in Pennsylvania (where people do sick shit to cats) and I cannot escape the bees. Or the spiders. Seriously, attempting to just go out on my porch for a cig is like going into that cave from “Harry Potter and the”.. whatever it’s called, where all the giant spiders chill and Ron is like “No way, bro,” but stupid Harry Potter isn’t afraid of anything and makes him go in there? Well I’m Ron Weasley (ginger AND a pussy), and I can’t go outside.

“…spiders? Why couldn’t it be ‘follow the butterflies?'”

That’s life in PA, though. Truck-sized insects, kittens on heroin, shitty sports teams. This might as well be Florida. (No offense, Florida. It’s not you, it’s me.)

However, if anyone out there knows how to get rid of spiders and wasps (some, by the way, that are giant and purple and LIVE IN THE GROUND), please let me know. I’m very close to burning my house down to stop them, which would be bad considering I’m on the top floor of a duplex with 2 other families… so, ya know… time is of the essence here folks. :)

On the bright side, I’ll never be as bad as the guy who gave heroin to a kitten. Or Hitler.

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UPDATE: Check out this giant web on the streetlight outside my house!!!! That’s only a bit of it!!!

Help me!! :(

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN! WHERE ARE THE CLEAN TOWELS???”

(The pile of dirty laundry is becoming sentient.)

Living with another person (especially another gender) is madness and also a double-edged sword. Or bittersweet. Whatever.

One the one hand, you have someone to hold you at night when you’re scared that the ghosts  in the attic want to attack you (and someone to take out the trash and stuff), which is all nice. On the other hand, if they weren’t around, you’d never have to do dishes or cook food (if you’re like me and only use bad-for-the-environment disposable things, and WHEN you eat, if ever, you exclusively use the drive-through at Hardees. Or sometimes McDonald’s if you’re in the mood to drive the excruciating extra 3 miles).

Plus, I would ALWAYS (mostly) know where EVERYTHING is because I put it there. And if something WAS in fact misplaced, I’d know that it was the ghosts from the attic trying to fuck with me.

(Or I was drunk and forgot.)

In which case, all I’d have to do is call the paranormal club at my college (ya know, that show, Paranormal State?) and they’d totally go Ghostbusters all over the crib. Maybe Bill Murray from 30 years ago would show up…

Anything is possible.

“I want you inside of me…”
“It sounds like you’ve got at least two or three people in there already.”

Granted, I’m not the cleanest person either. I might not be alive if it weren’t for [my boyfriend]. At least I try, though.

Like last week when I did my own version of “Y.M.C.A.” and replaced the lyrics with things like,
“Young man, there’s no need to feel down
I said, young man, pick your clothes off the ground
I said, young man, this is not a playground
There’s this new. thing. called. a. hamper!”
All while doing the motions a la Village People. It was pretty impressive.

Life is just proving that I have in fact become my father because how intense I get whenever anything is moved. Like my laptop, for instance, which I found on the floor this morning HONEST TO GOD looking like someone had just tossed it off the couch onto the ground.

….just….why????….

Also, he leaves his pot-smoking stuff EVERYWHERE. I hate looking at it and it smells.

(I usually only smoke when I’m wasted, but at least I have the decency to clean up all my beers!!! Which is actually quite miraculous considering how very drunk I get, and is extremely considerate of me, taking time out of my busy beer-drinking/ashtray-fire-extinguishing schedule.)

(Saintlike, some would say.)

Oh, by the way, this is a picture of my boyfriend. He recently got his hair cut, which made me very sad. Fun fact: he’s got something called “congenital anosmia” which means he was born without a sense of smell. It’s like his nose is blind or deaf. (Note the excellent mustache.)

That’s my boyfriend :) Quite like Eddie Munster as a grown-up, right?

All in all, if it weren’t for [my boyfriend], I’d probably be dead right now and also not going to school since he kicks me out of bed every morning and makes me go, which is annoying, but nice. Double-edged sword or not, life isn’t all bad, and if you have someone who will try to convince you that there’s no ghosts in your attic wanting to kill you so that you can all hang out, you’re pretty lucky. :)

I’ve Shown You Mine… Let’s See Yours.

Oh…well hello there. I didn’t see you come in. Since you’re here, allow me to introduce myself:

 

This is an excellent example of what I assume “White Girls Be Like”. (Note: duckface, headphones, laptop cam, etc.)

^^That’s me^^

My name is Alanna [LastNameRedacted] for legal reasons, obviously. I am currently 21 years old and studying English at Penn State University. Not the real one, though, with football, Jerry Sandusky, and lions roaming around terrorizing the halls (which is probably true). No, just one of the small satellite campuses where kids go because they couldn’t get into the real one. Mine is located in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania and used to be a military base/fallout shelter because of the close proximity to a nuclear power plant. Also an international airport.

(Talk about asking for a terrorist attack.)

(Or possibly lion terrorists. Which definitely roam the halls of Penn State.)

 

I’m blogging here because I’ve always dreamed of being a writer, but publishing companies aren’t chomping at the bit to pick up an inexperienced writer with no ideas and like, 15 years of journals. I am also blogging because Jenny Lawson (a.k.a. The Bloggess) said she could see me blogging.

Maybe she’s psychic and literally saw me blogging in her mind or possibly a crystal ball.

 

I suppose my domain name (whitegirlsbelike) is correct (because I AM in fact a white girl, and I DO be like…etc.), but please note that this blog is for all races and I just suck at coming up with titles and such. However, this blog will pretty much be about my life and thoughts and that stuff.

The only problem is that I generally have a “Not Safe For Work” approach to my life, and I hope my parents don’t see this. (If you know them, please don’t tell them. Thank you.) I’m not gonna be all “diary-style”, but much of my anecdotal repertoire features major themes such as drugs, alcohol, sex (kind of), and various other criminal activities.

You’ve been warned.

Beware of bat attacks. And lion terrorists.

 

Sooo anywaysss…..

Now that you all know me, we can be best friends.

Yayy! :)

 

Also, you can comment here and tell me all your deepest, darkest, most incredible secrets. For example, I’ve been stuck in traffic while having to pee really bad on multiple occasions without something to pee in, so I’ve peed my pants IN MY CAR approximately 3 times. Perhaps four?

So what are YOUR secrets? Or thoughts? Maybe you were conceived in a dumpster? Or possibly you’ve murdered your entire family? Let me know!! I don’t judge, I promise.

 

Adios, amigos! Have an excellent rest of the day!