Because my life timing continues to be awesome, I spent about an hour driving directly into one scary-ass storm on Friday. The radio explained that the national weather service believed tornadoes were unlikely, but baseball-sized hail was a definite possibility, so I should seek shelter immediately. I interpreted this to mean “drive real fast past hundreds of gas stations and other safe buildings and seek shelter in your favorite coffee shop.” Sort of the Shaun of the Dead theory — if I’m gonna die, I want to do it somewhere I feel comfortable and can get a blended mocha. About five minutes after I pulled in, the national weather service got owned by this guy: http://photo.xanga.com/raeracquel/5fb8c199698780/photo.html.
Obviously I was immediately in the basement, praying the rosary. Then I realized I was the only one down there and went upstairs to stand in front of a big window (safety!) and take pictures. I also sent text messages about my situation to my mother and Lacy, who responded by not reading the message (mom. Probably a good thing, as it would have given her a heart attack) and asking me if there were tornadoes closer to home (Lacy. “Um, I’m a little more concerned about this one right now…”). The next time I’m hiding from a tornado, I’m keeping it to myself.
Anyway, I’m fine (and so, thank God, is the coffee shop). The rest of the night passed in relatively calm stupidity: I almost ran over Bambi, then was home for all of five minutes before turning around and going to “Hellboy II” with Andy. It was cool to watch (“oh look, it’s a plant. Nope, sorry, that’s an evil flower-headed God. Got me again, Guillermo del Toro!”), but not so cool to listen to (when Hellboy holds an infant with his tail, he says, “Here’s your first piece of tail, kid.” And he calls someone a “glasshole.” Unnh.).
Saturday I woke up late, lounged around, then drove back to the coffee shop to chat with Becca. We talked about wanting to visit Lacy, which always includes a trip to the Pub, which inevitably leads to other things. We’re due for some ridiculous bad decisions.
Turns out I couldn’t wait that long. In a bit of fluke timing, my high school non-reunion reunion (“for those of us who couldn’t make it to the real thing”) happened to be Saturday night, and I decided, against all rhyme and reason, to go. And then I decided to succumb to peer pressure five years later, and got myself good and drunk. Yep. Then a lot of things happened all at once (at least that’s how I remember it): went to a street dance; talked vegetarian-life with James; got non-CK Clarissa’s life history; talked to some guy who called himself a “film buff” and then said his favorite movie is “Transformers;” sent a text message to myself; compared widow’s peaks with Andy; and allowed David to buy me a questionable number of drinks (he really wanted to get me hammered. I’d say he succeeded, but I know it was my own doing. He sure helped, though). Like always, I was a belligerent, babbling brook. It fell to Andy to get me home, and then it fell to me to come to terms with being hungover at my parents’ house. There’s an experience I don’t intend to repeat (I’m sure those words won’t come back to haunt me at all…)
Now I am back in my apartment and finally feeling like a human again. A very dumb human.