I returned to Los Angeles from Dallas, Texas, yesterday afternoon and nearly kissed the graffiti and gum covered sidewalk at the airport in my elation.
As much fun as I had picking up dead animal parts and being chased by beavers – not to mention tortured by small children – I think I was meant to live in an area of the world that doesn’t look like this:
But I should probably go hide now, because I might get my ass shot by a Texan with a shotgun. Those people have more pride in their state than is even possibly healthy. Oh yeah, and they sincerely believe
Barber: So, ye go to school, eh? (I can't write Texas accents - only pirate ones)
Brother: Yeah, I go to
Whittier College– it’s basically in . Los Angeles
Barber: Ah, well, welcome back to
Brother: Umm, yeah, I’m actually from
. Los Angeles
Barber: I see. Well boy, welcome TO
So, as it turns out, I’m not American. I’m Californian. This is totally okay, because if the real
But I’m really hoping there are some more happenin’ cities than
Well, either way,
The lack of hills in
It was like I had landed in a never-ending, landmark-less, apocalyptic wasteland. All the buildings were brick, all the grass was green, all the trees were the same kind of tree, and I never had any freaking idea where the fuck I was.
So, yeah, the biggest problem I had with
Hence, me making out with a
So, my first order of business upon returning to “faux
AND IT’S TOTALLY HAPPENING, YO!
Well, not the financially stable part. But I got my first comment from a person I don’t know personally, and it was a good one:
Nicole is one of my top five favorite bloggers, because she’s totally bad ass. And hilarious. And I totally did not solicit her in any way, shape, or form. Nope, people. Nicole was inspired to link to my Twitter because my bio gave her a “heart boner”.
I am officially awesome. (Evidence below)
Plus she follows me on Twitter now, and direct messaged me to tell me she had linked to me.
Well, basically my brain was exploding with blogger internet nerd happiness and I completely failed as a girlfriend because I was really, really distracted.
See, while I was madly commenting on Nicole’s blog post and tweeting simultaneously, The Boyfriend’s goat was chilling at his bedroom door.
And I was all like, eh, he’ll stay there.
And suddenly there was that sound that you only hear when A) someone turns on a faucet, or B) they release all the fluid in their bladder.
THE GOAT HAD CROSSED THE THRESHOLD. AND HAD IMMEDIATELY STARTED URINATING.
I threw the laptop aside and stood up, so that I could start yelling some incoherent phrases at the baffled animal while looking like I was somewhat in charge. What came out of my mouth was something like, “What the…goat…shit….fuck…ummm….GET OUT!”
Well, Surly (the goat) just stood there. And continued to urinate. Is this goat fucking disrespecting me??! Something tells me that when a goat stares dead in your eyes and continues to piss all over the carpet, what they are really saying is, fuck you, human person.
Sadly, before I could resolve the situation (and before Surly had emptied his extremely large bladder), The Boyfriend marched in to see what all my incoherent muttering was all about.
What he saw was his girlfriend, standing in the middle of his bedroom, letting a goat piss all over his carpet.
Well, he started screaming obscenities, and it became obvious that the goat was much, much more respectful of him because it got the fuck out in two seconds. But then it took a dump on his porch.
Then The Boyfriend turns to me with an accusatory why-the-fuck-were-you-letting-a-goat-desecrate-my-bedroom stare.
Which, really, was completely appropriate given the situation.
Luckily, The Boyfriend understood that I had been so swept up in my dreams of internet fame and glory that I didn’t realize the goat had entered the room. And, it was only upon hearing the sounds of goat pee flowing like the Niagara-fucking-Falls that I fully grasped the situation unfolding in front of me.
If I have learned anything from this experience, it is that lusting for fame is dangerous.
And potentially smelly.
P.S. So, the million dollars worth of medication prescribed to me by my dermatologist is working. And by "working" I mean that my face is on fire. And it's falling off. I would cry, but the tear trails would burn like a mutha fucker and probably become permanently branded on my skin. Fuck.