Or the account of my decline into barbarism (and all of the lovely, mad people who helped me do it).

Saturday, July 31, 2010


Trip to Montreal: $500
New GPS software: $200
Grove Park buffet: $25
Having my ex call me, crying and begging for me back: Priceless.

Best birthday ever.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

C'est La Vie

I recently returned from a trip to Montreal with Michelle. We stayed at a hostel, stayed up until 6 AM, and slept until noon everyday. I want to share my experience with everyone, because I never want to forget what happened.

Michelle and I arrived. It was Mojito Monday on Crescent St. so we enjoyed our newfound drinking privileges, ate a Nutella crepe, and went to bed early.

Here's where the fun begins...The hostel coordinated a pub crawl, and we decided to go. I talked to the host, Max, and told him I was studying French. By some cosmic force, he introduced me to a few boys from Paris. I freaked when they began speaking to me in French, but I told them my name and that I was studying French and Lit at school.

At the first pub there was a special on beer, so Michelle and I tried it. We hate beer, but attempted to stomach it anyway. At the bar, one of the Parisian boys asked if we'd like to sit with them. I sat next to a boy named Pierre and we talked for awhile. I told him I was studying in Angers this spring and asked if he knew much about the city. His eyes lit up. He had studied there before and he would be there at the same time as me, working. He wrote his name on a metro ticket (which I still have) and told me to contact him through Facebook. He'd help me out when I got there and if I couldn't reach him he'd give me names of his friends.

His friend Brice spoke to Michelle.

"American girls think his accent is very cute, but they can't understand what he's saying." Pierre said, laughing and pointing to them. "We're going to a party after this. Would you like to come?"

The French apparently use party and club interchangeably. But Pierre explained that he and Brice were skipping the second pub on the tour and going to the last one. Michelle and I decided to join.

On the way there, we stopped outside the second bar and this very large toothless man bumped into me. He apologized and introduced himself.

"I'm a UFC fighter. Congratulations, you just met a celebrity." He said, shaking my hand.

"Oh my God! I don't know what to say...I'm just an American girl."

"What are you doing?"

"I think we're trying to get into this bar."

"You are? Here, I can get you in. Come with me." He grabbed my hand and started cutting the line and leading me to the door.

"No!" I said. "I'm with the group!"

"Okay, okay. Well, hot women...Seriously though, you're dynamite!"

We said goodbye and followed the French boys to the nightclub, where we danced until 3:30 AM. Pierre bought shots for Michelle and me and we made out on the dance floor. He taught me how to dance and kissed me on the lips each time he dipped me.

Michelle had tequila and beer spilled on her, so we left soon after. Pierre protected us from a creepy guy who tried to hit on us while he had a smoke a few feet away.

"I leave you for thirty seconds and this happens! You are too hot. You should be ugly." He said.

Pierre asked for my number, Brice paid for our taxi and we walked to a McDo's half a mile away. Pierre picked me up and spun me around, told me he'd take me to his house by the sea where we could see the stars. After we walked back to the hostel, we said goodbye and he told me he wanted to take me to dinner on Friday.

We hiked Mount Royal and Michelle dry heaved into the forest. We ate poutine and sat at the bar that night, looking for fun. Some film producers from Vancouver were there are they invited us to play a drinking game with them. They were twins and their cousin was an actor in their film that was being featured in downtown Montreal. They were also there with three of their friends.

Later, they took us to a bar and we took shots with Parisian girls. The boys left without us. Chris, who had been hitting on me earlier, was super drunk and walked into the middle of the road. Michelle and I got stressed and walked back to the hostel, where we talked to some middle-aged man about sex. Strange...

The boys came back, but the film producers, Denny and Nelson, and their cousin, Ricky went to bed. Chris came back and it was cold so he put his arms around me. He kissed me, told me I was cute, and I later made out with him. He got in bed with me later (WITH MICHELLE IN THE ROOM) and tried making out with me, but I pushed him off. He told me he was leaving the next day and how it sucked he'd never see me again because he liked me a whole lot.

I admitted to Michelle that I was using him for his warmth because it was cold. I just wanted to cuddle in bed, but guys just have to take it to another level.

We went on another bar crawl. Denny told me he wanted to be my writing partner. He bought me my first tequila shot and we got cozy (no kiss) at the bar. I also took whiskey shots with the boys. Michelle got fucking trashed at the third bar and the twins got into a bar fight with a guy who called himself Boston Bob. There was so much blood, and the fight began because Bob was fucking with the foosball table Michelle, the twins, and I are were playing with. We were right in the middle of it all.

The boys got escorted out and we followed them downstairs. They found Bob out back taking a smoke so they beat the shit out of him and ran in the opposite direction. Chris yelled, "You coming with us?" I grabbed Michelle and we heard sirens so all of us ducked into an alley. Cole came running, asked what happened, and ran back to the bar and told Bob he'd stab him in the throat.

We took a taxi home. Chris broke his hand and was looking for pity, so I gave it to him. We sat in his car and listened to Christian music outside the hostel. I was cracking up because this guy was in my bed the night before.

We went to bed at 6 AM, and Chris said he was leaving tomorrow so we should cuddle. Yeah, right.

We woke up at 3 PM and I had a date with Pierre. We met downtown and he took me to a bistro, where he bought me a fifty dollar bottle of Italian white wine and some pasta.

"How did you know I liked white wine?" I asked.

"It was the first thing you told me." He said. We had bonded over hating beer and loving wine. "It's funny the first things people tell you. It says the most about them. So tell me. I want to know everything about you."

"You already do," I said.

"No, I don't. I know that you love white wine, that you and Michelle are best friends and roommates. I know that you want to learn languages and you want to work for the UN as a translator. You are a vegetarian. You went to Italy and you're going to study in Angers in January. But that is all I know."

I told him I was a writer, he said I was brilliant. We talked, as the French do, for an hour and a half at dinner and made the waiter nervous. He asked if I wanted another bottle of wine, but I was drunk, so I declined. He took me to a movie since it was raining and then took a taxi to the hostel. I told him not to forget me, and we separated.

When I got to the room, I had a message from him. He said he missed me already and that he wouldn't forget me.

That night, Michelle and I bought flowers and went to an after party in the twins' hotel room after their film showing. The boys smoked pot twelve feet away from a security officer and Chris and his brother got in trouble for swimming in the pool with some stoned naked girls. Chris kept coming on to me that night, but I didn't respond like I had a few days ago. I really liked Pierre. Denny was also coming on to me but it was awkward because both boys were a little jealous of each other and kept making comments to me like, "There's your boy."

Okay, so while this is happening Pierre tells me he wants me to be his girlfriend. I told him I'd meet him and we'd talk. He went to bed but said he'd wake up when I called him. At five, I left the boys. Denny tried to kiss me but I turned my head. I told the guys I was sick and going to sleep. Michelle stayed with them.

In my room, I called Pierre but he wouldn't wake up. Michelle texted me to tell me where they were so I wouldn't cross paths with them when I met up with Pierre. I had this all planned out. We would meet at the Basilica in downtown Montreal and I would wear my black maxi dress. It was a misty morning and the clouds seemed to rest of the sidewalk.

Here's what happened. Pierre never woke up, but after Michelle told the boys I was sick they really wanted to come see me. Denny kept asking Michelle if he could come see if I was okay. He texted me. I told him I was fine. Then Michelle said they were walking to the hostel.

Shit, Michelle, you're a bad wingman!

Lobby, she said.

Eventually, the boys left. I woke up at 9:30 for our flight and Pierre just woke up. He was very upset that he had missed my calls, but we BBMed for a little while. He told me all of the reasons he wanted to date me in English, then in French. He told me it could work. We'd only be apart for four months. I would travel to Budapest with him in December. He only knew me for two days but he said he'd wait four months for me. I told him he treated me better than any American boy ever had and he said it was because I was worth it. Shit. He said he'd give me as long as I wanted to think of an answer, but I knew what he wanted.

I told him to visit me in NC. I had 182 days until France so he said he'd come in 91 days, right in the middle. If he comes, I might have to say yes. I miss him a lot, and I'm not sure what to think of the situation. Everyone's been pretty cynical thus far, but my mother tells me to hold it loosely. This can't be a coincidence. We're meeting in France in four months, and this could very well be the greatest love of my life.

Au revoir.

Saturday, July 17, 2010


"I don't want to know my name," I said, clutching a bottle of chardonnay.

I drank the whole bottle in twenty minutes. Savannah and I were considering becoming lesbians with each other and then I had my head in a bucket. I held Aaron's hand while people stroked my hair and spoke to me in small voices. We didn't go to bed until 3 AM, and then we woke up at 8 AM to drive to Charlotte for the John Mayer concert with Rachel. I slept in my makeup and contacts and contracted an eye infection. God's own way of kicking my ass.

In Charlotte, we weaved through traffic and listened to thunder. My GPS is a dumb bitch so we got lost on our way to find "The Best Soul Food in the Southeast" because Rachel and I are chronic dieters and deserved a little treat. Unfortunately, that goddamn restaurant doesn't exist so we settled on a steak house.

After that, we got ready and headed to the VIP section of the concert. We had incredible seats and I could see Johnny perfectly. He opened with my favorite song, "Vultures", and performed his encore on the lawn. On his way back to the stage, he came within a few feet of Rachel and me. We clutched each other and squealed.

After the concert, we ate pancakes at IHOP and Rachel walked barefoot out of the restaurant. All in all, it was an incredible 48 hours that only solidified how much I love my best friends. They're there whether I'm puking into a paint bucket or screaming into their ears at a concert.

Monday, July 12, 2010

To My Father

Tonight I cannot sleep.

This weekend my best friend's father was in an accident which almost proved fatal. For several hours it was uncertain if he would survive. Thankfully, he's made incredible progress and he will be returning home tomorrow. Tonight I laid in bed and thought about how it would feel to lose my own father. Sadly, sometimes this is the only way we learn to appreciate something: when it's gone. I couldn't bear to lose my father without letting him know how much I truly appreciate everything he does, so I dedicate this post to him.

Dear Dad,
It's been quite a year. I moved into my first apartment, had my first real boyfriend, and traveled overseas for the first time. I've changed a lot, but you've supported me through it all. I've grown up since my freshman year of college. I no longer depend on you and Mom to bring me home when I'm homesick. Instead, I call you weeping and beg for advice. You're always right, by the way. You were right about the boys. About how they don't know what they want and I should just focus on my studies for now. Eventually, I'll find the right guy. He'll know just how amazing I am.

You funded my month-long trip to Italy because it was something I had dreamt of doing since I was little. While there, I called you several times a week, even if it meant paying a dollar a minute to share my experiences. I couldn't help but think of you when I visited the Vatican, because you always talk about how you were an altar boy, about wanting to rekindle your Catholic roots. I thought of your Angels & Demons references and took pictures of sights I remembered from the movie. I stood in St. Peter's and wept at its beauty and thought of how you'd probably do the same.

You're always thinking of us, but we never demonstrate our affection. When we complained of being bored at the beach last summer, you planned a nature walk. All we could do was whine about how early it was, but I secretly enjoyed learning about the alligators at Kiawah. I'm like you in that respect. I inherited your love of learning.

You're always the first person I call when I have good news: when I was invited into Pi Delta Phi, whenever I have a grand new idea (even if it's kind of half-baked), and whenever I get excited about my future plans. You've always shown enthusiasm for whatever I do.

When I said I might want to switch from Literature to International Studies, you supported the idea, even though it meant an extra year's tuition. Whenever I plan some international trip, you're the first person to approve it and send me on my way. If you're wary, it's because you don't trust the crazy people in this world. It's not because of me.

Even when I do really crazy, stupid things (like wreck my car), you forgive me. You say, "It's not because you're a bad driver. It just happens." You're always willing to defend me even when I know I've done something unforgivable and dumb.

Now it's midnight. I hope I have the guts to give this letter to you. I have trouble expressing myself to others, which is why I became a writer. If I do give you this, don't show Mom. She might get jealous.

Your daughter,

Tuesday, July 6, 2010


I spent this weekend at the beach with my family. We watched fireworks and felt the sand shift beneath our reclining bodies. I met a blue-eyed Parisian waiter who spoke to me in French.

On another note, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now. As the fall semester approaches there are a few things I need to get worked out. It's been hard being productive this summer because I've been vacationing every few weeks. I need to decide if I want to keep my Creative Writing major. If I do, I need to begin the application process, which means I need to really focus on writing daily. However, I'm not sure if that's what I want to do.

In addition, I need to prepare for France in the spring. However, the school site to which I'm applying is in French, so I have to translate the instructions. Ugh. I really don't want to think about all of this right now. I feel like I've lost a lot of my focus this year. My freshman year I was so unhappy but I was incredibly diligent with my schoolwork. Now that I have a social agenda I don't want to do my work. I really don't know what to think. I hope I shape up before school starts.