Damned To Be A Damsel...

Rated I For Immature

2011-11-11T17:24:00.001-08:00

Well let's just get straight to the point: I turned 21 too soon.

You don't believe me, do you? You're sitting there thinking that I am ready. You're wishing that we were face-to-face right now, as opposed to me here, writing this in your present but my past, and you there, reading this and yearning to tell me I have the maturity of Oprah, the wisdom of Lincoln, the swagger of Wayne. (As in John, not 's World.) I know, I know. But I'm telling you, I'm not ready. I may have the success of Gates, the punctuality of Loonette the Clown, and the determination of the Toxic Avenger, but none of these brilliant qualities matter. I can be The Shit at any age, whether it be 20 or 19 or 2. That's right, 2. I don't even need to be able to talk to be The Shit. I could be walking around in my shit and still be The Shit, but not at 21. You may be wondering why I say this. AND I'M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU.

Reasons I Shouldn't Be 21

(I lied about the whole "not telling you" bit. That in itself could suffice for Reason #1, Compulsive Unamusing Lying, but that one's on the house.)

1) I'm 21 years old now, and still 5 foot 4. I'd like to say I have come to accept it, considering the fact that I've been 5'4" for a good 6 years now; I'd like to say that I have come to accept that a sudden growth spurt is unlikely; I'd like to say that I have come to accept that a bag of Swedish Fish every day will not provide me with my daily vitamins and minerals, but I have not come to accept any of these things. I still buy my pants too long, waiting for that spurt to come, and I continue to believe that Red Dye #40 and Carnauba Wax provide me with all the Potassium and Vitamin C a growing girl like myself needs to get through the day.

(My renewed license says I'm 5'3". If you ever see my license, here are a few things you could say to really impress me):

"Your height on here is wrong. DAMN WRONG."

"You are an ENTIRE INCH taller than 5'3," fuck those ID-making bastards!"

"Holy shit, you've grown so much since this got printed!"

"That 3 must be a worn-down 8."

2) I'm 21 years old now, and am severely intimidated by bars. This used to not be so. Before being 21, I relished in the thrill of going somewhere I wasn't supposed to be, similar to that of sitting in the passenger seat of my own car. The environment feels right, but something is a tad askew. At the illegal age of 20, I had multiple bar stories that I will one day share with you, but at the legal age of 21, I'm at a whopping 0. Perhaps that's only because I got kicked out the last time I tried to drink in a bar...

"Get me a beer!"

"I can't, Natasha. He's going to ID me."

"Yeah, YOU, not ME."

"He's going to ID you, too, if you sees you drinking."

"Pshh. Please. Don't be a pumpkin pansy. Purchase me a pale ale, punk."

(Just recently saw Mr. Popper's Penguins, had to attempt the P-alliteration.)

"Alright, alright."

The bar is approached as 2 beers get ordered. Bartender looks straight to me, that sixth sense they all seem to possess when a child is amongst them, and my Legal Ally returns not empty-handed, but with a beer for himself, and for me, a Coca-Cola.

"A Coca-Cola."

"Yeah, he said he needs to see your ID."

"A Coca-Cola."

"What?!"

"We're about to participate in Karaoke Night, and the only liquid courage I have available is corn syrup? Is that going to convince me that I have the voice of Janis Joplin and the legs of Tina Turner? Are natural flavorings going to give me Joan Jett's attitude and the Big Bottom desired by Spinal Tap? No. They're not. I NEED A BREW, BREH."

"Just sip mine when he's not looking. I'm gonna go to the bathroom real quick."

"Okay, okay."

Four minutes later.

"Natasha!"

"Whaaaaaaaaat???"

"You drank my beer!"

"I had to drink it real quick while he wasn't looking!"

"I'm going to go get another one."

As the second PBR is sat atop the table, I glance to my left before grabbing the can. Coast is clear. As I tip the lid to my lips, one eye on the bartender the entire time, I see him steal a glance at me. Shit! I quickly put down the can and grab my mother-fuckin' Coca-Cola and start chugging, as if Coca-Cola was my absolute favorite beverage of all time. I even throw in a couple "mmmm's" and "ahhhhh's," but that doesn't stop the Fartsender from strutting on over. I continue to sip my ice-cold cola, exclaiming something along the lines of, "I'm gonna need another one of THESE heavenly-holders of artificially-colored bubbles!" but the Fartsender is nowhere near convinced.

"I'm gonna need to see your ID."

"There's an age limit for caramel-colored sodium?"

"I saw you drink out of that beer."

"No, no, you must be mistaken. That was my good ol' fashioned Cooka-Coola."

I hold up the can next to my face, slightly cock my head, and smile. I considered giving a thumbs up, as well, but decided that was something an intoxicated person would do, so I instead throw up the universal symbol for "Live Long and Prosper."

"I'm still going to need to see your ID."

"I'm not drinking."

"You picked up the beer, looked at me, then put it down when you saw I was looking."

"Uhhhh...............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

................

..........................................................................

..................... ..........................................................................................................

...................................no I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No, I was looking at you, reached for my Coca-Cola, looked back, realized it was someone's beer, put it down, looked to see if you had seen my silly mistake, then continued to sip on my favoritedrinkofalltimeohmygodcoca-colaissogood."

"If I don't see an ID, you're going to have to leave."

"Okay, I have to go out to my car and get it. Then I'll bring it to you."

Fartsender retreats to his homeland as I erratically start to put my things in their pockets, only to take them back out again, ambiguous as to what to do next.

"We're going to have to leave, Natasha."

"Bullshark! Not before I scramble a couple of that yolk-yodeler's eggs!"

"I'm not really sure what that means, but I'll be right here waiting."

"A-HEM!

Fartsender turns around, shoulders squared off, pecks pushed forward, scowl embedded, brow furrowed, penis tiny, unaware that I am standing there analyzing him head to toe. What, I wonder, will really get to this guy. I mean, REALLY push his buttons? I didn't walk over here to give him some humdrum "Fuck you" accompanied by my middle finger. No, I wanted to do something that would personally attack this guy. I wanted him to feel threatened, intimidated, terrified, and sorry. To sum that all up, I wanted him to feel T.I.T.S.

"ID."

"I don't have it, I actually just came over here to tell you that I've been here before, and you're the only one who's given me such a hard time."

"I need to see your ID."

"I completely understand; you're afraid of getting in trouble."

"No, I just need to see your ID."

"I understand, I have a boss, too, and I'm not scared of my boss, but I totally understand that you are. You're afraid of getting in trouble, that's absolutely understandable."

"I'm in charge right now."

"Right, but you have a boss you have to answer to, one you're obviously intimidated of, that'sfine, believe me. I feel so much pity for those who are insecure, trust me. I'm not mad at you, you just need to find that inner confidence within yourself to make your own calls."

"I do make my own calls."

He's beginning to fidget a bit, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with me. I must be getting to him. I decide to continue to challenge his manhood. And also lie a little bit.

"I mean, I used to be a bartender, and I didn't care about IDing everyone, because I was comfortable calling my own shots, but you must have a very scary boss, don't you? It's fine,really, not all men can answer to themselves."

"YOU NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW."

And so I left, cursing the Fartsender and vowing to myself that I would return with a vengeance once I turned 21, shoving my renewed license right up his tooter-shooter, yelling things like, "YOU FEEL LIKE A MAN NOW? DO YA? DO YA?!" followed by, "BET YOUR ASS WILL BE BAR-TENDER TOMORROW!"

But alas, it never happened, for as the eve of my birth year crept closer and closer, my urge to be of legal age became smaller and smaller, which brings me to my last reason.

3) I'm 21 years old now, and I spent my birthday bowling and TPing. That's right, I relived my tenth birthday, in which I went bowling, and following that, I bought 6 rolls of toilet paper, drove to someone's house, and threw the toilet paper in the trees, just as I did when I was 12 years old. (Mind you, this was not alone. I'll use toilet paper on my own, but I'm not going to go throw it around in someone's yard on my own.)

In fact, I didn't even buy the toilet paper myself. Someone else bought it.

In fact, I ended up using some of it to piss in a yard, so not even all 6 rolls were used on the house.

By the way - 6 rolls gets you nowhere. It wasn't even long enough to throw in the branches, so I indulged in simply wrapping it around the trunk of the tree, which is incredibly pathetic without even mentioning the fact that this was on my 21st birthday.

It was a calm, innocent birthday, exactly what I wanted. I didn't WANT to go out to a bar and get wasted, I didn't WANT to go into a liquor store and proudly present my newly-legal ID, I didn't WANT to do anything to cause any trouble whatsoever. I just wanted to spend time with my family, a couple close friends, and 6 rolls of toilet paper, and that's exactly what happened.

I also didn't want to get arrested 2 days later.

Unfortunately, that happened, as well.

To Be Continued.

Shakespeare's Schizo Sister

2011-11-09T08:37:00.000-08:00

Allow me to let you in on a little secret - writing isn't as easy as it seems. Another little secret of mine is that I have no laundry basket. That doesn't seem like much of a secret, does it? Well it does when you're rummaging through my bookshelf and find a pair of smelly socks in between the pages of a book. It does when you reach your nosy little hand in the glove compartment of my car looking for a lighter and instead you pull out a rolled-up pair of leggings infested with mildew. It does when you need 2 cents and you reach in the change pouch of my billfold and unknowingly pay for your purchase with a wadded up ball of dirty underwear.

I had written only one sentence before carelessly revealing where I keep my panties, reinstating my previous point of: writing isn't as easy as it seems.

Now, I'm not talking about the physical aspect of writing. Obviously. If you thought that I was revealing to you the trouble I have with pushing buttons and watching the pretty symbols magically pop up on the screen after pressing said buttons, please stop reading now. You've deeply offended me and I've severely overestimated your intelligence.

On the contrary, I'm not talking about the mental aspect of writing, either. Hello? Have you read my blog? Does it seem as if I've spent days and days on a post, or does it seem like I just sit down and GO? Does it seem like I'm trying to write an award-winning essay, or does it seem like I let my train of thought wander aimlessly with my fingers following closely behind? Does it seem like I give a shit, or does it seem like I think whatever I write is going to be the shit nonetheless? Granted, I am a natural, quoted in the New York Times as "Shakespeare's Schizo Sister" as well as deemed "Emily Dickinson's Aborted Baby" by the Chicago Tribune, not to mention the Wall Street Journal handing me the title of, "Darwin - Before He Evolved." But enough boasting, I could brag all day, making writing incredibly facile, just as it always is.

Writing has recently introduced me to a new obstacle, the one that gave birth to my secret of writing not being as easy as it seems. Humans.

ICK! The very word of humans makes me sick. Those mortals...those homosapiens...those bipeds...those people...persons...men...women...children...Carrot Top...they all are just horrible and need to be gone! Gone, I say! For it is these individuals who will not. Let. Me write.

You're confused, I see. Patience, young grasshopper, I'm getting to my story now. I could have just jumped right into the story instead of stating, "Hey, I'm a-gunna till y'all my here story book now, wish it had summadem peek-churss." But I sensed you were a bit lost, and I was only looking out for you. To make it even more simple for those of you simple-minded simpletons, I give you this:

THE NEXT SENTENCE WILL BE THE STORY.

I'm sitting at a coffee shop.

My current habitat lacks wireless internet, making it toilsome to drive an hour away to write at the only 24-hour-coffee-shop I am aware of, but, being a writer of such dedication and passion, I found myself departing from my present home, suddenly filled with an urge to drown myself in my own literary rants, hence the statement above.

I'm sitting at a coffee shop.

I felt completely in character, sipping on my joe, sitting at my laptop, swearing like a sailor. It was beautiful, a complete immersion of Man vs. Mind. My fingertips were Flying like a Kite, my happiness like A Spoonful of Sugar, I felt like i was on a Jolly Holiday, exclaiming Chim-Chim-Chiree as I Stepped in Time and Stayed Awake. Until he came along.

"Excuse me, will you watch my stuff while I go buy a drink?"

"Yeah, sure!"

(That exclamation point on the end of that sentence was a word all on its own - that's how good of a mood I was in.)

He came back, sitting a chair away from me. Okay, so picture that for a second: there's me, being awesome, an empty chair to my right, and then him, being lame. I didn't automatically assume he was so, but it was only 2 seconds after he sat down that he says:

"This chair is wobbly, I'm going to sit in this one."

First of all, man, I don't give a shit if your chair leans one way more than the other. Good for you. Your chair is at a bit of an angle. That's great. I don't need to hear the status of your seat.

Second of all, THERE ARE A TOTAL OF 4 SEATS TO YOUR RIGHT. Why, WHY, must you choose the ONE seat to your left? Do you see how I opened up 2 textbooks, neither of which I'm even glancing at, and put them on the table space to my left? Do you observe things like this? Do you have eyes? Do I look happy closing these textbooks so you can sit? Is this really a free country? Not when I'm here, bitch.

"What're you working on?"

And now you want to have friendly chit-chat. GREAT. THAT'S REALLY JUST GREAT.

"I'm writing."

"Oh, really?"

Shit! Seem busier, seem busier, seem busier....

"And doing a Statistics test and finishing Math for the Liberal Arts homework and designing a Geology powerpoint and working on the cure to cancer."

Yes, those are some of the actual classes I'm enrolled in. Yes, I know those are the General-Education classes students take their first year of college. Yes, I do realize I'm in my THIRD year of college. Yes, I am aware that I should be graduating in a year had I stayed focused. Yes, you can fuck off now.

"Yeah, I have a lot of work to get done as well."

Whew! What a relief, I thought this guy was going to want to talk to me all night. How wrong of me, to assume that I was the only busy one on this planet. I have realized my mistakes, and shall ask for forgiveness. We are both here to do work, and do work we shall! I can be so conceited at times...

"So what are you drinking?"

"Uh...Blue Moon."

Alright, alright, so I had a beer. But that was AFTER my coffee and I was only going to drink ONE. It was also the first time I had bought alcohol since turning 21 two weeks ago, a story I will share once the chaos of it all has blown over.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

Hmmm...is it just me or is this crossing the "small talk" boundary? Am I just socially behind? Has, "nice weather we're having tonight" been replaced with "I'll be having you tonight?"

"Yes."

"Oh...because I was going to say that if you didn't have a boyfriend, I'd buy you a drink."

"Um. Ha. Hahee. Hoo."

I have this tendency to awkwardly fake-laugh whenever I don't know what the hell to say.

"Because he probably wouldn't like that."

"Hee hoo ha ha."

"Unless he wouldn't mind, then I'd be very happy to buy you another one of those Blue Moons."

I bet you would, BallBag.

"Thank you but I won't be able to coughcough GET ALL THIS WORK DONE coughcough if I keep drinking beer."

"What is it you're writing exactly?"

Come on, man. How many hints do you need? One? I told you I have a boyfriend. Two? I declined your offer to buy me a beer, a very tempting offer to a broke girl. Three? I've been literally speaking, "ha ha ha's" as opposed to genuinely giggling. Need another, do ya?

"I don't like to show anyone until it's a finished product. Once it's finished, you can see, but I need to FINISH IT first."

"Really? Hmmm. I don't believe in that. I'm a writer, as well. It's good to get feedback from others while your work is in progress."

WOW I'VE NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT THAT! FEEDBACK FROM OTHER PEOPLE??? GOODNESS, WHAT A BRAND NEW IDEA TO PLANT IN MY INFANT-SIZED BRAIN!

"Interesting."

"So, we have something in common, don't we? We're both writers."

Finally, my soulmate has found me. Another wannabe-writer. Another person who wants to earn a living by talking about whatever the hell they feel like talking about. How rare.

"Yep, we are!"

I was being short, but I'll admit, I wasn't being rude. I wanted to be, believe me, but I just couldn't force myself to completely humiliate this guy by being an asshole. Therefore, I blame myself for the following bullshit I had to endure.

"I'm a poet, actually. I write poems."

Is he suddenly speaking in a British accent?

"Ay jus' luff poe-imms, indeed ay doo! D'yoo fancy yore-seff summ poe-imms?"

Yes, yes he is.

"I like poetry, yes."

"Want to read some of my poems?"

At least he's back to an American accent.

"Ay doo buhleeve you'll foynd thim quite love-a-lee."

Scratch that.

"Alright, sure."

See, this is where I should have said GO STICK A RAINBOW UP YOUR ASS AND SHIT OUT SOME FLOWERS YA DAFFODIL-DICK, but I didn't. I said exactly what you see above. "Alright. Sure." Sometimes I can really piss myself off.

So after reading not one, not two, but FOUR of his lengthy poems, with him staring at me the whole time I was reading them, he decides he hasn't impressed me enough, so he pulls out an entire play he's working.

One. Giant. Poem.

"I'm going to get another drink first. I'll be right back."

See, most people would take this as hint #822, the fact that I need to get a little more drunk before suffering through Old Mother Hubbard On Ice. Most people would not read a stranger their unique version of Hamlet, starring Little Jack Horny, Little Miss Muff-Diver, and Peter Peter Blumpkin-Eater, but this guy was proving to be a one-of-a-kind-kinda-guy.

I ended up just going outside to stand and reflect, contemplating what the hell kind of maneuver I would need to escape Edgar Allen Poe-Me-Anotha-Drank (that was a hit AND a miss, if such a thing exists), when all of a sudden I get approached by yet another stranger, an employee at this coffee shop, the one I had completely misconstrued as a quiet, subtle environment.

"HEY!"

"Hi?"

"What's your name?"

"Natasha."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"Have you always lived in Nashville?"

"Mostly, yes."

"Were you born here?"

"I feel like I'm being interrogated!"

"Sorry, I'm Milo."

"Hey there Milo."

"I've seen you around here a lot recently and I always want to come talk to you but I can never think of what to say and you always look really angry."

"Yeah...I get that a lot. People always tell me I look pissed off. I'm not though! Just...in... thought."

"Well, wait right here, I'm going to come back and talk to you some more."

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON! IS THERE A SIGN ON MY BACK? DOES IT SAY, "HEY, IF YOU ARE A SINGLE MALE, PLEASE TALK TO ME?" DOES IT SAY, "I LUGGED ALL MY TEXTBOOKS AND MY COMPUTER INSIDE THIS COFFEE SHOP TO PRETEND LIKE I'M HERE TO DO WORK?" DOES IT SAY, "I HAVE A LOW ALCOHOL TOLERANCE AND A 24-HOUR VAGINA?"

Back inside I go, to confront The Poet and tell him I did NOT come here to read a random dude's poems on the hidden love beneath snowflakes of sorrow. But before I can say anything, he opens his mouth.

"Give me a topic."

"A topic?"

"Yeah, you see, I have this gift. If you give me any topic, anything at all, I can write a poem about it right here on the spot. It's my talent."

I was too angelic to tell him that that very exercise is one I used to do in the first grade, but in my head I challenged myself to make sure I wasn't just being arrogant.

A Poem On How I Want To Leave This Coffee Shop

by: Natasha Ferrier

Cornered by a horny queer

Trying to quickly finish my beer

Alas, I need to get the fuck outta here

Let me know when the coast is clear

I can't believe this Blue Moon was 4 dollars.

Point proven. Nonetheless, I gave The Poet a topic.

"How much you suck."

Just kidding.

"Winter."

"Winter? Winter! How PERFECT. I could kiss you right now."

"Ho hoo huh-huh."

"No, really, I could kiss you right. NOW."

"Huh hee ho ha ha hardy."

"I mean, if you wanted me to."

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

"Cause if you want me to, I'll do it. I'll kiss you right now."

"HAAAAAAAA AAAHHHHHHHHHH I need to go to the bathroom."

One abrupt getaway later and I'm hiding out in a bathroom stall. This is NOT why I came here. I did NOT come to HIDE beside a fucking TOILET. I could do that at HOME, if the urge ever struck me. I came here to write! To WRITE, god dammit! To stimulate my mind, not to stimulate the blood flow toward a stranger's main vein! I had had just about enough. I returned to my seat and began packing up my things.

"Wait - are you leaving?"

"Noooooo, no no no, OH no, I'm just going to get a couple more textbooks out of my car to bring back here for my homework."

"I could watch your stuff for you."

"No no no, thats okay, I need my bag to put all my textbooks in because they're heavy. I'll be right back."

"Well, do you smoke? I was about to go outside and smoke a cig---"

"I'LL BE RIGHT BACK!"

"Wanna smoke firs---"

"SAVE MY SEAT!"

And I literally jogged out, never to return to that coffee shop again...

Okay, that's a lie. I've been back multiple times, but I've learned to put headphones in, whether I'm actually listening to music or not, because one thing I've learned is - people don't fuck with people with headphones.

Well, there you have it, the sad truth of why writing can be difficult. It's a solo-activity, and some people just mistake "solo" for "group" while others say they want to kiss you because you said one of the four seasons. I guess you could say I could have avoided that whole situation, I guess you could say I'm blowing the whole thing out of proportion, I guess you could say I need to grow a stronger appreciation for poems THAT DON'T EVEN RHYME, I guess you could say that the fact that I was unable to write because some guy was switching back and forth from a British accent to an American one doesn't make much sense, but then again, neither do I. Writers as vividly brilliant as myself tend to not make much sense. As the Washington Post once said, "Natasha Ferrier puts the "Cum" in E.E. Cummings." They wouldn't say that for nothin'!

I'll Be Your Sugar Daddy

2011-11-02T08:23:00.000-07:00

He looked a bit like Gepetto, his kind smile resembling that of the puppet-maker, though his wrinkles of wisdom reminded me more of Old Saint Nick. Either way, the man appeared to be a nice, old man, one I assumed had dozens of grandchildren who he spoiled quite extravagantly, showering them daily not only with gifts, but also with the hugs and kisses of a man who dearly loved his family. The man was smiling at me as I filled the chips-rack at work. As he himself filled his drink with good ol' fashioned Coca-Cola, the kind of soda a nice, elderly man would prefer since it probably reminded him of the diners and Elvis records he enjoyed as a young man (as opposed to our modern choices of Monster Rehab and Purple Drank), I smiled back at him. I imagined he was staring at me because I reminded him of his granddaughter, or even great-granddaughter, perhaps, so when he stepped over to speak to me, I was not surprised. I imagined he would tell me how my eyes sparkled like his little girl's did, or how he hopes I will one day find a bright, young man to cook for and clean after. He would probably tell me I would be great for tying my future-husband's shoes, and that my cheeks look ideal for getting slapped around for not having dinner ready on time, but I would excuse these old-fashioned ideas of his, for he can't help it that he is old. When he opened his mouth to speak, I imagined he may cough a bit first due to sickness, and I would pity the old man and help him walk to his Buick LaSabre parked out front, but the old man did not cough. Instead, he told me this:

"You look like you've been a bad girl."

I stared at the old man, at first taken aback by his assumption, then shocked. He wasn't standing there thinking of how twinkly my eyes were, he was standing there pitying me for somehow dooming myself to a Christmas with no presents! He was sad that I, such an innocent-looking lass, had written my name down on Santa's Naughty List, and would have to suffer through the holidays with solely the luxuries of regret and remorse.

"Have you been a bad girl lately?"

I immediately knew this was my chance to redeem myself, to convince this cute, little, old man that I had not been bad! I was a good girl! A good, GOOD girl!

"No, sir, I haven't been bad. I've been a good girl."

"Are you sure? Because you look like you've been a bad, bad girl."

"No, I haven't! I promise!"

What had I done? Was my hair not freshly washed? My teeth not freshly brushed? My nose not freshly blown? Oh, the embarrassment! Oh, the humiliation!

"You shouldn't work here, you know. A girl like you doesn't make nearly enough in this place."

"Yes, sir! I would like to find a job where I make more money..."

Listen to him, Natasha! Accept the wisdom of the old man, wisdom you surely do not deserve but have received because he pities you! PITIES YOU! What a nice, old man, helping the needy, giving hope to the hopeless, stepping closer to stroke my hair...

"You ought to be a waitress. You have this beautiful dark hair...and the skin of a porcelain doll..."

The old man then began to run his hand across my face, first the right side, then the left, then back to touch my hair some more. Blessing me, I'm sure...yes...yes, that's it...the old man was just trying to give away some of his good-hearted kindness through the stroke of his fingers...I'm sure that's why he was touching me...I think...

"Men like me would give you a very hefty tip for you to please us."

"Yeah...yeah I was thinking of being a waitress. I used to waitress at this Italian restaurant but I ended up quitting..."

"What's your name?"

"Natasha."

"Natasha...what an exotic name. Natasha...Natasha...Natasha..."

The old man then began to look me up and down. Probably just to...umm...just to...hmmm. I'm not really sure why the old man would do this, to be quite honest.

"How old are you, Natasha?"

"My birthday is tomorrow, actually! I'll be 21."

"Twenty-one...really..."

"Yes, sir!"

"So you'll be legal tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Hmmm...well, Natasha. Have you ever heard of a sugar daddy?"

"I've heard the term...isn't that...a candy...?"

"I'm not talking about the candy. I'm talking about a sugar daddy, like myself."

"I know I've heard that term somewhere..."

"Can I be your sugar daddy?"

The old man steps closer, placing his hand on my arm. He is close enough to where I can read the brand name on the side of his glasses, close enough to make me feel a bit uncomfortable...

"I don't know what that is, sir."

"Well, a sugar daddy is an older man, middle-aged, like myself---"

I may be innocent, but I'm not fucking retarded. The guy was at LEAST 70.

"---who doesn't want to get married, and doesn't want a girlfriend, but who greatly enjoys young, beautiful girls, such as yourself---"

"Enjoys" can mean a lot of different things when put into that context.

"---so he finds one and gives her money. Lots and lots of money. And buys her things. Lots and lots of nice things. As long as he gets something in return."

What I had thought earlier was the smile of a puppet-maker was now starting to look more like the smile of pornographic-movie-maker.

"Now, society won't accept an older man like myself to drive down some alley and pick me up a hooker, but if I have a young, pretty girl on my arm who I buy things for, it's alright. As long as I get...you know."

His wrinkles of wisdom were now forcing images into my head of other places on his body that would have wrinkles. Old Saint Nick was suddenly turning into Old Limp Dick, number one on my list of "Things Never To Mentally Picture," right up there with Oompa-Loompa-Intercourse and Dropping Bombs on Munchkinland.

"You do know what I mean, don't you, Natasha?"

I abruptly came to the realization that I had been standing there nodding like a drooling idiot, incapable of words due to the fact that I WAS UNINTENTIONALLY PICTURING HIS PENIS AND HE FUCKING KNEW IT.

(The drooling part has nothing to do with the picturing part, F-Y-F-ING-I.)

"As long as you get...free sub sandwiches?"

The old man was not laughing.

"You know what I mean. I know you know. As long as I get..."

He starts raising his eyebrows up and down. Since when did brow elevation become the universal symbol for sex acts? He's still giving me that grin of a little, old pervert. My stomach starts to hurt.

"Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. Huh, I never knew what a sugar daddy was! Now I know! How interesting!"

I decided to just play dumb. When in doubt, ditch your brain.

"I would be interested in you, Natasha."

"Thanks!"

"You know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do know what you mean!"

"I could be your sugar daddy."

"Yes, you are capable of doing that!"

"If you're interested."

"If I am interested!"

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"YES!"

"Oh."

"Talk to you later!"

And that's when I left.

He looked a bit like Danny DeVito, his short, fat body resembling that of the penguin, though his wrinkles of mistakes reminded me more of Old Yeller. Either way, the man appeared to be a perverted old man, one I assumed had dozens of concubines who he spoiled quite extravagantly, showering them daily not only with cum, but also with the squeezes and pinches of a man who dearly loved tits and ass. The man was not smiling at me as I left the chips-rack still lacking chips. As he himself refilled his drink with good ol' fashioned Coca-Cola, the kind of soda a pedophile would prefer since it probably reminded him of the color of the dump he asked that last prostitute to take on his chest (as opposed to our modern choices of toilets and Charmin), I never looked back at him. I imagined he was staring at me because I reminded him of fellatio, or your average handjob, perhaps, so when he assumed he would be my sugar daddy, I was not surprised. I imagined he would tell me how my ass wasn't hairy like his last purchase was, or how he hopes I will one day surprise him with handcuffs and a whip. He would probably tell me I would be great for tickling his testicles, and that my cheeks look ideal for getting slapped around, especially in that red thong he would buy me, but I would excuse these old-fashioned ideas of his, for he can't help it that he is perverted. When he stood up to leave, I imagined he may keel over due to sickness, and I would pity the old man and help carry him to his Buick LaSabre parked out front, but the old man did not keel over. Instead, waved goodbye, and I imagined his aged package once more, wishing I had told him:

"SUCK MY DICK, SUGAR DADDY!"

Scarknee

2011-10-27T19:49:00.000-07:00

I was with some friends the other night when "scars" became the topic of conversation. For a reason that remains unknown, scars seem to be a pretty frequent discussion to arise, whereas other bodily mishaps are not. For instance, no one ever talks about their bald spots,

"Mine's in the shape of an egg!"

Or their nose hairs,

"My girlfriend loves when mine tickle her upper lip when we kiss; they're that long!"

Or even fat deposits,

"My buttcheeks are uneven..."

But scars, scars are acceptable. And only post-scar, as in "I got this from that time...", not scarsin-the-making, like when Maude was telling me about her recent accident.

"Yeah, I missed class because I had to go to the doctor for this burn..."

"A burn? Oh man, can I see? Is that weird that I'm asking?"

"Well, you can't really see it..."

"Oh, so it wasn't too bad?"

"No, it's bad, alright, it's just...down...there."

"Down...where?"

"Down...there."

"Down...on your thighs?"

"No, down there."

"Down...on your knees?"

"No...down THERE. Down there THERE."

"Down...OHHHHHHHH....down THERE-THERE."

"Yes."

"Ooh..."

"Yes."

"Ow..."

"Yes."

"Uh..."

"I spilled candle wax on it."

"On...it it?"

"Yes."

"Ooh..."

"Yes."

"Ow..."

"Yes."

"Uh..."

"The same thing happened to my sister a few months ago."

"She spilled candle wax on herself?"

"Yes. Down there."

"Wait...down...there?"

"Yes, down there."

"Down THERE-there?"

"Yes, down there-there."

"Ooh..."

"Yes."

"Ow..."

"Yes."

"Uh...nnnn....fortunate."

"Very."

You'd think after the first incident, they would have removed either all the candles in their house or all the vaginas. Seeing as the latter is impossible, looks like candles should have been booted off the island. Another question that irked me that I found too inappropriate to inquire is: Was the wax directly poured on the southern region? I mean, were pants worn when these candles were lit, or was something else entirely going on...?

At the time, this was just too much information. It's alright to picture some old scar on someone's body, but to picture rough, bubbly flesh on one's vagina is something completely different.

Have I gone into too much detail? I've gone into too much detail.

So the conversation arose, and I found that it was one of those rare occasions where I had absolutely nothing to say. This never happens. This...never...happens. I mean, I could have pitched in, i guess.

"Yeah, so I got this scar on my leg when I was---"

"I have a leg!"

"Oh, you have a scar on your leg, too?"

"Well, no...I just...have...a leg."

"Um...me too? Anyway, so my neighbor was throwing this stick, and he threw it right at my leg---"

"I actually have two legs!"

"You have a scar on both your legs?"

"Yes, I do have two legs."

"But...you don't have a scar."

"Nope, just got these two legs right here!"

(This is where I would begin to hit my legs to prove that they are in fact there, while also hoping that maybe if I hit them hard enough, a scar would in fact appear...)

Point being, I couldn't really contribute. I mean, I do have scars, but none worthy enough for conversation.

"Dude, so this crazy bitch at a party one time grated my face with a cheese grater, that's why I have all these little nicks on my cheeks."

"That's nothin' man, I was addicted to heroin for 12 years and so I got all these scars on my arms for shootin' up."

"Fuck you guys, when I was a baby, my finger got caught on our dishwasher and it ripped open the skin and I got THIS!"

(This is where I would show the line on my ring finger that is not even 2 centimeters in length, thrusting my hand forward as if I was about to shock my audience with its utter brutality, while Feta-Face and Trackula sat unimpressed. I would then become very defensive after seeing their bored expressions, causing me to shout things such as: "MY SCARS ARE EMOTIONAL!" and "STICKS AND STONES MAY NEVER HAVE BROKEN MY BONES, BUT WORDS HAVE SCARRED MY HEART!")

So there I was, silent and depressed, for I had realized I was a wimp. A WIMP! Oh, the horror, oh the disgrace, oh the sad realization that after years and years of thinking I was a badass, it hit me that I had nothing to show for it, no proof.

Until that night.

That night would have never occurred had it not been for the night before, a night I'd rather NOT explain due to horror and humiliation on my part, but I find it mandatory to at least summarize Night #1 in order for you to make sense of Night #2. (Not that it's going to make that much sense anyway. Alcohol-induced-acts never make sense.)

Brief Summary of Night #1

1. Went to Day One of a fest.

(I hate that word. "Fest." Shortening words is lazy and simple-minded. If you wouldn't write it, don't speak it. N on woul rea m blo i I wrot lik tha. It fuckin dum a shi.)

2. Drank a fifth of rum.

(Coconut. Bad idea. Whoever created coconut rum had his sights set on turning me into an alcoholic.)

3. Went to the male strip club for my friend's birthday.

(They get naked. They get completely naked. And no, it's not sexy. More so, it's confusing. How do they all have constant erections? Why were we the only people in the strip club? Why is one of them telling me he's a homosexual as he's thrusting on my friend beside me? Am I supposed to be turned on by 18-year-old boys wiggling their penises around to techno music? Am I abnormal for laughing at their thongs? Where the hell did my vodka go? Did I drink it all?)

4. Decided to go and surprise my on-and-off boyfriend at the time to tell him funny stories about the strip club, only to find him naked in bed with another girl.

(I don't really want to go into that. All I have to say is that's more nudity in one night than I have ever witnessed.)

5. Some kind of pea was given and I went home.

(You'll realize what I mean by that later on.)

So there's Night #1. Now, prepare yourself for Night #2.

Day Two of the same fest. Why I returned, don't ask. Along with things not to ask, please include the curiosity as to why I, yet again, drank a fifth of rum. You can also add why I have a single, black hair that sprouts from my chin every couple of months on the Don't Ask Me list.

Hairy chin or not, there I was, doing the same dumb shit for a second night in a row. Except this time, my friend randomly handed me a dildo in the middle of the night, in which I turned on and vibrated strangers from behind with for a good two hours or so. (Dildos + rum = Comfortably molesting people you don't know with sex toys that aren't yours.) Once someone shouted, "IS THAT A DILDO?" and took it from me, that fun was over, leaving me no choice but to go sit on a couch, wishing I had something else to harass people with. Along comes an acquaintance, just as drunk as I had quickly become, who starts putting his mouth on my fingers. Before he had even gotten the chance to progress to sucking my toes, On-and-Off-Boyfriend walks by, not as drunk as me and Acquaintance, but drunker.

"KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF HER! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH MY EX-GIRLFRIEND!"

Kind of a ridiculous thing to say if you think about it, considering the word "ex" along with the events from the night prior. Having your pointer finger sucked and having your dick sucked are on two completely different levels if you ask me. But what do I know. I don't have a dick.

On-and-Off (we'll call him Lightswitch) then sprints away, screaming, leading me to decide it's time to leave. Into my car I go, and drive away I do, but not fast enough to avoid the eyes of Lightswitch.

"FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU, BITCH! YOU FUCKING WHORE!"

Now, as much as I'd like to say I just laughed and waved with a big smile while I stayed safely inside my vehicle, this did not happen, for like I said before, I have a thing for coconut.

"OH YEAH? WHY DON'T YOU COME SAY THAT TO MY FACE YOU FUCKING DICK! HUH? HUH? OH, YOU CAN'T? YOU'RE SCARED?"

"YOU GAVE ME A BLACK EYE! YOU GAVE ME A FUCKING BLACK EYE, YOU BITCH!"

"WHY DON'T YOU GO FUCK SOME OTHER RANDOM WHORE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

"Natasha. Natasha. Come on, leave him alone, he's drunk, and you're drunk, and none of this is going to end well. Come on."

SmartPerson gently grabs my arm and turns me away from Lightswitch, leading me far, far away. But that's when I hear footsteps moving at a much, MUCH faster pace than your average jogger.

KABOOM!

I hit the ground: I've been tackled. I've been fucking tackled. I try and get up, but my left leg won't stand straight. It's bleeding quite a bit, and there's blood on the concrete in which I was tackled into. I think I'm about to start crying, but then I just get pissed.

"YOU FUCKING PUSSY! YOU'RE GONNA TACKLE ME FROM BEHIND? WHEN I'M NOT EVEN LOOKING? YOU PUSSY! YOU STUPID FUCKING PUSSY! WHY DON'T YOU GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE AND FIGHT ME MAN TO MAN!"

...I really just shouldn't drink.

"Natasha, stop, stop. Let them handle it. Let's go."

I look over and see people holding down Lightswitch, and then one of them bite right into his nose as Lightswitch begins to scream.

...That's when I start to cry.

A few weeks later, after all the blood and pus and mystery-green-shit has all gotten out of my knee that had smacked straight onto the pavement, I realize that it's finally done healing, but my knee doesn't look the same...there's a...a red circle...and some white streaks...and...it's still there months and months later...wait...could that be...no...YES.

"It's a scar!"

And now, all due to male strippers and stolen dildos, when the topic of scars comes up in conversation, I no longer sit and think I'm a pathetic coward. Now, I audaciously rise from my chair, pull up the left leg of my pants, and arrogantly exclaim:

"SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!"

The Russians

2011-10-19T10:46:00.000-07:00

As much as I try and avoid writing about work (because let's be real here, everyone and anyone can bitch about work) (let's be even more real and say that everyone and anyone DOES bitch about work), I find it impossible not to share my most recent catastrophe at a little place I like to call...DEMON UNDERWORLD. (Okay, so I don't call it Demon Underworld, I was just trying to illustrate a dark and gloomy place for my most faithful readers, only to later realize that Demon Underworld is neither clever nor witty. It is just retarded. Instead, we'll call it Club Gay.)

So Club Gay offered me another raise, but with a price (money with a price, oxymoron?). I must quit my second job as a waitress at a pizza place I was currently working weekends at in order to work at Club Gay on Saturdays and Sundays instead.

That was a bit wordy. Let's tell this like an epic tale, shall we?

ONCE UPON A TIME, there lived a girl named Provolone (that's me). Provolone was locked up in an evil castle that the village folk referred to as Club Gay (that's where I work.) At Club Gay, Provolone was ruled by Lord BMT, who was a powerful, powerful man. One day, Lord BMT realized how much Provolone helped around the castle. She washed dishes, she fed the village idiots, and she always suggested an upgrade to the medium-sized drink for only twenty cents more. So, Lord BMT decided to make Provolone an offer.

"Provolone! I have an offer of epic proportions for you!"

"Yes, Lord BMT?"

"Quit your job at the pizza place, and I will give you a raise!"

"Oh, but Lord BMT, I make a lot more money as a waitress than I do here as your slave..."

"Just think about it, Provolone! THINK ABOUT IT!"

"Alright, Lord BMT, I will think about it."

Two weeks later, Provolone decided that she would quit the pizza place, because her boss there yelled at her and called her an idiot for GETTING A DROP OF CAESAR SALAD DRESSING ON SOME LASAGNA. Since Provolone decided that it was not fair for him to yell at her over salad dressing when she could not yell at him for having a unibrow, she decided it was best to quit, especially since Lord BMT had offered her those extra gold shillings every week.

"Lord BMT, I decided to work weekends and get that raise."

"Oh, I am sorry Provolone, but I have hired 2 new people who have offered to work every single day of the week. It is too late for you. You can meet the new employees today."

Since Provolone was never told there would be a time limit on the offer, she became very angry and stormed out of Club Gay to calm down. When she returned, there were two new girls standing in the palace chambers. These two girls would soon be referred to as...

The Russians.

Alright, enough story time, the kids are asleep already and I'm ready to talk some grown-up talk.

FUCK THE RUSSIANS.

Maybe this hatred has all stemmed from the fact that they stole my raise from me, but it didn't help that these two have it out for me. Why they do, I'm not really sure.

Maybe it's because I have a Russian name even though I'm not Russian and they find that offensive.

Maybe it's because I've been calling the tall one the blonde one's name and the blonde one the tall one's name for about a month now without realizing it was the other way around.

Maybe it's because I put 9 Splenda in my coffee. WHO THE FUCK KNOWS! IT COULD BE ANYTHING!

Woo! I'm getting this frustration out now, aren't I! AND IT WILL NOT END THERE.

First, it was little things, like when they were first introduced to the American concept of the "Yo Momma" comeback. This wasn't that bad, I don't expect them to know all the retarded jokes Americans have laughed about for years....and years...and years...but it was the fact that after they learned about it, they decided to put it to use. All. The. Time.

"Hey, will you hand me that tray?"

"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER!"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Hey, can you grab me some onions out of the cooler?"

"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER?!"

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Hey, will you ring this customer up?"

"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER???"

"HAHAHAHEEEHEEEHEEHOHOHOHOHO!"

It never. Fucking. Ends. And they say it loud. And they say it WRONG. But everyone laughs. Oh ha ha, foreign girls misusing American phrases HA. HA. HA. No haha! No. Ha. HA! But I can't say anything! Because I'll look like a bitch! I can't say, "Hey, it's not "What is it you say about my mother," that doesn't even make any fucking sense, it's "Your mom" - and then you repeat what was just said."

For instance, "Will you grab me some onions?"

"Your mom grabs my onions."

See? That's kind of funny, whereas, "What is it you say about my mother" is not.

Because ONE, the 'yo momma' joke is supposed to end all conversation, because it's a comeback; you're supposed to have the LAST WORD. "What is it you say about my mother" is a question. TWO, it's "What did you say" not, "What IS it you say." THREE, IT'S NOT EVEN THAT FUNNY TO BEGIN WITH!

...God damnit.

Then, it escalated into them refusing to do what I tell them to do.

"Hey, will you grab me some bacon?"

Neither of them moves.

"Hey. I need bacon."

They both exchange looks with one another.

"Bacon. BACON."

They look at each other once more, then one of them says, "You get the bacon."

What? WHAT? Excuse me??? I get the bacon? I GET THE FUCKING BACON?!

So I make some loud noise that is kind of between the grunt of a caveman and the toot of a locomotive, like, "EUUHHHHGA!" and I throw my knife down. I've started doing that a lot since the Russians arrived, throwing my knife down. It's really a habit I should get out of...the whole throwing-knives-at-work thing...either way, I did it. I made a loud noise, threw my knife down -

...Then I went and got the bacon.

The third incident is a recurring one, which makes it that much worse. I walk up to the cash register to ring someone up. Russian #1 looks at me and yells,

"We need someone on cash register!"

"Um, hello? I'm right here. On cash register."

"We need someone on cash register NOW!"

"I am on. The cash register."

"Hello? Someone come ring this customer up!"

"I AM STANDING RIGHT HERE."

Then she finally gets the nerve to look at me.

"Only me, Russian #2, and Someone Else Who Hasn't Been Working Here Nearly As Long As You can be on cash register."

"Ha! I think I can handle it."

"SOMEONE ON CASH REGISTER NOW!"

"I'VE BEEN WORKING HERE FOR TWO YEARS!"

Again, I make the caveman-on-a-train noise and throw something. Who knows what. Money, maybe, since I was on cash register. That's right, I threw the mother-fuckin' money. I made it rain, bitches, right there in Club Gay. Toss me a stripper, I got the ones.

The next day at work, I walk up to the cash register and ring someone up. Then I look at The Russians, waiting for a good World War I reprise, but they just look at me and then go back to work. Ha! I'm thinking. I showed THEM! That's right, Stalin-Wannabes! You mess with the bull, you get its horns rammed right up your ASSHOLE! Or however that phrase goes.

So I leave to do something else, then later return to ring someone up again. That's when I see it, the most innocent-looking Post-It note ever to stare up at me, with the words,

"ONLY THE RUSSIANS ON CASH REGISTER" written in not-so-innocent handwriting, no matter how curly the Rs are.

This is when I freak.

"WHO WROTE THIS."

I have it in my hand already. I don't know how long of a shelf-life that thing had, but it soon shortened to 0 days once I crumpled it in my fist and turned to The Russians.

"Who. Wrote. This."

They dare not speak up, so someone else does.

"Russian #2 wrote it."

"Oh really? EUGGHHHHAAAAAA!"

Choo-choo-grunt, throwing of the post-it note, and I've again fulfilled my daily quota of loud noises and the sporadic tossing of objects that don't belong to me.

Then I go wash dishes and satisfy my vengeance by not responding to anyone who says they need help with the customers. It's immature, yes, but I am not at the age just yet where I need to act accordingly in a work environment. I like to look at my age as the age where I can get fired and laugh about it.

"But how does the story end, Mommy?"

"Well, sweetie, Provolone went mad and ended up going on a killing rampage throughout the entire castle and left no survivors. She was later arrested and sentenced to death, but then a magical pony rescued her from prison and now she lives in a world of gumdrops and sugar cubes and naked men feeding her grapes."

"Naked men, ew! I don't like that ending, Mommy."

"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER!"

The End.

Natasha Ferrier - Maggot Murderer

2011-07-27T17:44:00.000-07:00

I've recently been accused of losing my mind.

This all began after one night of staying up until 4 in the morning working on my father's birthday card and waking up the next day eager to share the monstrocities I encountered while working on the card with my partner-in-crime. We'll call him Clyde.

"Clyde, wake up."

"Euhhhhghhhhhh..."

This is code for, "I am sleeping."

"Clyde, WAKE UP."

"Grrrallllllleuhhhhh..."

This is code for, "I am still sleeping."

"Clyde!"

Silence.

This is code for, "Now I'm awake but am pretending to be asleep."

"Clyde!"

Silence.

This is code for, "I know you know I'm awake, but it doesn't matter because I am not acting like it."

"MAGGOTS."

"What?"

This is code for, "I will not wake up to the sweet sound of your voice, but I will wake up to you mentioning fly larva."

"We have maggots."

"In our room?"

"No, in the kitchen. They're everywhere. SWARMS. They're taking over, I swear to god. Get out of bed, I'll show you."

We walk to the kitchen.

"Alright...so they're gone. BUT - that's because they only come out at night."

"At night."

"At night."

"How many did you say there were?"

"MILLIONS. I was sitting on the kitchen floor making my dad's birthday card because the floor was the biggest hard space I could find and there was more light out here, and then I saw them coming. MILLIONS. From the trash can. Coming right at me. Headed right toward me."

"So then you went to bed?"

"No, I stayed on the floor."

"With the maggots?"

"Yes."

Silence.

This is code for, "That's so fucking disgusting, I don't know what to say right now."

"Look, I had to finish his card before his birthday, and I was on a roll. It wasn't like I was letting them crawl all over me, though a lot of them did get on the card...and the pencils...and the pens...and the scissors...and my shoes....and one got on my pinky...sneaky little bastard...BUT. That's only because I started smashing them with my shoes."

"So did you kill them all?"

"No, they multiply."

"What?"

"When my shoe would slice them in half, it'd make this popping noise, like, pop!, then the halves would become two new maggots."

"So then what did you do?"

"So then I had to smush them real good, down into the ground, like smussshhhhhh, then that way they wouldn't keep multiplying from their halves."

Silence.

This is code for, "I don't believe you."

"You don't believe me."

"Well----"

"FINE! I'll SHOW you. LOOK!"

"At what?"

"The floor! See all that? Those are dead maggot bodies. I murdered them."

"I don't really see anything..."

"That's because they're the color of the floor! You have to get real close up. That's what I did. I leaned in super close then came to a stop, like screeechhhhhhh, then I smacked them with my shoes, like BAM!BAM!BAM!, then I went back to making my card, like scribblescribblescribble, then a minute later I'd look up and they'd all be coming back to get me. For revenge."

"So are the dead ones all on your shoe then?"

"Yes! I'll show you!"

Silence.

This is code for, "There's nothing there."

"Okay, so there's nothing there. But I told you! That's because they multiply."

"I think you're losing your mind, Natasha."

"WHAT!"

"Are you sure you didn't just imagine all of this? I mean, you were up till 4 in the morning..."

Laughing. He is laughing at me.

"I think if I were to hallucinate, CLYDE, it wouldn't be of maggots with a vengeance."

"Then what would it be?"

Laughing. He is still laughing at me.

"You know, like, unicorns and shit."

Laughing. Still laughing.

This is such bullshit.

The last time I was asked if I was out of my mind was my junior year of high school. I was assigned to draw the political cartoon for a group history project revolving around slaves gaining their freedom way back when. So I drew the whole thing out - the slaves hiding from the evil white men, the slaves swimming through water to escape to the north, the slaves mingling amongst the white folk in the free states - and I turned it in, only to be kept after class to "discuss" my contribution to the project.

"Natasha....what. Is this."

"My political cartoon, sir. See? The slaves are hiding from the evil white men."

"Yes, but all you can see is their eyes against a black background and you've written, "Ha. Ha. You can't see us, evil white men, because we blend in with the night. Ha. Ha."

"Well, I'm sure that helped them to camoflauge...but look. See? They're swimming across the water to get to freedom."

"Yes, and you've drawn a mermaid singing on a rock, "I want a man, I want a man."

"Well, she's lonely..."

"And here? HERE? When you drew the African-American men freely coexisting with these white women?"

"Yes, because they're equals."

"Yes, Natasha, but do you mind telling me why you wrote this African-American man saying, "Let me put some chocolate in yo' vanilla?" What does that even mean?"

"I mean, I'm sure you must know what that means..."

"Are you out of your mind? Many people would find this completely racist, Natasha!"

"It's not racist! There's a mermaid. How is that racist? I said that woman was vanilla! I'm pitting names against my own race! I just...wanted it...to be funny..."

"I mean, yes, it made me laugh, but that's because it makes no sense at all. I'm going to have to give you a D on this."

Never again would I agree to do the political cartoon.

There are also a few other little things that have also been making me doubt my sanity. Such as the fact that I woke up the other morning and immediately said,

"Sushi is only 2 dollars!"

"What?"

"Uhh...what?"

"I asked you if you had to work today, and you said yes, and I asked if you needed to wake up soon then, and you said sushi was only 2 dollars?"

"Yeah...that's code for...I work at 2...uh...it's a work thing, you wouldn't understand."

I also have gotten into the odd habit of videotaping things. And by things, I really do just mean things. One thing, actually. And not parties, or social events, or even moments where I'm like, "Man, I'd really like to remember this," or, "Man, everyone looks so great tonight, I should get this on camera;" it's more like, "Man, we're in the car...I must videotape this."

So because of this, I have countless videos that are really quite embarrassing to show anyone else, for when I do, they are all narrrated like this:

"Look! There's my sister in her car!"

"Oh look! There's Clyde driving his car!"

"Oh, I love this one...my sister riding in my car!"

"What a classic - Clyde eating a banana popsicle in the passenger seat of my car!"

...all my videos. All people. All in cars. No dialogue. Just...in a car.

If this is some weird, growing fetish, I wish someone would just point it out to me instead of saying, "Yeah, Natasha, this is some great footage...these videos sure do...mesh well."

I've also gotten into the habit of laughing out loud over something I just said in my head, which makes it look like I'm just laughing for no reason, which makes it look like I'm the next Jack Torrance. And the things I'm laughing at? THEY'RE RETARDED. Like this one:

I'm labeling the vegetables at work to put in the cooler. I notice that when other people label the cucumbers, a lot of them just write "cuc" for short, so I start thinking of other ways I could write "cucumber" and use less letters. There's "cucumb...," there's "ber," "c-ber," "cucu," - and then there's "cum." And I start plotting that the next time I have to label 6 containers of cucumbers, I am going to label them all as "CUM." And this is when I start laughing and can't stop.

This is when I began to question the maggots.

And the mermaid. Though the mermaid was NOT irrelevant. She was an analogy of the slaves, for she too, is a slave to the ocean. Let's get real here. When am I EVER irrelevant?

Then I stop myself. Because I know what I saw. And there were maggots. Millions. All coming after me. Multiplying by the dozen, and after killing 50, 5 minutes would pass and there would be 50 new ones. All coming after me. Multiplying by the dozen...maggots...new ones...50...multiplying...coming...coming...millions...maggots...

Next time I see those maggots, I'm getting my fucking video camera. "Hereeeee'ssssss NATASHA!"

Pizza and Pringles Being Part of the Foreplay

2011-07-25T19:01:00.000-07:00

I hate to do this. I mean, I really hate to do this, but I've sat staring at this blank computer screen for quite some time now and I've realized that I just have to do this. I have to begin this post...with a cliche. WAIT! Please don't go just yet. Please don't go back to facebook and read the mindblowing news people must share with the rest of the world. I know, I know you must need to know that Kayla is "about to do her hair" and that Louise "is so over him" but you must bear with me for just this second. Please don't go just yet. Please do not go to Yahoo to discover that what's "Trending Now" is that Kim Kardashian has crashed a bachelor party and that J.Lo partied on her b-day. I know it's huge news that a pop star from the 90s actually did go into town on her very own birthday, what a shock this must be to all of us, but please. Let it wait. Kim and Jennifer will both still be trending once you're done reading this. Actually, they probably won't, but I'm sure something just as crucial to Earth's survival will be available for you to read and use up valuable memory space with. Remember what your mom and dad got you for your 8th birthday? Oh? You don't? Well do you remember what look Katy Perry just recently sported? Oh, the Smurfette look, huh? Blonde with a blue dress? Oh yeah? Well, I think that's wonderful. Really. I'm actually glad to know that you replaced your memory space that had initially been reserved for the love your parents gave you when you were a child and instead now stores the color of clothing that was once worn by the woman who wrote, "I wanna see your peacock-cock-cock, your peacock-cock-cock."

(Apparently it's okay to say the words "cock cock cock" as long as you say "pea" in front of them.)

(Yeah, okay, I may or may not have purchased that song on iTunes.)

(Okay, I did. I did purchase that song on iTunes.)

(Look, it's catchy. I'm not against catchy things, I just wish I didn't waste my memory with such.)

(I've reached a line of honesty that I was not planning on crossing. I need to either tell a huge lie now or move on with my post. I'll choose the latter.)

The cliche is this: Things really do change. There. I said it. Damn straight, I said it. I. SAID IT. And now that I've said it, a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Somehow I now feel free to quote any damn cliche I want!

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL!

HAVE NO REGRETS!

YOU PUT YOUR RIGHT FOOT IN, YOU PUT YOUR RIGHT FOOT OUT, YOU DO THE HANKY PANKY AND YOU TURN YOURSELF AROUND, AND THAT'S WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT!

Ahhh...life. Who knew that doing the hanky panky was really what it's all about? But today I'm not here to talk about beauty, or regrets, or feet. I'm here to talk about how things really. Do. Change.

I'm about to embark on my third year of college. This isn't really saying much, at the rate I'm goin' I'll be in college for another 30 years, but at least I'll have 33 years of experience on how to know a toupee when you see one. While I'm looking forward to what this year will bring, I already know two things: 1) it will be nothing like I expect it to be, and 2) it will be nothing like the past two years. I know these two facts because ever since I graduated high school, not one year has been remotely similar to the one that follows. And while that's exciting---

I can't go on like this. "While I'm looking forward to what this year will bring?" WHAT THE HELL AM I SAYING. WHAT THE HELL KIND OF ENGLISH PAPER IS THIS BULLSHIT. Enough, I say! Enough! You wanna know the truth? You wanna know the real god damn truth? IT'S FUCKING TERRIFYING, THAT'S WHAT IT IS! And you wanna know why? Because I am notorious for changing things! I AM the cliche, baby! I'm the changer of the change, the keeper of the keys, the bopper of the BopIt! I'M the one who pissed on The Dude's carpet, I'M the one who got Michael to drink from the wine bottle of blood, I'M the one who impregnated Rosemary, I'M the one who released Casanova Frankenstein to reunite with The Disco Boys!

...And that is exactly why I have no idea what I should expect from this next year. (Besides the end of the world, of course, but that's just Plan B.) (B as in Bullshit.) (B as in the world will end when there are flying cars and never-ending cigarettes and vending machines with prescription pills in them instead of candy and food that tells you when you should stop eating it.) (B as in the world will end when you can listen to your iPod in your iHouse with your iCar and you're going an an iVacation to some new iCountry with your iMom and iDad.)

In order to make this year a stark contrast from its predecessors, which is bound to happen nonetheless, I've decided to BRIEFLY revisit my past in hopes that by publicly humiliating myself, I will eliminate all chances of these occurrences ever making a comeback.

Freshmen Year of College

Closest Analogy: Being in a coma for 6 months only to wake up and find yourself lying in your own shit wondering what the hell happened.

I woke up one morning to find the shirt I had been wearing the night before was gone. It's an odd way to start the morning, really. Waking up and wondering who the hell removed your shirt while you were sleeping. As you can imagine, this didn't put me in the best of moods, for I had already began my day with two concerns: one, who the fuck took off my shirt and two, what the hell would I wear today. That shirt still had a good 6 straight days of use left in it before I'd be forced to add it to my collection of Clothes I Will Never Wash Until I Go Home for Christmas Break.

I then step out of bed and hear a subtle crunchhhhhh beneath my feet. I look down at the carpet only to discover that someone has sprinkled Pringles all over the floor surrounding my bed. Pringles, people. All over my floor. In bits and pieces. That's right, not even whole Pringles. Not even Pringles to salvage. I guess they mean it when they say that once you pop, the fun don't stop. The fun doesn't even stop when you have no Pringles left. You then start taking off people's clothes without even having the decency to put them in a place where they can be easily spotted.

WHO THE FUCK STOLE MY SHIRT.

So at eleven in the morning, covered in Pringles and shirtless, I'm thinking one thing: Pizzaaaaaaa. Of course, this has nothing to do with whoever broke into my dorm the evening before, I just happen to be very hungry, so I decide that I can't get to the bottom of this without a decent breakfast. Luckily, I had an entire pizza saved from the night before still left in my fridge. Pizzaaaaaaa.

I get out of bed. Pizzaaaaaa.

I put on a shirt. Pizzaaaaaa.

I walk to the fridge. Pizzaaaaaa.

I open it and see the box. Pizzaaaaaa.

I take out the box. Pizzaaaaaa.

I open the box. No pizzaaaaaa.

WHO THE FUCK ATE MY ENTIRE PIZZA.

Of course, I immediately run to the bathroom. Alright, that was a total lie. Hopefully you figured that out yourself, because who the hell runs to the toilet in search of missing food? I mean, I guess there could be evidence there...nevermind. That's disgusting. The truth of the matter is, I don't remember exactly what I did immediately after discovering the empty pizza box, besides throwing it on the floor in anger, but somehow I ended up in the bathroom. Probably to take a piss. LOOK IT DOESN'T MATTER. Point is, I wound up in the god damn bathroom and found my god damn shirt in the god damn sink. The sink. MY shirt. In the sink. The SINK. SINKKKKKK. (I do apologize. "Sink" just sounds very odd when you type it over and over again like that, so I was compelled to continue doing so.) And you wanna know what else was in the sink? Puke. And in the sink beside the sink? (Two sinks: a luxury I had almost forgotten...) More puke. Missing shirt. Missing pizza. Shirt found. Puke being the accomplice. So you know what I'm beginning to think?

WHO THE FUCK PUKED IN BOTH MY SINKS.

That's what I'm beginning to think.

I grab my phone to call someone, and see that SOMEONE has made MULTIPLE calls from my phone the night before, as well as TEXTED random ass people in my Contacts list asking them how they are.

WHO THE FUCK STOLE MY IDENTITY.

Slowly, I begin to piece the story together...I was out last night. I was drinking. I walked home with a group of people, and then I decided it was time for me to go to bed. I said good night. I got in bed. And at some point while I was sleeping, some drunk-ass-mother-fucker came into my dorm, raided my fridge because they were hungry, found an entire pizza, ate the whole thing in hopes of sobering up, then, found a can of Pringles, snuck into my room, walked in circles around my bed munching on the Pringles in such a barbaric manner that crumbs of Pringles were falling out of their mouth left and right, sat on my bed to admire my golden curls of Truth and Honor, started to feel sick, couldn't find a towel to stifle their upcoming-upchuck with, saw that I was wearing a shirt, took off my shirt while I was passed out, put it to their mouth and started puking, ran to the bathroom, had no time to make it to the toilet, puked in one sink until it was completely full, then finished the job in the other sink and dropped my shirt in along with it and ran. But not before grabbing my phone and texting a shit ton of people pretending to be me.

It's either that or I was molested in my sleep with Pringles and pizza being part of the foreplay, but that's just way too far fetched.

I immediately run outside to tell the world.

"SOMEONE TOOK OFF MY SHIRT!"

"Wow. Congratulations. Keep that stuff to yourself. Not all of us are that lucky."

"NO, NO! NOT LIKE THAT! THEY TOOK IT OFF AND RAN AWAY!"

"Well that's something to make a girl feel incredibly insecure."

"NO, NO! I MEAN THEY TOOK OFF MY SHIRT AND THEN PUKED!"

"Man, Natasha...I'm really sorry...you are a wonderful girl and no boy should make you feel that bad about your body."

"NO NO NO! THEN THEY MADE CALLS FROM MY PHONE TO A BUNCH OF PEOPLE!"

"Good god....they saw you with your shirt off, puked, then started calling a bunch of people to tell them about it?"

"NO NO NO! I MEAN THEY WERE EATING THE PRINGLES BEFORE THEY TOOK OFF MY SHIRT!"

"Alright...I....uh....okay you lost me."

"THEY ATE MY PIZZA, ATE MY PRINGLES, SPILLED PRINGLES EVERYWHERE, TOOK OFF MY SHIRT, PUKED IN IT, PUKED IN BOTH MY SINKS, THEN LEFT MY SHIRT AND RAN!"

"When did this happen?"

"Last night! I said good night to you guys, went to bed, then woke up this morning to find my shirt and my pizza GONE. You know what...I bet it was that Luke kid. Oh my god. It was. That guy was sketchy as shit. IT WAS THAT FUCKIN' LUKE KID."

"You think Luke ate your pizza and puked on your shirt?"

"YES! WHO ELSE COULD IT BE?"

"But he left before you even went to bed."

"No he didn't! He was still out here drinking when I said good night!"

"Yeah, the first time. But not the second time."

"What do you mean the second time?"

"You know, you said good night then came back out a few minutes later to hang out some more."

"...what?"

"Yessssss, Natashaaaaaa. Come on, when you tripped over the doormat?"

"What?"

"And you were like, "WHERE'S MY PHONE WHERE'S MY PHONE I CAN'T FIND MY FUCKING PHONE" and I was like, "It's in your hand." And then you started laughing. Remember?"

"What?"

"It was probably that eighth of vodka you were drinking straight from the bottle."

"WHAT?!"

"I told you that was a bad idea and you were just like, "I drink this shit like water, breh!"

"No no no....we were drinking beer last night."

"Yeah, then you said you were going to bed but then you came back outside and drank that entire thing of vodka."

"No. No. No. No. No."

"Oh my god, do you really not remember?"

"THAT DIDN'T HAPPEN!"

"Oh my god...you blacked out!"

"What?"

"You blacked out! YOU were the one who ate your pizza!"

"NO I WAS NOT. IT WAS THAT FUCKING LUKE KID."

"YOU were the one who went to bed eating Pringles and then spilled the rest of the can all over your floor when you passed out!"

"I DON'T EVEN EAT PRINGLES!"

"YOU were the one who started puking, ran to the bathroom, took off your shirt because it was covered in puke, then went back to bed! I mean who else would puke on your shirt, Natasha? And who else wouldn't have the decency to not clean up their mess?"

"THAT FUCKING LUKE KID, THAT'S WHO!"

"Who else would text people from your phone asking them how they've been, Natasha."

"Oh shit."

"Oh yeah."

"Oh shit."

"OH yeah."

"That's never happened to me before!"

"Well it has now."

"I...I...I ATE AN ENTIRE PIZZA."

"That's a lot of food."

"THAT'S DISGUSTING."

"Don't worry about it. Hey, wanna get some liquor tonight?"

"Are you kidding me? I drink that shit like water, breh!"

And that was the first semester of my freshman year.

Sophomore Year of College

Closest Analogy: Being the only survivor of a zombie apocalypse.

"Hey, Natasha, wanna hang out when you get out of class?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I have to study."

"How about after that?"

"No."

And that's all there is to say about that.

I've admitted to myself that I live in extremes, and why that is, I'm not sure. It's probably some psychological response to problems I can't face like, Why does hair grow on every other one of my toes? Or, why do my bottom eyelids sporadically twitch inwards? Or, why was Hugh Jackman impotent in my dream last night? These things I can only answer by living in extremes. Which isn't even my final answer, because like I said before, things really do change. (Which hopefully applies to my next dream involving Hugh Jackman.)

Fast Food at Ridgemont High

2011-07-24T23:52:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking about a lot of product names lately, names that we see everywhere all the time that no one really thinks about. Things that make me think, "This is someone's job. Someone gets paid to do this. Someone is given money to give this thing a name." Such as the names on nail polish bottles. Red is not called red; green is not called green. Nonono, the names on nail polish bottles have titles such as, Vampire Red and Grizzly Green. Gayass Aqua and Butthole Pink. See? Someone got paid to look at the color red and say, "This isn't just red, ladies. It's vampire red! Grrrr!" And not only that, but everyone else in the room had to agree that no, this was not red at all, and if were any sort of a red, a red that would appeal to the general public, then it's Vampire Red. And then it got its name. Whereas if I was in a room holding a tiny pink bottle of nail polish in front of a group of people and I said, "Ladies, you may look at this bottle and think, 'Oh. it's just pink,' but I'm here to tell you that this isn't just any sort of pink, it's Butthole Pink!", I doubt I would have a job for very long. This all began to come to my attention when I heard a Taco Bell employee explaining to a little girl what "Think Outside The Bun" meant exactly.

"You know, like, Burger King...and McDonald's...and Wendy's...they all have buns. But we DON'T have buns. So we think outside the bun."

And that's how simple he put it. Because that's just how simple it is. And someone got paid to come up with that.

My curiosity (coughcoughlackofsociallife) led me to look up all the slogans of fast-food chains. Which ended up causing any doubt I had of how easy such a job would be to evaporate immediately in my mind. Because if the following slogans passed the test, then I sure as hell could get paid to make them. If only I had been in those meetings when they had been chosen, I, Natasha Fuckin' Ferrier. What would that have been like, I wonder....

(Keep in mind, every slogan suggested, besides my own genius ideas, were or are actual slogans of these restaurants.)

KFC Slogan Meeting

"Listen up, group. We've already fucked this chain with the name of it. I get calls every day with people asking me if we're only branched in Kentucky. What we need here is a good slogan to set our name straight. Yes, Tom."

"Well, I had an idea, Ms. Ferrier, how about, "There's fast food, then there's KFC." "

"Meaning what, Tom? That we're below all of our competitors? That there are our fast-food chains, then if that doesn't work out, you must resort to KFC?"

"No, like, there's fast-food, but KFC is better than that."

"Well then why don't you just say that, Tom. I don't like need subtle hints for a slogan, I need something straight to the point. Next."

"Well, I have a suggestion, Ms. Ferrier, what about, "We do chicken right." "

"Do we do the chicken, Mike?"

"Well, we make it...we prepare it..."

"But do we DO the chicken? Do we have actual intercourse with our chickens, Mike?"

"Well...no..."

"Of course we don't. Because that's disgusting as well as illegal. Look, enough. I was hoping you people would have something better to offer me. We're just going to have to go with my original idea. "Why did the chicken cross the road? So we could fry him for you."

Taco Bell Slogan Meeting

"Okay, people, so the whole Yo-quiero-Taco-Bell-chihuahua thing was a flop. Apparently it's racist to have dogs speaking in Spanish. We thought of changing it to a cat but apparently any animal speaking in Spanish is disrespectful to Hispanics. So, we need something new. And it can't be racist."

"I got it, Ms. Ferrier! Ahem..."Make a run for the border." "

"Stue, that is by far the most racist slogan you could have come up with."

"No...it means...like..."

"How 'bout we just go ahead and say, "If the wetbacks eat it, you probably can, too!" You know what, fuck it, we'll just have to go with that one. If we survived one lawsuit we sure as hell can survive another one. Wetbacks, it is."

Arby's Slogan Meeting

"Okay, team. The best thing we got going for us is our french fries aren't cut in straight lines. If you ask me, that ain't much. Now who's my genius with our new slogan?"

"Well, Ms. Ferrier, I was thinking "What are you eating today?" "

"Did you really just interrupt my meeting, Howard to ask me what I'm going to have for lunch after this."

"No, I mean...that's the slogan."

"The slogan is the question, "What are you eating today?" "

"Yes..."

"No, Howard. That's confusing. And it's also insecure. Why would we be asking the public what they are eating today? As if they have some kind of choice? They don't have a choice, Howard. That's what a slogan is telling them. It's either us or nothing. Look. Maybe we just need to branch off of our strong suit - the curly fries. What makes them different from everyone else's fries is that they're curly, not straight. So. "You can't stick OUR fries up your ass." There. That'll show 'em. Meeting adjourned."

Jack in the Box Slogan Meeting

"Gather 'round, guys. We have a mascot that doesn't really make much sense. I don't know what kind of hallucinogens our Mascot Team was on when they designed a giant ping pong ball with an ice cream cone on its head on top of a human body, but we have the power to set those people straight; all we need is a powerful slogan."

"I was thinking, Ms. Ferrier, that since we want to advertise fresher fast-food than what our competition has, our slogan could be, "We don't make it until you order it." "

"Why haven't we made it yet, Tommy?"

"Because we want it to be fresh."

"Sounds to me like we haven't made it yet because we hire 300 pound teenagers to do our work for us, and they've been sitting around on their asses all day texting their mee-ma's. That's why we haven't made it yet."

"Well, no....not that we're slow to make the food, just..."

"Just that we've been busy texting our mee-ma's instead of serving our customers."

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'mee-ma' Ms. Ferrier..."

"Forget it, Tommy. You tried, you failed. Forget the ping-pong-ball-human, what we do have to work with is his name is 'Jack.' So, what are other chains compared to us? They're not shit. They're not jack shit. So here goes: "Jack in the Box. Because anywhere else isn't Jack." As in jack shit. Of course we can't say "shit" but people will know. Believe me, they'll know."

McDonald's Slogan Meeting

"Attention, McEmployees, I'd like to get this McMeeting started. We got real lucky, folks, let me tell ya. Taco bell got a big slap on the hand for using that Mexican chihuahua gimmick, but we've managed to get away with sporting a clown, which some professional clowns could raise hell about, and a burglar, which, even though he's a Hamburglar, is still an illegal profession altogether. The only fresh thing this chain can manage is a slogan. Pitch it to me."

"I have one, Ms. Ferrier! "Things that make you go 'mmmmm.' " "

" 'Mmmmm' is not even a word, Tony."

"Well, it's commonly known onomatopoeia..."

"Then we might as well say, "Things that make you go squishblooppshhhhh.' " You know what that is, Tony? It's the sound of a fart. Farts are also commonly known, aren't they, Tony? Next."

"Ms. Ferrier! "Bacon Bacon Bacon." "

"A.k.a. "Lard Lard Lard." Next."

"Ms. Ferrier! "You'll enjoy the difference." "

"Ha! Yeah. In your waistline. Next."

"Ms. Ferrier! "Feed your inner child." "

"Alright, Sam, I get what you mean. But we aren't marketing to smart people. Remember this. No one will understand that we mean that in a psychological or figurative manner. They will think we are targeting a strictly pregnant audience. And I don't think pregnant women should be feeding their growing fetuses Big Macs. Next."

"Ms. Ferrier! "You. You're the one." "

"You're ripping off The Matrix, Kyle. We'd be better off with a slogan like, "You had me at hamburger," or, "Show me the french fries," or, "McNuggets complete me." Next."

"I got it! "Did somebody say McDonald's?" "

"Yeah. You did. Just then. Next."

"I got it! "Do you believe in magic?" "

"Enrique, I know you're gay, but not everybody else in the world is. Next."

"McDonald's and you."

"Too simple."

"My McDonald's."

"Too plain."

"McDonald's today."

"WHAT AM I MCPAYING YOU PEOPLE FOR. ANYONE COULD THINK OF THESE MCSLOGANS. I COULD BRING CHILDREN IN HERE WHO WOULD SAY THE SAME MCSHIT YOU PEOPLE ARE FEEDING ME. Enough. I'll come up with it myself. Right here. Right now. "McDonald's Drive-Thru. Because we know you can't walk." McMeeting dismissed."

And that's how it's done. And I'm lovin' it.