Wish it had been chocolate

My eyelashes were crusting together by the time I got home. The night had cooled and the wind had picked up just enough to create a coagulating effect for the pudding. I was covered from head to Chuck Taylors with bulk vanilla pudding. The kind in 12lb cans from Sam’s Club. The pudding squished out my shoes with each step. It coated my skin with a shiny shield like crusting glue. It was getting hard to move. Forget about smiling.

It started off innocently enough. Just a couple kiddie pools filled with pudding and a Friday night. I was to be a spectator, not a participant. But Anne had to be a smartass and chuck a fistful of pudding at the back of my head. From there, it was out of my control.

The eight or so blocks to my house were spent chasing Prada girls on their way to the bars. They ran in those heels, to avoid our pudding-filled outstretched arms begging “Give me a huuuuug.”

I got home to find my roommate and a couple of her friends on our porch. It was one of the last weeks we would be able to drink outside. September leads you on.

I met the guy I ended up dumping on the porch that night, covered in pudding. He admitted to me later that was what drew him to me. The pudding. I knew we were in for trouble.

Maybe his mom had warned him to watch out for girls who smoke, work at gas stations, and drive Sunfires. But she should have warned him about girls covered in desserts.

They are bad news.

Role Model

There are people that you go places with, and there are people that you don’t. Certain people belong in certain places. There are school people, work people, drinking people, coffee shop people. When you see these people out of context, it’s off putting. I don’t want to see the girl that makes my lattes, no matter how second-hand chic she is, at the place where I work. I’m not fond of running into school people at the bar or bar people at school.

The danger lies not with them so much as it does with me. See, they could start comparing notes and realize that I’m never the same in these different places. At school I’m quiet, at the bar I’m loud. I contemplate global warming at the coffee shop and mix recyclables at work. Suddenly, two and two doesnt make four. It makes a hypocrite, a girl with no undeniable personality. A blobular mass of whatever is supposed to be given the situation. A liar, maybe.

It should be easy. But mixing these worlds scares the shit out of me. That’s why blogging is so wonderful. I can say anything without taking ownership of one word. Kinda makes me want to swear. Or promise something fantastic.