Summer songs: Designed to make you uncomfortable

Ahhh, summer. It’s the season that most people look forward to. School’s finished, it’s warm out, and the beach is open (not that it ever closes, but it’s cold as fuck any other time). Usually, I find myself working for what seems like an eternity in Southampton. I know what you’re thinking “Whoa is me. You’re in Southampton! That must be soooooo awesome!” Right? No, it’s not sooooooo awesome. It suuuuucks. I do irrigation. Ya know, lawn sprinklers. Yes, as in the thing that automatically waters your grass. That’s my doing. Anyway, my days usually consist of digging with a Hispanic fellow while I watch people enjoy themselves. Some people are surprisingly nice, but most people, if they acknowledge your existence at all, will be assholes. It never ceases to amaze me how much rich folk detest the people that make their property look amazing. I digress. The point is that summer also brings about a slew of new “songs of the season.” When I drive around, the radio stations consist of classic rock, “Spanish people music,” classical music, and 3 stations with the EXACT same format (Top 40). Interestingly enough, one of the stations maintains that “no one else brings you the hottest hits,” yet these three play the same songs. Why would you go and make a claim like that? IT’S TOP 40!!! As in the 40 MOST POPULAR songs these days. Of course someone else is going to be playing these songs. That’s like saying “no one else brings you cars but Ford.”

Anyway, I usually listen to the classic rock station, but I can only listen to “Sweet Child of Mine” and “More Than a Feeling” so many times. So I also bounce around the Top 40 stations. Some of the songs, I admit, are catchy. That “Sexy Can I” song? Pretty decent. “I kissed a girl?” Awesome. And Kanye also shows up, which always feels like the time when your older brother came back from college and brought you stuff he couldn’t show to your parents. HOWEVER, some of these songs are just straight-up puzzling to me. Below I’ve taken the liberty of outlining some of the confusion.

Usher ft. Young Jeezy – Let’s Make Love in The Club

Now I understand that these days, you can make anything sound awesome so long as it has a nice beat behind it. Domestic abuse, infidelity, anything. But Usher jumps it up a notch. Not only does he want to get you shitfaced and then fuck you, he wants to fuck you in the middle of a (I’m assuming crowded) club. Don’t worry, he’ll make sure you’ve got plenty of drinks in you so that you throw all inhibition to the wind and have no qualms about giving it up while your best friends watch. I get that dancing these days can be pretty sexual, but if someone was literally fucking in a club while I’m trying to enjoy myself, I’d get pretty upset. It’s ok though, because Usher doesn’t care who’s watching, which says either of two things: you’re hot and he’s showing you off, or you’re ugly but he doesn’t care because he’s currently fulfilling a lifelong dream with someone who has no self-respect. And by the way, there’s no making of love in there. There’s no way that any of that “two souls becoming one” bullshit is going on. There’s only one thing that could be going on: Drunken sex (maybe drugged up sex). And if she’s so willing to rail in the club, that could lead to a bigger issue: the clap.

I wanna sexually violate you in this club…in this club

Leona Lewis – Bleeding Love

So Leona Lewis has apparently found love. But uh oh, her friends are filling her with all sorts of doubt. I mean, she was closed off from the world of love, but this guy just HAPPENED to stick his head in and melt her frozen heart. It sounds cliché, right? But then Leona goes ahead and pushes the envelope on this guy. She starts bleeding love. Better yet, this asshole cuts her open. If the girl that I loved tried cutting me open, I wouldn’t write a song. I’d call the police. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be bleeding love. I be bleeding…blood. Because that’s what people do. No wonder people try to “fill her with doubt.” That’s because Patrick Bateman over here just cut you open and your heart is now crippling. This also begs another question: Why the fuck doesn’t anyone call for help? This girl’s heart is failing and she has a giant gash across her chest. O yea, and she’s bleeding “love” profusely. This is girl is about to die, and no one is prepared to do anything about it. Nothing says love like “I’ll let you kill me.”

Notice the picture doesn’t capture anything that would be “bleeding love”

Sean Kingston – Take You There

In case you have never heard that voice scream his name right before EVERY one of his songs begins, Sean Kingston is a Jamaican “reggae” artist. For the record, I didn’t realize that reggae stopped being about steel drums and chilling and started being about sampling “Stand By Me” or Led Zeppelin. That’s like NASCAR suddenly rejecting its redneck fanbase and opting for a more white collar approach. Anyway, this crazy little bastard who somewhat resembles the fat kid from the Nutty Professor is responsible for the Summer 2007 gem “Beautiful Girls.” This time, he’s offering a lucky girl a trip with him, and that trip is in her hands. It’s either: a trip to the tropics, featuring the beach and piña coladas, or the slums, where people are in the middle of dying. I ask you…who the fuck isn’t choosing the first one? Who’s sitting there being like “paradise sounds enticing, but I think I’d rather watch a motherfucker get hanged!” Why is there a song based around this decision? He insists that he knows the area, and if you stay by his side, you won’t get harmed. However, he also mentions that there’s 15 year-old kids with guns riding around. So either he’s also packin’ or your sorry ass is getting shot. Doesn’t sound too safe to me. No thanks, Sean. If she does choose to go with you to the mean streets of Jamaica, take a look at Paradise. I’ll be the guy passed out on the beach laughing his ass off with alcohol in hand while you two are running from gunfire.

I’m gonna be responsible for you getting shot!

New Kids on the Block – Summertime

This is probably the most confusing song of the summer. Well, the song itself is pretty catchy. But then we remember that it’s New Kids on the Block singing it…15 years later. I have no problem with the content of the song, but the fact that men who will soon be consistently taking Enzyte are singing this song worries me. This isn’t Music & Lyrics. We’re not dealing with Hugh Grant here (if it was, this wouldn’t be an issue). I don’t care if it’s Mark Wahlberg’s brother. It’s not Mark Wahlberg. Donnie, was Saw 2 really that bad for you? Did Annapolis leave a bad taste in your mouth? I’m not even going to pretend that you enjoyed your time as the crazy guy stand in Bruce Willis’ bathroom in the Sixth Sense. But has your movie career bothered you so much that you had to rehash old flings in the summertime? I mean, we all know that the other 4 have certainly run out of money by now and will do anything to get out of the dumpster. I can tell you, boys, that if she does remember, and wants to do it again, she’s bringing the kids in the minivan down to the beach for it. And don’t forget, you guys have kids too. So you have to watch after your little ones. Try grinding against mommy while all those kids wanna build a sand castle and subsequently annoy the hell out of you. Or you could just try for a new girl…and get arrested. And then you will have to go door-to-door saying “I think about your daughter in the summertime…and I’m a sexual predator.”

I think about YOU in the summertime

Spring Break part 2: Spain

So we survived Ireland and I’m not entirely sure how. Still, our trip was only halfway done. I give to you…our trip to Spain…

March 18^th

Good morning, Mike. This is your 5:45 am wake up call. WHAP!!! The affects of my hangover wake me up before my lovely cell phone alarm does. Today we leave Ireland for Spain. The idea of it being warmer in Spain is still not comforting to the fact that I woke up before the sun in order to get there. Nevertheless, I pack up my stuff and take some last minute pictures of my dad’s place. I’ll never figure out why my mom asks for these pictures, but like a good son I oblige. Sean, now revitalized by the 2 bottles of wine we gave him, pulls up in his van to take us to the train. Bear in mind, children, that revitalized does NOT mean shitfaced in this particular moment. Just because I’m in another country doesn’t make me any less irresponsible (well…at least in the case of 5 am drunken driving). So we barrel into the van like a depressed clown car and head to the train station. We have to catch an early train because in order to get to Spain, we have to travel all day, beginning with an airport that’s 2 hours away. It’s at the train station that Megan and Michelle leave us. They’re on their way to Dublin or something. They’ll miss out. Either way, we board our rinky dink train car, and we soon discover that the train door does not close the entire way. Nick claims that we may actually die. I begin to believe him.

The train ride to Kerry doesn’t get any warmer. The sun begins to rise more and more, but our attitude towards our early departure. We look for the mountains that resemble boobs that Sean had pointed out. We find them. We laugh, probably more than we should (it’s 7 am and I’m hungover, don’t judge me). We arrive in Kerry, and believe it or not…NOTHING’S OPEN!!! You mean no one rises and shines the morning after St. Patrick’s Day? Get the fuck outta here!!! We soon walk around and finally ask for directions to the bus depot (yea I call it a depot. Thanks, Goldeneye). I will say that the Irish are very straightforward with the names of companies. There’s no MTA, Greyhound, Hampton Jitney, or any of that shit. It’s Irish Bus and Irish Rail. Suck a dick, Metropolitan Transit Authority. Or get Irish “railed.” See what I did there? I’m awesome. Anyway, I revel in the fact that I’m able to check my email and Facebook for 5 minutes on a local pay-internet booth. I also determine that the lowly convenient booth worker in the bus depot should provide me with food. She does, and I’m happy. We finally get on the bus. Nick falls asleep, and I cash in on the ability to take pictures of it. Let me explain. Nick has a rather disgusting obsession with taking pictures of me whenever I fall asleep. I mean WHENEVER. Class, long car rides, regular sleep. He loves it. One would say, “So Mike, why would you promote it by doing it yourself?” Well, my intuitive friend, I don’t know. I’m hoping he stops. Maybe I’ll strike him one of these days.

Nevertheless, we arrive at Kerry airport, which is about as big as that guy from Little People, Big World. We get in, and wouldn’t you know, it’s too early to check in! Now you ask, “Mike, why didn’t you take a later train?” Well, aside from straightforward names, Irish Rail loves not having any trains run during the day. So it was either the asscrack of dawn or nighttime. We had a late morning flight. You make the call. So we finally check into our flight. It seems Trevor, being the fucking celebrity that he is, receives Priority Boarding. He claims, “I had no idea. I swear, brah.” However, his subtle smirk gives away his elation. Idea or not, we never let this go. Never. If you don’t know why, you don’t know us at all. We go through security and hang out. Nick comments on my blatant use of swearing in public places. I tell him he’s being fucking ridiculous and not to forget that in Ireland, swear words are perfectly acceptable adjectives (or nouns, or pronouns, etc.). While browsing in the airport shop, I learn that my family motto is “always faithful.” I determine that this, coupled with “honor and valour” (mom’s maiden name motto), is rather ballin’. I rub it in Nick’s face, telling him that his family motto is “pizza” or “spaghetti.” He does not look pleased. Soon enough, Penis McFly (Trevor, for those keeping score at home) boards and saves us seats. We still do not let the preferred boarding thing go.

We take off and soon arrive in Luton Airport, just outside of London. We have a few hours before our flight to Barcelona, so we find a place to do what we would normally do: drink. As I pay for some food, I realize that the change given to me is in Great British Pounds. I completely forgot that England is one of those stupid fucking countries that does not use the Euro. I am not happy with this. As I rant about how ridiculous GBP’s are, Dave quickly tries to diffuse the situation by saying “let’s see if we can check in.” I tell him that I have to buy something so that I don’t have these “stupid fucking pounds” (I say this in a loud enough voice so that some people hear me but not loud enough so that everyone hears me). Apparently, people don’t like that. We check in, and Nick joins the “too cool for school” preferred boarding club. Dave and I, now bonded by our plain white tickets, turn our focus on Nick but still make fun of Trevor. We begin to walk to our gate, and I finally spend my remaining pounds on a sandwich and some chips. Apparently, in order to get to the gate, we have to take the Underground Railroad that the black woman ushered those slaves through. After a 20-minute hike, we arrive at our gate. The Dingus twins get on the ridiculous people line, and Dave and I pass time by making fun of these outlandishly drunk kids behind us. We board the plane, and I miss Air France and its free drinks (not France, just Air France).

We finally arrive at about 10 pm to Girona Airport, which is about an hour north of Barcelona. Trevor goes into bi-lingual mode as we try to catch the next bus to the city. Dave and I determine that it’s fun watching Trevor speak Spanish. I don’t exactly know why. I mean Trevor has the map of Ireland on his Arian face and him speaking high school Spanish with his touristy backpack and wonderous look screams “tool.” Not that I’d do any better though. This kid, who “knew from our accents” asks us if we’re from Long Island and reveals that he is too. We’re all like “sweet! No way! (Leave us the fuck alone!).” We find the bus and head south. Upon arrival, we locate a cab to take us to the hostel. Trevor, not knowing the exact location of it, shows the address to a bunch of cab drivers. The cabbies, in turn, begin playing RPS (Rock-Paper-Scissors for the uncool kids) to determine who will take us there. It is here that I first determine that I may dislike Trevor right now.

Soon, we discover that while the address of the place has the word “Barcelona” in it, it’s still an hour out of the city. Also, it’s gonna cost us at least 60 Euro to get there. My dislike Trevor level rises. Surprisingly, the cabs in Barcelona are all Mercedes’ and shit. Imagine if a NYC cab was a fucking Benz! No Crown Vic’s around here. We begin our excursion to East Bumblefuck where the hostel is located. Trevor tries to have a conversation with the driver in Spanish. I’m no longer amused at Trevor trying to speak Spanish. I am, however, amused when Dave tells the cab driver that Trevor has a boyfriend. I’m further amused when the cab driver not only believes him but does not listen when Trevor tries to disprove the fact. Unfortunately, this happened relatively early in the trip, and the rest of the drive was spent by Nick and I shaking our heads and threatening death. Still, we make it to the place alive. However, the cab driver decides that we now have to pay for his ride back. So instead of this wonderful adventure costing 60 Euro, it’s going to cost 120 Euro. It is at this point that I decide that I am going to make Trevor burn himself with cigarettes. Maybe I’ll waterboard him. Either way, he’s done. Unfortunately, seeing as that the place Trevor rented is in the middle of fucking nowhere, we cannot bargain or run away, so we reluctantly pay.

This lovable hostel turns out to be a campsite. We show up and are brought to the van that’ll take us to our specific campsite. Soon, we find out that by van they meant beat-up bathtub with wheels and a door that doesn’t close. Yes, we’re literally holding on to make sure that we do not fall out of the thing. We come up to a blockade in the road, and the driver gives one of those sighs. As we begin to wonder if we now have to walk 30,000 miles to the campsite, he gets out of the wagon with a shitty motor and effortlessly moves the blockade. Thankfully, the man does not know English, because I mutter rather uncouth things to Dave. Soon, we pull up to the campsite, and discover that by campsite they meant trailer park. I swear, this fucking place’s motto should’ve been “what we mean is…” I was pissed. Trevor booked us in a fucking trailer a full hour outside of the city in the middle of fucking NOWHERE!!!!! Nick’s eyes meet mine, and his reaction is exactly the same as mine. We could’ve turned people to salt with the fire in our eyes.

We open our trailer, and the guy inspects it to make sure it’s all set. It’s not. We do not have hot water. It takes 10 minutes for another guy to come down and light the heater with one of those long-neck grill lighters. Meanwhile, the Ken Jennings who drove us here is smoking a cigarette outside, meaning that he could’ve easily done it himself. Maybe he did know English. O well. They leave, and Trevor drops one of those “this sucks” comments which can be easily translated into “please don’t make me sleep outside.” This set-up is straight out of that movie Hostel. Well, at least in the “we’re all gonna die” sense. To make me happier, instead of saying “fire escape,” the windows read “means of escape.” As in if a man is hacking off your legs with a chainsaw, here’s your means of escape. I hate semantics. We agree to not speak of the situation and deal with it in the morning. Still, Trevor and I kick back a few shots of liquor we bought at the airport (those GBP’s got better in my book). We set up random booby traps to wake us up in case someone comes in ready to kill us and go to bed. I share a room with the lovable Spanish tour planner himself. As we drift off asleep, we hear knocking on our trailer. Trevor and I start to freak, but then determine that it’s Nick. So we softly open the door to their room and stand there. Seeing a dark silhouette, Dave and Nick flip. We yell at them for the knocking and we’re now even. As we drift off to sleep, I tell Trevor he sucks.

March 19^th

So we wake up with a bunch of questions: Is there any damage? What’s been stolen? Am I dead? Much to our surprise, everything is as we left it last night. Even our bodies. We high five (great success) and get ready to get the fuck out of this place. The shower is as cold as ice (still no heat). O well, at least it’s beautiful outside. We make our way to the check out and find that there’s a bus heading to the train into the city. And the train is free. I’m very excited about this, even though I’m convinced I paid for it some way (i.e. “thanks for letting us take revealing pictures of you while you slept; here’s a free rail pass”)(no pun intended). Still, we take the train and try to plan this whole Barcelona place out. Meanwhile, the view from the train is fuckin ballin’ (beat the waterfall). We traveled along the Mediterranean and it was so sick.

Anyways, we make it into town, and Trevor, walking in that “I’ve got it all figured out” stride, leads us to the new hostel. I hate when he walks like that. Not because it’s dumb, but because he rarely has it “all figured out.” And it usually ends in disaster. Nick and I decide that since the first bus is at 5 A.M. and we’ll be out drinking late anyway, we’ll simply stay out all night until that bus brings us to the airport. Hooray for saving money! Dave and Trevor rent beds in a 14-person room, and we all lock our stuff up in the room. Outside, I remember one thing from the last time I was here in high school: I love this place. I don’t know what it is. Just something about Barcelona makes me smile. And it’s a gorgeous day. This whole positive feeling thing starts to get to me, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. We make our way to Las Ramblas, which is this long road with street vendors along it. I didn’t know there was high demand for turtles and small animals, because they’re being sold everywhere. Unfortunately, there’s no monkeys, so I stop paying attention. Yea, I want a monkey. Don’t judge me. And tell me that wouldn’t be fucking cool. Also, they have people doing these moving statue things. I never understood them. Where’s the benefit? You make children cry, their parents angry because the kids are crying, and creep almost everyone else out. So why would you want to stand along a road all day done up as a silver statue without any positive result? Cocaine’s a hell of a drug, I guess.

We stop off and pick up some food. I’m introduced to Tortilla Español, and I fall in love instantly. It’s like a potato omellette, but not? I dunno. It’s delicious; take my word for it. We head out and meet up with Trevor’s friend, Sophie. While we’re waiting, I notice a group of people selling fake stuff (i.e. Foakley, Pratta, etc.). Nothing new, but they have this system: they hold onto a rope which when pulled brings the corner of their blanket/selling surface together so they can run quickly from the 5-0. Seeing these people react instantly is hysterical. I almost yell “¡policia!” to see what happens, but Trevor stops me. Apparently, the prospect of being trampled by stampeding black men wasn’t appealing to him. We take a long escalator up towards Park Guell, a park that was designed by Antoni Gaudi. However, the escalator breaks. Although it conveniently turns into a staircase, walking up the biggest fucking hill sucks. A lot. Still, we make it to the park and have a view of the whole city. I love this park. This guy carved walkways out of a giant hill and designed houses and such that look like they’re straight out of Candyland. It’s trippy, but pretty fuckin’ cool. After this, we head over to La Segrada Familia. For those who don’t know, it’s a church that has taken over 150 years to build and will still take at least 50 more years. We don’t go inside, but it’s pretty cool to see. It’s getting to be party time soon, so we head back to the hostel to get ready. After a warm shower and getting ready, I look hot. Dave tells me that he’d have sex with me, thus confirming my thought. We head to the “social room” to drink. This girl joins us as we polish off the booze we bought in London. I don’t know who she is and therefore have no problem making fun of her for absolutely anything (no such thing as a free lunch sweetie). This marks the easiest part of the night. From here, we head to get a fancy final dinner, consisting of tapas and more Tortilla Español. And booze. Lots of booze. We meet back up with Sophie and get this party started. We go to this place, Pippermint, which features huge beers. You can get a 13 liter beer if it gets you off. We stick to some 2 liter beers and ESB them till they’re doneskis. Needless to say, we’re rather inebriated. We’re done with this place, and I offer the idea of Dow Jones. It’s like the stock market but with alcohol. So if no buys Miller Lite, for example, the price goes down. We have the address, so I wanna find a map. So maybe that’s not the easiest thing to accomplish, but Trevor decides he has a better idea: he asks the bouncer. Why would an American, speaking drunken terrible Spanish, ask the bouncer of the place he’s leaving for directions to another bar? Because Trevor is an idiot. So he walks up, practically with “fuck with me” tattooed to his head, and goes for it. You’re hoping the bouncer helps out. So did I. But what do you expect? It’s too easy. So we start walking (as directed) in the opposite direction. Sophie and her boyfriend are hitting up this other club, so they leave. God forbid we go there. After a while, we find ourselves in a more deserted part of the city. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m not up for dying.

Dave, Nick, or Mike: Dude, let’s just try to get a cab.

Trevor: Nah man. We’re probably almost there.

Dave, Nick, or Mike: Trev, there’s nothing around here!!!

Trevor: Tell ya what, we’ll ask somebody.

(Note: I don’t remember who said these things to Trev, but I remember 1 of us who was trying to be the voice of reason).

In a deserted area of the city, it’s not always the best idea to ask anyone for directions. It’s like asking for directions in the South Bronx. And you’re drunk. And you’re white. Trevor spots 2 girls and gives me a “see! They’ll know” kind of look. Trevor apparently doesn’t see what Dave, Nick, and I see: those girls are about 16 years old and look anxious to fuck with us. Trevor talks to them (insert shitty Spanish) and they allegedly agree to walk us to Dow Jones. They also offer us some of their “wine,” which is currently residing in a bleach container. Trevor thinks we’ve hit the jackpot. I almost hit Trevor. So we walk with Kathy & Katie Jailbait for a little bit further into Nowhereville. Once they offer the idea of “following them to a cooler club,” I’m done. No good could possibly come from it. Trev’s not so convinced:

Trev: C’mon man. Let’s give it a chance.

Mike: I’m getting in a cab and leaving.

Trev: Why? We’re right here.

Mike: I don’t give a fuck. Call me crazy, but I’d like to be in a lighted area. I’m

not following these two girls anymore

I tell ya. He’s the dumbest smart kid I know. Dave, Nick, and I move towards a cab and Trevor finally joins us. We head to the place Sophie suggested. It’s called Otto Zutz, and it seems rather harmless. I immediately get a beer. To my surprise, it costs 5 Euro. That’s 8 dollars for a fucking Bud Light! I’m very upset by this. Good thing I’m still somewhat drunk. Still, whenever I’m “very upset by this,” something bad usually happens. I order 2 beers, and the bartender walks away. So I decide to be slick and try to steal my drinks. I casually try to walk across the dance floor. And by casually walk I mean dance like an idiot. That is until I feel the bartender grip my arm. She motions for me to give her money. I’m caught, but does that stop me? Nope. I yell anything I can think of in Spanish, which doesn’t help my case, mainly because it doesn’t make sense. If you’re wondering how I thought saying “No I’m fine. It’s over there,” would get me out of paying for drinks, I have no idea. But it made sense at the time. She points and pushes me towards the door. As I’m being thrown out of the bar, I decide to stop being difficult. I yell “aquí” (“here”) and give her money. She tells me “no más,” as in I can’t have any more alcohol. You, bartender, are sorely mistaken. For there is another bar on the other side of the room! Not that she’d actually give a shit, but I make my way across the sausage filled dance floor, anxious to prove her wrong. As I walk, I see this girl dressed ridiculously with a huge afro motion for me to dance with her. I almost vomit directly on her but instead, like a gentleman, yell “fuck no” and walk faster. Seriously, she looked like Will Ferrell in “Semi Pro.” And as it turns out, I discover that she’s a little more than a girl. I vomit a little in my mouth. This place sucks, and that just sent me running. We finish our beers and head the fuck out of there. I try starting one of the Vespas parked along the road, not taking into account the giant chain wrapped around the tire. We walk back towards the hostel. We’re also very drunk, very loud, and very obnoxious.  Nick and I try to chase a garbage truck.  I begin to wonder what percentage of my life “seemed like a good idea at the time.”

We get back, and the guard wants no part of us. I’m not entirely sure how we got in, but we did (remember, Nick and I aren’t staying the night and thus do not have passes). We get to the room to get our bags. We have to remember that it’s about 5 A.M. at this point, and most of the people in the 14-person room are sleeping. So we have to whisper. So we whisper…very loudly. And there’s no way we stay quiet while getting our bags. We are successful in waking up every single person in the room. So we run the fuck out of there. As we leave, Trevor informs us that the bus stop is down the road. Nick points out the bus stop across the street. Trevor does not like this defiance, so we argue. The guard doesn’t like this, so we begin fighting with him. We’re speaking English and he’s speaking Spanish. Fighting with drunk kids usually gets you no where if you’re speaking the same language let alone two different languages. Clearly there was no hope for us. Suddenly, Nick finally remembers the only two words he can at this point, “el autobus el aeropuerto.” We’re not even trying to get full sentences right now. The bus the airport. Fucking genius. The guard points to the bus stop across the street, and I raise my fists in victory. Trevor’s not happy. We’ve given him an overwhelming amount of shit this entire trip. Could we have been nicer? Yes. But he asked for it. Let’s recap how Trevor dropped the ball:

• Booked a hostel 60 miles out of the city, costing us 120 Euro in travel
• The hostel being a trailer in the middle of nowhere (not directly his fault, but I count it)
• Getting us lost after Pippermint
• Us following around 2 girls whose primary channel is still Disney

(If there’s any more confusion, please refer to the chart)

It’s either ridiculous or impressive, depending on how much credit you decide to give him. Still, he barely says goodbye as we board the bus. Dave, on the other hand, gives a glorious hug. So now Nick and I are on the bus, which is surprisingly full considering it’s 5:30 A.M. Yea we missed the first one. Don’t judge us. Nick and I are still drunk, so our speech is still raised a few decibels. This does not make our fellow passengers happy. Looking back, I’m fully confident that we would’ve been physically thrown off the bus if we hadn’t boarded at the last stop. Still, we arrive at the airport unscathed. Unfortunately, our flight doesn’t board for another 3 ½ hours, and we can’t check in for another 2 hours. So I suggest sleeping. After all, we’ve been up all night drinking and I’m fucking exhausted. I applaud my ability to make sense at this point. We find a harmless corner and pass out. About an hour later, I feel someone kicking me. I start to get mad at Nick, but upon opening my eyes, I realize that it’s not Nick. It’s an airport security guard. He’s talking to me, but I feel like Ron Burgundy here (“You know I don’t speak Spanish. I can’t understand you!”). Either way, he motions for us to get up. We try to check in, but that’s still over an hour away. Whatever, the guy left, so I’m going back to sleep. That lasts for about 5 minutes before the guard looks so pumped that he gets to pretend to be a cop right now. You can tell that he was the only one of his buddies to fail the police academy test. He’s yelling “¡policia!” and dragging us to the police area. The thought of being arrested sobers me up pretty damn quickly and I pull out my itinerary and show it to him. Yes, power tripping security guard, there is a reason 2 American kids are at the airport with bags. The guard looks at me with a look that says “dammit” and points to 2 chairs. We chill out until check in and eventually board. On the ride home, I think about the trip. In 7 days, I’ve:

• Publically dressed like a woman
• Hung out and drank with one of my best friends for the first time in 2 ½ years
• Learned about ESB, silent DJ’s, and gougons
• Brought power hour to Limerick
• Taken a bath with 3 other boys
• Stayed in a trailer park in the middle of nowhere
• Walked around the unlit streets of Barcelona
• Drank a 2 liter glass of beer
• Almost got kicked out of a club
• Almost been arrested
• Celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland
• Developed a shitty accent
• Traveled 10,080 miles
• Drank an inordinate amount of alcohol
• Showed general disconcern for my body
• Saw some amazing sites
• Tore up Europe with the 3 greatest friends on God’s good Earth

Effin A, Cotton. Effin A.

Spring Break!

Yes, I know that Spring Break was like a month and a half ago. Yours truly, along with the geniuses in the About section, ventured to Ireland, through England, and ended in Spain. Below you’ll find an account of the Irish part of the trip. Spain will follow. Yea it’s long (that’s what she said), but it’s a fun time. Check it out:

March 12^th

Nick and I arrive at JFK.  My mom acts like I’ll never see her again.  While we wait on line, this attendant asks us which flight we’re waiting for.  We tell him which one, and he tells us that we’re at the wrong terminal to get in a van to go to the Air France terminal.  My ticket says Delta and then says in little letters “operated by Air France.”  If it’s operated by Air France, then don’t tell me that it’s Delta.  Does this sound illogical?  Still, feeling ridiculous, we oblige.  Upon getting into this bus, we meet a guy who made the same mistake and feels just as ridiculous as we do.  Misery loves company, right?  Anyways, we get to the right terminal and check in.  Turns out Nick and I have to sit apart from one another.  At this point, we have an hour and a half to kill, so we figured we’d start this out right: by drinking.  We find a bar close to our gate and begin kicking back some drinks while we wait for our plane.   The guy joins us but doesn’t drink.  He leaves eventually.  Apparently he wasn’t up for a little sauce.  This other guy sits down and tells us that Air France gives us free drinks and not to worry.  As happy I am to hear this, I have no idea who the fuck this guy is.  Soon enough I find out why.  When the woman gives us our tab for the 6 beers we have drank, it’s an overwhelming $48.  For 6 beers?!  Sweetie, you realize that you’re tending bar in fucking JFK Airport and not in Midtown?  She scowls at us as if it’s not ridiculous that we’re paying 8 dollars for a fucking drink.  Our eyes fight a war of ridiculousness.  I think I won.  At least the drinks on the flight will be free (thanks, guy)!!  At this point, I contemplate asking the man if he knows any other tidbits about the future, like the next World Series champion, but decide against it.

When we get on the plane, I convince the woman next to me to let Nick switch places with her.  The girl on the other side of me looks upset by this decision.  More so by the fact that she’s flying alone (and she knows that I know it) and Nick & I have each other.  O well, she’ll deal.  She has an iPod and I have an Italian.  I win, but she should be happy.  She’ll still get the box of whistle pops (I miss old Nickelodeon).  The flight’s long, but we make it.   I watch Juno, We Own the Night, and Enchanted to pass the time.  As much as I love Juno, the fact that this movie neglects to address any negative aspects of the fact that a 16 year old high school girl is giving birth is beyond me.  I still enjoy it very much though.  I drink a mix of champagne, wine, orange juice, and water.  The chicken’s surprisingly good for an airplane dinner.  Air France is steppin it up.  No repeat either.  I’d say that goes in the win column.  We don’t sleep on this flight.  I try, but fail miserably.  Guess there’s only one other option…drink some more!  The flight attendant seems generally concerned for our well being, mainly because we’re not capable of being concerned for ourselves.  We arrive in Paris at 5 in the morning, and it sucks.  The place looks like a giant bubble and a metal spider tried fucking and it came out 3 months premature.  The girl at the security gives me attitude cause I’m American.  Could I be wrong?  Maybe.  But the eyes scream “American scum.”  Maybe I’m going crazy.  Maybe it’s the alcohol.  Regardless, this doesn’t go over well with me.  After all, I’m drunk, tired and I hate France.

March 13^th

We take a puddle jumper to Shannon.  This trip seemed a lot longer than the transatlantic one, which is probably due to the excitement.  In a blatant breach of national security, I decide to switch my seat and sit next to Nick.  I hold my breath and hope that the 4 other people on the flight don’t rat me out.  In fact, they don’t seem to even notice.  We sleep a fair amount after taxiing around the runway.  In true Irish spirit, it’s overcast and early in the morning.  We soon discover that Air France lost our bags, leaving us with only backpacks and the clothes we have on.  So much for stepping it up.  Maybe it was that security lady.  Here’s a clever equation though:  hangover setting in + fatigue – bags thanks to Air France =…..Mike is pissed off!!!  Nick assures me that we’ll be fine, but I’m still not a ray of sunshine.

We get on the bus and head into Limerick.  We catch a cab, and soon make it to Dave’s, where we are embraced with the fulfillment of an unquenchable love.  I hold onto Dave with more love than Kate Winslet in Titanic (“I’ll never let go” my black ass.  Nice job, Rose.  You live your life thanks to Jack and instead of giving him a proper burial, you let him fall into the abyss of the sea.  Bitch)  We meet some of his friends and chill out.  Alex is pretty much Dave with brown hair.  He went to an all-boys school also, so he acts gay like us.  We go onto campus to get food with Dave, Alex, and Tim.  We avoid this girl who has the biggest fucking nose in my entire life.  I almost give us away from laughing so fucking hard.  It’s like someone jammed 2 traffic cones square into her nostrils.  Anywho, we go inside for some…get this…gougons.  Yup, that’s what chicken tenders are called.  Granted “tenders” never made sense to me (and still doesn’t), but who the fuck was like “these taste like…what’s the word I’m looking for…gougons.  At least we put “chicken” in the fucking name.  Tim sits by himself and we ridicule him for this.  Alex and I win free Coca-Cola’s and high-fives are exchanged, but we never end up utilizing them.  We pick up supplies for a couple of days and head back to base.  We return, hang out, and soon head into town to top off my cell phone (“top off”= add minutes, for you non-cultured folk).  Finally, I touch base with James, who will be around later for our opening festivities.  The thing with James is this: he’s been one of my best friends since we were 6.  His family is my family and vice versa.  We hung out a lot, but then the kid and his family move to Ireland when we’re 16.  This is the year I move up the Island, but c’mon, there’s a difference between up the Island and across the Atlantic.  A difference of, o I don’t know, 2970 miles!  I know what you’re think, and yes, I am still bitter.  I’ve seen the kid like 4 times since, the last of which was 2 ½ years ago.  The good thing is we don’t change, so when we hang out 2 ½ years is the same as a week.  We return to the house, where we have a bunch of booze waiting.  We meet more of Dave’s friends, and we play a new game: ESB.  You say a word that directly relates to the word before (table à legs à arms, etc.).  But no repeats and no words beginning with E, S, or B.  I kinda suck at it, but whatever, losing means more drinking, so losing is in fact winning.  Dave informs us about the night:

Dave:  So guys, tonight there’s a “pimps and ho’s party” at one of the clubs, Cornmarket.

Nick & Mike:  Sweet.  We’re all fucking about it.

D:  Here’s the thing.  The girls wanna dress up as pimps so…

N & M:  so…you mean…

D:  Yea, the guys are gonna be the ho’s.

Maybe there’s something I need to know about myself, but not only am I not offended, I’m completely ok with this.  However, these people have never met me before, and now I’m going to dress in women’s clothing and expect people to take me seriously?  Absofuckinglutely!!  To answer your question, no, I don’t have women’s clothing.  The girls bring over clothes for us to wear.  We change into them for the evening.  Nick sports a cute number with jeans and a low-cut black blouse with spaghetti straps.  Dave flashes a sequence pink shirt.  I rock a more conservative top, but I also have on checkered tights.  After fully realizing the ridiculousness of the situation, we drink in order to change the feeling of our outfits from uncomfortable to enjoyable.

At this point, it’s confirmed that Trevor will not be joining us.  After tireless ridicule, we officially stop speaking to him (non-speaking terms, if you will).  Eventually, we try to catch a bus into town, but fail.  In fact, the bus blatantly blew right by us.  We catch a cab to the hotel where we meet up with James and his mom, both of whom catch a glimpse of my clothing.  The expression of a woman who has been a second mother to me and that I haven’t seen in 5 years to my attire is priceless.  An awkward “that’s interesting” is muttered.  Here’s the crazy thing though: from the tone in her voice, even though she was weirded out and perplexed by my selected attire, she seemed very accepting and almost believed that I could’ve turned out this way.  I, on the other hand, have no idea how to feel about this.  No matter, we drop our stuff off in the hotel room and head to the Cornmarket for the night.

The place is pretty big and has a silent DJ system.  “A silent DJ system,” you say, “what’s that?”  Here’s out it works:  one puts a 10 Euro deposit down and wears headphones, which plays the DJ music.  So instead of screaming at the top of their lungs in order to speak to one another, people can simply remove the headphones.  At the end of the night, you give the headphones back and get back the 10 Euro.  It works beautifully, and I think this is the greatest concept in modern human history.  No more “unce’s.”  I feel free.  We discover that there’s a 2 Euro drink special going on, so we definitely cash in on the savings.  If people shopped the way we drank, the dollar would make the Euro its bitch.  As an obvious result, we get a whole lot drunker and we look absolutely ridiculous.  But fuck it, you only live once right?  It’s not like it bothered us anyway.  Maybe it was the alcohol.  Nick decided it would be a good idea to keep his wallet in the front of his pants due to the tight nature of girl’s jeans.  This ends tragically.  I guess she didn’t like the free show.  You get the idea.

Afterwards, we go to McDonald’s, where we wait in an unnatural line to get food.  After this little bitch gets pissy and claims she’s next, Dave makes fun of her by calling her “shamu.”  She quietly gets pissed off, but her eyes tell me the truth:  she’s gonna cry uncontrollably when she gets home.  I, knowing what the probable future holds and sparing no feelings whatsoever, laugh right in her face.  Eventually we get our food and enjoy it thoroughly.  Somehow, Dave, James, Nick, & I make it back to the hotel, have a close call getting James in, and pass out almost immediately.  At this point, Nick and I have just gone 37 hours without legitimate sleep.

March 14^th

We wake up and learn that our bags will be back at Dave’s place soon.  We all get onto a bus and head back to Plassy (the place where Dave is staying).  We get back and touch base with the rest of Dave’s group, who were as drunk/hungover as we were.  Signs of a good night.  Dave gets our bags so as not to arise suspicion (apparently we’re not supposed to be there).  We hang out, swap stories, and Dave makes us a phenomenal breakfast.  I offer fellatio as payback, but we agree on a “Mike Lynch special” upon his return home (it’s a meal.  Get your mind out of the gutter).  Despite ideas of naps, we decide to nix them and instead go to play softball.  James sits out, and we play while continuing to drink.  We play softball, kickball, and soccer.  Kickball turned rather violent.  In fact, it was kickball mixed with “kick the ball directly at whoever you want to hurt.”  It was still very enjoyable.  During this time, Trevor finally arrives, and the apex of our homosexuality is reached.  That’s a lie, but nevertheless we’re mad gay with our reunion.  James leaves and will return later.  We continue soccer for a little while longer and then head over to Sports Club.  The lack of a creative name baffles me, even for the Irish.  Brian tries stealing our food, but my hunger proves futile for his hiding abilities.  We hitch a ride back to Plassy and shower and change for the night.  Molly picks up booze for us, and rejects our sexual repayment.  A giant “psh” is uttered and sounds like an opus.  We meet up with James and his friend Sean and head over to Brian’s for a power hour festivity.  I get angry at some of the girls during this.  While we’re cheers to “good friends,” “good times,” and “getting drunk,” they would cheers to “freedom and democracy.”  Now I love both of those very much.  But we’re power hour-ing, not deciding on a new president here.  We outlast most them anyway and still have some left over for continuous drinking.  I hang out with James for a little while.  He’s high as a kite.  We used to collect baseball cards and want to be sports stars.  Now, we get drunk and stoned like the kids in those ridiculous PSA’s (except I’m not killing people.  I’m not doing anything).  Everyone leaves and heads over to a local bar named the Hurler’s.  At this point, James and Sean leave and we agree to meet in the city for lunch the next day.  Hurler’s is a pretty good time.  Most of the people get very drunk.  Nick is hit on by an older woman, which is funny to me and Dave.  It is later revealed that this woman is positive for herpes, another fact that I find rather comical.  He also strikes up conversation with a “small person.”  I have nothing against them, but my intoxication can’t prevent me from laughing to myself.  Thankfully no one hears me.  We head over to get some food with a couple of girls at SuperDine.  I don’t really eat because the night is not over to me.  We head over to this place the Lodge.  I have no money on me, so the prospect of drinking more is put on hiatus.  So we dance until the place closes and then head back with Brian and a few others to his place to pick up our stuff.  We take a cab with our remaining beers and once again pass out at the hotel.

March 15^th

We woke up and checked out of the hotel.  Trevor had taken the liberty of waking up at 9 to get breakfast and thus supplied us with some food.  Afterwards, we went back to Plassy and helped clean up.  We got our shit together and headed back to Limerick city centre to catch the train.  We rush to the train station and make it to the train.  We made a brief stop in Limerick Junction, in which we strike up a conversation with an African man.  I feel awkward and leave numerous times and pretend it’s because I’m checking on the train.  It’s not because of his race (although I’d be lying if I said that it never happened).  I just didn’t feel comfortable.  He reminded me of one of my English professors (Note:  I strongly disliked that professor).  Plus, I don’t like when people I don’t know randomly start talking to me unless they: look hot, look interesting, look like my guardian angel, or I’m drunk.  Fortunately, he doesn’t take the same train as we do, and we’re soon in Mallow.  Mallow’s this pretty small town in Cork county.  It’s still big enough to have a few cool places though.  Still, more than a week in here would be way too much.  Like my dad’s wife, who’s from Mallow, said:  “you guys will probably be the most exotic thing there.”  Ballyclough is even smaller than Mallow.  It has maybe 5 roads, and none of these roads have names.  U2 rings through my head while we’re here and it bothers me.  Everyone knows everyone and the place has more bars (2) then anything in the town.  Dad’s friend, Sean Hayes, picks us up from the train station and takes us on a quick tour of Mallow and Bally Clough.  He takes us to his house and we meet his family.  I’m shown off as “Sara Kate’s brother” as if I’m this rare artifact.  They comment on my striking resemblance to Sara Kate, which angers me to no end.  But I don’t hold it against them.  It’s not their fault and they don’t know.  Sean shows us his lime kiln, which is pretty cool.  His wife, Eileen, serves us coffee, drinks, and then dinner (Pasta Bolognese…delicious).  We watch the Wales-France rugby game, which Wales wins.  I recount my only direct experience with France and find myself happier that Wales won than I thought I would be.

He then takes us up to Dad’s house, which is unnecessarily huge.  In fact, it’s the biggest house in Bally Clough.  Really, Dad?  It’s like a dick measuring contest against a kindergarten class.  We hang out for a little bit and then are joined by Trevor’s friends Megan and Michelle.  Liam Fitzgerald, this boy who stayed with my dad one summer, stops by and says hello.  He hangs out for a while as we settle into the house. Soon, we are picked up by Sean, who takes us down to Deady’s pub for a few drinks.  We sit by ourselves, but we draw some curious stares by the locals.  I meet the owner, but he doesn’t really “take care of me” as Dad promised.  I mean he was nice, but nothing to write home about.  Still, we play some ESB and slip further into inebriation.  I meet Deirdre, the woman who lives down the road from the house.  I pretend like I remember everything about her even though I only remembered that her name started with a D.  I’m not amazing with memory, but the last time I saw her was 7 years ago.  Cut me some slack.  We return home, drink some more, and pass out.

March 16^th

We wake up and slowly assemble in the kitchen.  Trevor makes breakfast for us, and we contemplate possible activities for the day.  However, the lack of a vehicle proves to be difficult.  Nevertheless, Sean mans up and brings us to Killarney.  Citing it as one of his favorite places, we pile into his lovable caravan and he first brings us to Castle Ross.  We take some pictures, walk around, and watch a kid fall flat on his face.  I felt really bad for the kid, I really did.  I mean I’ve been there before.  But now I know why people were laughing at me at the time: cause that shit is hysterical.  Michelle is excited to see swans for the first time, which proved to be another funny site.  This girl also hadn’t seen tree trunks.  It simply boggles my mind.  I mean, I don’t see myself as one who has “seen it all.”  I mean there was that time at Six Flags when I saw bears having sex, but even if I had seen everything, do you think a swan would be high on the list?  I almost feel sorry for the girl.  This is before I remember that she has more money than the value of my body parts on the black market.  We head over to Killarney National Park, which is home to a pretty sweet waterfall.  Also, there’s moss growing on everything.  It’s kinda weird though.  I mean you turn around and the forest is green.  I mean EVERYTHING.  The branches, the rocks, even the protective metal bars are green.  It’s as if someone didn’t feel that the park was Irish enough.  We continue our drive along the countryside and stop along the road at this place the Ladies View.  It looks over the Lakes of Killarney.  Regardless of Sean’s claim that it’s better in the summer where everything’s green, the view is fuckin’ ballin’.  So we snap a few pictures and head into town.  We stop at a bar and have a drink.  These kids spill their drinks on Sean’s coat.  Michelle spends a good part of the time on the phone with her mom.  Nick discovers that Hot Whiskey is the Irish cure for the common cold and that it’s magical.  Airborne beware.  This is pretty much the case during the trip.  We stop off to pick up some more food and drinks for the house.  The lady at the place looks as if she’s bothered by our presence.  When we ask her for “table tennis balls,” she looks at me like I’m the fucking idiot, but then points me in a direction.  However, there are no balls to be found.  We later discover that they don’t sell them.  Way to go, ace.  I know your job sucks, but deceiving college kids about ping pong balls does not constitute “fun,” no matter what level of boredom.  We head back to the house after raping that place of drunk food and more beer.  Like the geniuses we are, we leave the beer in the car, putting a finite end to our evening.  Still, this does not stop the four boys from getting into a bathtub together.  Just when you thought we couldn’t get gayer, raise the bar.  Trevor gets up to pee, and Michelle may or may not have caught a glimpse of Trevor’s ding dong.  By the tears that followed, I’m assuming she did.  Her and Megan still hang out with us, and we sit in the tub and read Tucker Max stories.  Soon after, we assemble downstairs and quickly run out of booze.  Our futile attempt at Never Have I Ever turns into a discussion about sex, which soon fizzles.  People retreat to bed.  Rest up kiddies, tomorrow is St. Paddy’s.

March 17^th

St. Patrick’s Day.  It’s always been a dream of most Irish-Americans (and some Americans in general) to spend at least one St. Patrick’s Day in the homeland.  And we are no different.   Trevor wakes me up for the big dance and we get ready.  Sean’s not around to drive us, so we call a cab.  This proves to be a problem though.  Well, the place in which we’re staying has no formal address.  The streets have no names (U2 again.  Dammit Bono, shut the hell up.).  So I can’t imagine how I sound in explaining where we are to the taxi:

Mike:  No.  Just go to the main road, then straight through town, then a right.  No, I don’t know the name of the road.  It doesn’t have one.  Yes I’m serious.  No I’m not drunk.

I must’ve sounded like a friggin’ genius.  We agree to meet him in town, but he finds us on our way there.  We take the train to Cork and pick up some beers in the drinking cart.  We aimlessly walk out and decide to “follow the Irishmen.”  Irishmen aren’t necessarily good at directions, but don’t put anything in between them and alcohol.  We make it into city centre and immediately search for a pub.  We stop by one place which has another group of Americans in it.  We sit in the back and play ESB.  Yes this game has become quite popular among us.  It’s easy and requires us to drink.  Need I say more?  Michelle drops a Euro coin, and in her search for it finds herself in the fellatio position between Dave’s legs.  Both groups of Americans laugh and cheer, and Michelle becomes red with embarrassment.  We decide to leave in order to watch some of the parade.  The boys and I buy matching hats and find a spot along the parade route.  Nick climbs on top of the nearby telephone booth in order to get a better view (he’s small).  After a short while, we become bored with the parade and look for food.  At this point, I contact Ronan, my dad’s wife’s brother, and he agrees to meet us for food.  We almost don’t meet up, but our accents give us away (imagine that).  We go to this place Zak’s and get some food and drinks.  The burger is interesting but not bad.  Afterwards, Ronan leads us to random bar locations.  We stop off and have a few drinks.  Ronan offers the idea of going to a hurling match, but we enjoy alcohol too much.  And we wanted to get something for Sean.  So instead we head over to a bar and drink some more.  While in the bathroom, a man makes the point that only Americans wear green on St. Paddy’s.  He does this while looking directly at me.  I shrug my shoulders in a “I’m not gonna do shit about it now” way.  He’s drunk, I’m drunk, EVERYBODY’S DRUNK!   Ronan leaves and tells us the names of a few other places to get drinks.  As we walk around, we stop and take pictures in front of a whole pile of kegs.  Some of us turn the corner, and shortly after we hear a series of “pings” and loud “clanks,” as if the kegs had been hit over.  Soon, Nick and Trevor turn the corner and point as in to tell us to move quickly.  Idiot Idiot Idiot.  We walk around for a bit, but then decide to pick up a gift for Sean and a few road beers and head home.  We stop off at an off-license and pretend to convince the cashier that we’re anything but American.  During this trip, when I drink, I put on this shitty accent.  So I decide to use this shitty accent as my selling point.  I fail miserably.  Trevor and Dave fail too.  We buy two bottles of wine, 2 six packs, and we’re on our way.  I insist on stopping off and getting an Irish rugby shirt.  We find a place, and I purchase a rugby shirt successfully.  Nick tries to buy an Irish soccer shirt, but the lady won’t let him buy it because they won’t accept his credit card.  I laugh at Nick and tell him that the Irish don’t want his representation.  Besides, he has an Italian one at home.  We also stop off at a Quizno’s Sub, but Dave and I are upset to find that they do not serve Chicken Carbonaras.  We take a train back to Mallow and a cab picks us up (thanks Sean) and takes us to the house.  Soon thereafter, Sean shows up and we thank him and give him his booze.  He puts on this smile like “I’m gonna go kill this immediately.”  He leaves, and we hang out for a little while before heading up to bed.  I pack before I get into bed.  Tomorrow…España

Stay tuned for the Spanish part of our journey…

Yo hi and welcome

Yo hi!

I’m Mike Lynch, the creater and main author of Sunrise to Southern State Parkway (affectionately STSSP). I’ll do my best to update this as frequently as possible. Unfortunately, my sense of timing is slightly off, as shown by the fact that I’m launching this thing a week before finals. Ahead, you’ll probably run into one or more of the following:

• the verbalization of words that don’t belong as verbs
• frequent movie quotes
• cynicism, sarcasm, and possible inappropriateness
• making fun of random people
• DEFINITELY making fun of my 3 best friends, who may contribute to this blogging scene

Like I said, I’ll try to update as frequently as possible. Hopefully you have fun. Go ahead, snoop around. And tell your friends!!