Put This in Your Cookbook

How to Have a Good St. Patty’s Day: the Recipe

Ingredients:

  • Slutty green clothes (1 pair)
  • Alcohol (6 shots/3 mixed drinks; add more to taste)
  • Loud bar with grindy dance music and strobe lights (1)
  • Friends (any number; must be flavorful)
  • Money (a lot)

Directions:

  1. Put on slutty clothes with friends.
  2. Go to bar.
  3. Buy mixed drinks. Mix them liberally with friends and bar.
  4. Buy shots. Shake vigorously on the dance floor.
  5. Black out.

Seriously, it’s foolproof. Way easier than whipping up some souffle or whatever-the-fuck with Martha Stewart-level difficulty and weird foreign ingredients.

A Gypsy Heart Is a Wild Heart

In case you haven’t noticed, in my heart, I am a gypsy.

As such, I would really appreciate receiving a caravan for my birthday. Stocked full of wine and cool gypsy stuff, like jangly coins and scarves.

Seriously, though, even though I am not Romani by blood, I am pretty sure I’m a gypsy anyway. I can just feel it. Or maybe it’s all the wine I’ve been drinking.

Half-Drunk Is a Waste of Money

I got a little tipsy last night. And by “tispy” I mean dancing, double-fisting drunk.

Seriously, though, there are few joys in life as great as getting bombed. First of all, it makes you happy (unless you’re one of those dicks who starts crying the second the Keystone is cracked). I mean, what? Magic liquid that washes away sadness? It’s like something out of a geeky fantasy book.

Secondly, name one thing that isn’t improved with alcohol. Add “drunk” to the beginning of any activity and it becomes 1,000 times better. Sledding = drunk sledding! Dinner with the parents = drunkenly listening to old people’s stories! I mean, which sounds better to you, dancing or drunk dancing? I thought so.

Of course, this might be my raging alcoholism talking, but even though I got pretty hammered last night, I think that might be in the cards for this evening too. And, let’s be honest, tomorrow as well. Life is short, and I would rather spend my precious minutes in a Midori-sour-induced haze than any other way.

Plus (thirdly? Fourthly? I don’t know, my brain is floating in vodka instead of cerebrospinal fluid) it gives you lots of good stories. When you’re old, would you rather tell your grandkids about how you stayed in every night and played Battleship, or would you like to start stories with, “When I drank that bottle of Jack…” I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be a legend. (Whoa nelly, that sounds a little epic for a post about how much I love to drink. But you know what I mean, Internet.) Whatever, go mix yourself a little something sweet (with about 40% alcohol by volume).

Winter Wilds

Do you ever just feel like doing something absolutely outrageous, like dancing on a table or streaking or rescuing a giraffe from the zoo and making him be your pet? I get this feeling that I call the “summer wilds,” on account of the fact that it typically takes place in the summer, but I guess my brain is seasonally confused because I have it right now.

Seriously, on January 2nd, I am done with snow and being freezing cold everywhere I go and wearing thirty-seven layers. And not the cute kind of layers, but long-johns (okay, I don’t actually wear those, although if I did it might solve Thing I Hate About Winter #2) and fifty scarves. The snow is all charming and adorable during the holidays, but afterward, when it’s all pollution-dirty and icy? Not so much.

Right now, I just want summer. And I know, those people who bitch all summer about how hot it is and then change their tune are dumb. But seriously, it was -11 yesterday, so fuck it, I want sunshine and sand.

Either way, though, I kinda have that let’s-go-crazy mentality usually reserved for when I’m not pale and suffering from frostbite. Except that I know I’ll be all, “Yeah, let’s rage, come on, let’s go!” and bop outside with some contraband FourLoko and then be all, “Shit, no,” and stumble back into a warm bed.

Long story short, I am just going to shut up, calm down, and appreciate the good things about the world being an icy hell. Like warm cozy blankets, and hot coco with whipped cream, and watching people slip and fall in the snow.

Fake New Year’s Resolutions

I have never really been one for New Year’s Resolutions. Mostly because I know I won’t stick to them, especially if they’re about exercise (Running. Is. So. Boring. And I used to do track, but seriously, that’s why I was a sprinter. If I could just run a 200 and call it a day, maybe I’d work out). And it seems kinda bleak and depressing to kick off the new year by ruining all the grand plans I had for it during Week One.

So instead, I don’t make any resolutions. In the spirit of 2011, though, here are some potential ones that I wish I could actually do, although that’ll never happen so I’m not even going to try (I’m a real champ):

  1. Stop finding Kanye West attractive. Just stop. (Normally, I hate hate double-hate loathe cocky guys, especially ones with diamonds for bottom teeth. But Kayne West is just the exception that proves the rule. Although I may have accidentally stumbled across some semi-nude pictures of him and he has a monster bush, so that might help me stop thinking he’s sexy.)
  2. Stop procrastinating EVERYTHING. Fuck it, I’ll just do that in 2012 (see what I did there?!?!?).
  3. Learn to do a cartwheel. I feel like if I could do cartwheels I would just do them everywhere I went, yelling, “WHEEEEE!” while I pinwheeled around everyone in circles. A good idea? No. But totally boss? Yes.

Yum. I can still say that since it's only 2010.

 

Well, that’s three. That is a lot of fake resolutioning I did there.

Seriously, though, what are you sitting around reading this blog for? Go buy something sparkly (and I don’t mean coke with glitter in it, revelers) and start mixing up fifty kegs of Jungle Juice. Stop thinking, start drinking! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!

 

 

Bringing Bartering Back

Sadly, I forgot to water my potted Money Tree, and it died. (And also it never existed in the first place.) So. I am left in a pickleishly pickley situation, otherwise known as Being Broke. But that’s not a problem, because I have devised a genius plan that will not only help me get slizzard tonight, but will solve the economy crisis.

Ready for this gem? Bartering, baby.

I mean, come on! We can just trade things for other things and then we won’t even need money! Like right now, I have a craving for some ice cream. So I’m going to mosey down to the gas station and give them half a mitten in exchange for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. I think it’s a pretty solid trade.

Also, my brain just took a little meandering break for a wee bit (it was bored), and came up with another totally solid idea. That solves the, um, drunk-and-hungry-at-the-same-time crisis. ALCOHOLIC ICE CREAM. Think about all the possibilities! Mint chocolate-chip with Bailey’s!  Pecan and Bacardi! Vanilla swirled with Raspberry Smirnoff! (Trademarked to the Wild Hearts, bitches–unless you wanna make some and bring it to me…)

I would fully trade two mittens for some of that.

Detox Just to Retox

I am getting outrageous tonight. I think that means I have to amp up my Dirty Grunge Hippie apparel style to Glamorous Hobo. It’s not intentional but I am just drawn to hideous vintage t-shirts and things with holes in them. And wearing bandannas. I have a lot of bandannas. They have their own shelf in my room, the bandannas. (I think they’re watching right now. They always watch. I should stop talking about them.)

Also, fun fact: every single time I typed that I wrote “bananas” and had to fix it. Good.

So today is a Friday, which means I’m getting sliizzzarrrd. And then tomorrow is my college’s Homecoming Football Game of Touchdowns and Excitement! Basically it’s going to be a good weekend.

Sparkly weekend excitement.

Detox just to retox, right?

 

 

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