Friday, April 29, 2011

He Appears to be Sugar and Spice, but He is Way More Naughty Than Nice

Some of the more popular posts on this oh-so-fab blog o' mine are the conversations between the husband and I.  Probably because people positively marvel at how someone as sane and sweet and patient as the husband could be married to a train-wreck like me.

You guys are probably all "oh, isn't the husband so sweet.  wow he's so nice to that psycho.  if I were married to her, I'd push her out the window.  Seriously he is soooo nice."



The husband appears to be nice, but he's not. 

Exhibit A:

Last night the husband and I were doing a puzzle.  (SHHH!  Don't tell anyone or the boys at the sandbox will beat him up.)

While we puzzled, we talked, because duh.

Me (sharing my): hopes, dreams, goals, fears, insecurities, plans, ambitions

The husband: It is nothing but non-stop noise with you!

See what I'm talking about?  Soooo mean.  What a weiner.

That is how the conversation went in my head.  There is a very good possibility the conversation actually went something like this:


The husband (with a look that I would imagine one would posses if one were having an ice pick drilled into his forehead, right between the eyes):  It's nothing but non-stop noise with you.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Yahoo Hates Animals. Allegedly. Probably Not at All. This Blog is One of Satire, so Back Off Yahoo Lawyers.

(The commentary in this post probably in no way reflects the views, thoughts, feelings, mission, dreams, hopes, desires, or fantasies, of Yahoo, its parent company, sister companies, step-father's company, ex brother-in-laws company, great grand-pappy's company and that of their immediate and extended families, friends, social networks, neighbors, doctors, therapists, personal chefs, cabana boys, PTAs, HOAs, PPOs, HMOs, AA, AAAs, AARPs, BFFs... you get the point, yes?)

I have issues with Yahoo. What is up with all the sad animal stories on the homepage? All I want to do is search "what to do if you mysteriously hurt your heel and haven't been able to walk for two weeks and now your other foot hurts and also your achilles" and I'm accosted with pictures of sad Japanese puppy who won't leave other sad, possibly injured? possibly dead? (I don't know cuz I didn't read the story, because sad/hurt/hungry/lonely animals + me = depression x 1,000) Japanese puppy friend, or pictures of oil soaked pelicans because the assholes at BP couldn't figure out how to plug a hole. Or hey, how about watching these barbarian hunters club baby seals. For fun! Watch the blood splatter the screen! And don't forget your 3-d glasses! You'll think you're actually getting splattered with baby seal blood! Awesome!

No Yahoo, it isn't awesome. I don't know what kind of sick twisted individuals you have working over there, but when I find them I will hurt them. Like maybe I'll cover them in oil and chase them around with clubs and call that girl from X-Men who controls the weather and have her summon up a tsunami that affects just them and be all "isn't this tragic? oh this is just terrible. how sad." Except it won't be sad because they deserved it.

Do you guys sometimes get the feeling I'm a violent person? Justifiably violent, but violent nonetheless?


I can see how you would think that, but let me just say I am not violent. I've never actually, in real life, wanted to inflict bodily harm on another human being.

Except...for that one time.

Hear me out. You're totally going to agree with me on this one.

The husband, my friend M and I were at a Comedy Show. And of course there was That Lady. You know the one. Thinks the world revolves around her. Has to be the center of attention. Shouts stupid, annoying subtly sexual nonsensical words at the comic. And when she doesn't get any attention from him, the words make even less sense and become overtly sexual. There's a lot of throwing of the arms in the air and "no we love you"s. That Lady made not only me, but everyone around me, want to get up and punch her in the face. But apparently? We were all civilized folk and just sat there.

It's a good thing our friend G wasn't there, because he? Would have straight up killed her. With his bear hands. Grrrr. Seriously he's been taking a class on how to kill people. Not for fun or anything. Just for in those situations when it's absolutely necessary. It's kinda handy having a friend like that. What with all the gangs running rampant in our sleepy beachside town. And by gangs I mean the gaggles of 80 year olds shuffling down sidewalks threatening to brain us youngins with their canes and walkers.

Seriously, Yahoo, the world is a terrifying, tragic, sad enough place without you forcing us to watch a litter of furry adorable golden retriever puppies play Russian roulette. Place your bets! Which one's gettin the bullet? The winner gets to watch these poachers gun down the last remaining herd of African elephants thereby making the species extinct. How cool is that!

Not cool, Yahoo. Not cool at all.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Featuring the Parents-In-Law. And Also? The Easter Bunny is Dead

Allow me to introduce a new segment called, You Know What I Just Love?  And since this is a sarcasm blog you should read that as You Know What I Just Hate?, which is what I would call it except that having hate in your life = bad, but loving things sarcastically = good.  This is simple science.

So, let’s begin with the very first installment of You Know What I Just Love?

I just love it when I’m waiting to be serviced at a store (no, not in that way you perverts) like Publix and the server is all “oh, I’m just going to pretend I don’t see you standing there and continue this oh so important conversation about my paper mache hobby, or something as equally  intriguing.  Oh, you moved to the left. Now to the right!  You’re doing the fox trot?  An Irish jig?  Supermanning that ho?  Nope.  Do.  Not. See. You.  Sincerely I don’t.  And even if I did?  Meh.  I’m not getting paid per customers served.  I’m getting paid per hour and it’s about time someone paid me to talk about how soft my pink fuzzy slippers are.  Seriously, they’re the softest.  Wanna feel?  Oh, that’s right, you can’t because I’m pretending I don’t see you.”

I freakin love it when that happens.  My mind is totally not shouting “I’m going to stab you!” because I didn’t just work all freaking day and am not tired and don’t just want my Publix sub and get the hey home to enjoy said sub.  I totally want to spend my entire night here.  Sincerely, I do.  All night.  Maybe even all day tomorrow.  That would be the bestest. 


Finally, after Publix lady finished talking about the time she had the worst cramps ever she turned her attention to me and was all smiles and “oh, can I help you?”

And I was all, “oh, I didn’t want anything, just enjoying your stories, but since you asked, I’ll have a sub.”

Then she was all, “have you seen these?” and pointed to a stuffed Easter bunny on the counter.

Me: No, I haven’t.

She wound up the stuffed Easter bunny and it began to hop on the counter and she was all “isn’t this adorable?” And honestly?  It was adorable.  She did it again, because once is never enough, and it hopped off the counter and crashed to the floor and she was all “oops” and I was all “way to go lady, you just killed the Easter bunny.”  She laughed nervously and threw him in a drawer and I was all “shouldn’t you fill out an accident report or something?” but apparently this sort of thing happens all the time at Publix and they’ve adopted a throw-it-in-a-drawer-and-pretend-it-didn’t-happen policy.

She started making my sub and somehow we started talking about our dogs and I started feeling a little less stabby.  Then, THEN, as she was putting the cheese on my sub she was like, “would you like some?”

Would I like some cheese?  Does a bear shit in the woods?   No one knows, we’ll probably never know, but YES I WOULD LIKE SOME CHEESE.  I LOVE CHEESE.

It didn’t end there.  When we got to the pickles, she put them on my sub, extended me a few and was all, “would you like some?”

Would I like to eat some Boars Head pickles rightnow?  If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound?  This question is ridiculous.  That’s like asking if a deaf person sits in a room with the tv on full blast does it emit noise?  Of course it doesn’t.  What this has to do with Boars Head pickles, I do not know; you guys really should take your ADD medicine before you come here.

But the answer to the pickle question is YES!  YES I WANT BOARS HEAD PICKLES.  And guess what Publix lady?  I freaking love you.  Sincerely, I do.  Even though you made me listen to your super interesting paper mache and fuzzy slippers story and you killed the Easter bunny (don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone), I.  LOVE.  YOU.  Because you gave me pickles and cheese.

Huh, look at that.  This segment started out about something I sarcastically love and turned out to be about something I actually love.  See what happens when you keep the hate from your life?  You get pickles and cheese.

And now, sports fans, the time has come.  Please welcome the mahvelous parents-in-law in their blogging debut.  Or is it parent-in-laws?  I bet you thought, based on the title, that would come first and then the Easter bunny would be killed, but we all know what a master I am at the twists and turns.

The last few times the husband has talked to his parents they’ve been all “when is K going to write about us on her blog?”  Because apparently?  They’re fame whores.  Which is news, shocking news, to me, and let’s just say it’s been difficult, but I’m dealing with it.  I’m pretty sure they’ve learned some new things about their daughter-in-law recently and they’ve handled that pretty well so I guess I can accept that they’re all look at us, we’re awesome.  Because, honestly?  They are awesome.  So here is your SARCASM GODDESS blogging debut, parents-in-law, but don’t say the husband didn’t warn you.

I should clarify that when I say “they” are fame whores, I’m pretty sure it’s just my F-I-L that wants to be featured here and my sweet M-I-L is just an innocent victim in this whole thing.  Kinda like the time I inadvertently called her a chicken and offered to build her a chicken coop to sleep in.  That was also my F-I-L’s fault.

I suppose I should tell you the entire story, lest I ruin my reputation as a sane, normal person.

The in-laws, the husband and some friends and I are in a college football pool/game thingy that the husband made up because he is a genius.  The husband was the commissioner for the first two years but last year the F-I-L took over and somehow confused the word “commissioner” with “dictator” and kept changing the rules all the time.  Which was annoying for obvious reasons, but also because I’m the only person in the history of the world who’s allowed to make up rules and change them as I see fit.  Duh.

At the start of the college season, everyone had to have their picks in before the first Saturday game.  Then the rules changed to the night before and then, depending on his world traveling schedule, we had to get them in at whatever time he declared.  Then one day we got an email that said we have to have our picks in by 11:00 p.m. because he goes to bed with the chickens.  And I was all “I didn’t even know they had chickens. And why are they sleeping with them?”

So I responded, “If I build you a chicken coop, can I have til midnight?”  It was HILARIOUS.  Sincerely, it was.  It took me ten minutes to hit “send” because I couldn’t see through my tears.

A few weeks later the in-laws were in town for Thanksgiving and my M-I-L was all “apparently I’m a chicken,” and in my head I was all “OMG she read the F-I-L’s email as she is the chicken, whereas I took it as my F-I-L was sleeping with actual chickens and I replied to all that I wanted to stuff my M-I-L in a chicken coop!”  I said nothing to her but suddenly all the hate mail she’d been sending me made a lot of sense.  I was all “husband, why is sending me these letters?”  And he was all “oh, she’s always hated you.”

Kidding!  The M-I-L LOVES me.  (Although, after this post, that may change.)

That is the stuffing-the-mother-in-law-in-a-chicken-coop-story.  (Words of advice to those about to acquire a mother-in-law, offering to build her a chicken coop as a place to rest her weary head is not the best way to score points.  In fact, I would venture to say It Is A Very Bad Idea.  Unless, of course, your mother-in-law has an affinity for chickens, which come to think of it, the M-I-L was thoroughly amused by the rubber chicken at the bookstore That One Time.  OMG, maybe when I offered to build a chicken coop she was like finally, all my dreams are coming true and the reason for the hate mail was that I never actually built the chicken coop.  Sigh.  In-law relationships are so confusing.)  When the husband told me his parents are positively dying to be featured in my blog, the mother-in-law/chicken coop story was not the story I wanted to tell – that was just an added bonus, you’re welcome. No, there was one story, the only story, that automatically came to mind.

It happened a few years ago.  The ‘rents-in-laws, the husband and I were talking about the movie Borat (spoiler alert if you haven’t seen it) and you know the part where Borat and the big fat naked guy wrestle?  Well, we were talking about how appalling that scene was and then the F-I-L says…

Are you ready?

F-I-L:  He had his sac in the guy’s face.

The F-I-L said sac. 

Some of you are probably all “so?” 

Allow me paint a picture of the F-I-L for you.  He takes tea from a china cup at high noon, wear’s a bow tie and top hat, is an export swordsman and will call out anyone who questions his lady’s honor.  In other words, he is a gentleman.  

Now you understand my shock?

Gentlemen don’t say sac.

I know. It’s taken me years to recover from that one.  Hearing the F-I-L say “sac” was more disturbing than the Borat scene.  And that scene was disturbing.  Yes?


There F-I-L, I featured you in my blog.  Is it what you had in mind?  Perhaps you thought I would write about how you saved the gravy and the pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving.  Or maybe you thought I’d wax poetic on your stellar golfing skills.  Hahahahaha.  Sorry, this is a serious conversation, no time for jokes. 

On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being THE BEST, how accurately do you think I conveyed your awesomeness to my adoring readers?

 I’d say?  At least a 12.

You’re welcome.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Only Way Out

Red Dress Club prompt: This week you have two options from which to choose: a middle-of-the-night phone call from a person from your past, or a week after attending a funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard telling you the friend is not dead and to meet at a pizza place.

Only Way Out

When the phone call comes at two a.m., I am not surprised.  I’ve been expecting it.  It took four years, but I knew it would come.

The caller utters one word.  “Help.”

I am already out of bed, my feet thrust into my shoes by the time the line goes dead.  I throw a sweatshirt on over my t-shirt.  I grab my cell phone and keys from the night stand, my purse from the kitchen counter. 

I am out the door and in my car in under two minutes.  I steal a glance at the car-seat in the rearview mirror as I back out of the drive.

At this time of night it will take me thirteen minutes to get there.

I kill my headlights before turning into the drive.  The street is quiet, belying the horror that has taken place inside the two-story brick home.

I have a key, but I don’t need it.  The door is unlocked.

I step into the living room.  It is dark, but light from the kitchen spills into the room, highlighting the overturned lamp, the papers scattered on the floor, the broken picture frame – all things I expect to see.

I walk down the dimly lit hallway.  There is a hole in the wall.  Stains, some rust-colored and some crimson, dot the carpet, leading the way like some sort of twisted treasure map, to the room at the end.

I pause at the threshold and look to the room to my left.  I don’t want to, but I can’t help it.  The door is partially closed so all I can see are the shoes, those red and white Nikes I have grown to hate. 

I find her in the bathroom.  Her head is bent, long hair shrouding her face and the baby I know she cradles in her arms.  I take a step forward and she looks up.

I stop.

I had been prepared for the tousled house, the hole in the wall, the blood on the carpet.  Nothing could have prepared me for her face.

“Shelby!” I gasp and fall to my knees in front of her.

“He’s okay,” she manages through lips that are swollen and coated in dried blood.  She looks down at her son and back up at me.  Her eyes are purple, one nearly swollen shut.  “He’s okay,” she repeats.

I am relieved but no less urgent.

I hook my hand under her arm.  “We have to go.”

She nods.

“Can you walk?”

“Take Drew,” she says and hands him to me.

Bracing a hand on the bathtub, she winces as she struggles to her knees.

She attempts to stand, slips and smacks against the side of the tub.  She cries out.

I nervously look over my shoulder.

She tries again.  Her movements are slow, each one producing a flash of pain across her face. 

Finally to her feet, she walks to the bedroom.  She grabs the diaper bag and a duffle bag and starts yanking clothes off hangers and pulling open drawers.

I bounce Drew on my hip and wonder how much longer we have.

The bag full, Shelby starts down the hall and I follow.  She pauses at the room with the red and white Nikes. 

“Shelby, let’s go,” I whisper.

She pushes the door open and I see him.  Her abuser, her husband.

She thrusts the duffle and diaper bags at me.  “Take Drew and go.”

“I’m not leaving you Shelby.”

“You were not here tonight.  You came by earlier today and picked up Drew.  You never saw me.  Him.  Any of this.”  Her face has grown hard, her voice resolute.

“Shelby, please.”

She bends down and picks up the bat, the instrument of tonight’s destruction.  My heart accelerates.

“Shelby, no.”

“He’ll never stop, Cindy.  He’ll come after me, Drew.  We’ll never be safe.”

I look at my battered friend and wonder how she got here.  A million things about this scenario won’t add up.  The police will figure it out.  But Shelby is right.  It’s the only way.

Juggling Drew and the bags, we hug awkwardly.  When we pull apart, her eyes are vacant.  She has gone somewhere far away.

I walk down the hall and start to hum, not a song, but a random collection of noises.  I hold Drew close to me and hope the sound is loud enough to drown out the crack of the bat on his father’s skull.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

John and Darcy...the story continues

A few weeks ago, based on a prompt by the red dress club, I wrote a story about John and Darcy.  Since then, as characters are wont to do, they have invaded my life.  But not in the usual way.  I don't see their entire story, a beginning, middle and end.  I see clips of their lives and am compelled to write about them.  I'm not really sure where their story is going, if anywhere, and for the first time, I don't care...meaning I'm not concerned about turning their story into a novel.  I'm not obsessing about details and scenes and what the reader will think.  I'm writing for myself, for fun, because they won't allow me to not tell their story, however brief, incomplete or un-edited it may be.

Un-edited.  How terrifying.  The perfectionist, obsessive-compulsive in me, wants to read this a thousand times and edit the heck out it before posting, but if I do that, I will NEVER post it.  A part of me thinks this is a bad idea, to write a mini-series, in bits and pieces, however it comes, and part of me doesn't give a crap.  Yes, that is my disclaimer, way of saying that you may find what you are about to read to be pure garbage.  And I'm okay with that....Fine, I'm not okay with it at all and if anyone were to tell me it's pure crap I'd curl in a ball, clutch my bottle of Ativan and cry in the corner.  But that's what being a writer is all about, right?  Moments of self-indulgent brilliance, followed by self-doubt, culminating in feelings of worthlessness.  What a fabulous existence.

After that much ado about nothing, here it is...John and Darcy, continued.  For lack of a better title, we'll call it...


"Nice job, Darcy," Mr. Bryson said, placing last week's test on my desk.

I sighed.  Another A.  I hadn't been sure on six of the answers, and still, I'd gotten an A.  A ninety-freakin-six.

Mr. Bryson launched into his lecture and I opened my notebook and started to doodle.  Hearts and flowers and rainbows.  Not because I was feeling all sunshine and happiness, but because my artistic ability rivaled that of a four year old.

I looked up periodically, appearing to listen.  Not that it mattered if I was.  I could have put my head down and taken a nap or stood on my desk and sang the Star Bangled Banner.  Good kids, straight A students, could get away with stuff like that.

I wasn't naturally smart like Amber Weston and Kim Lee.  I had to work at it.  Hours of studying.  But, I'd only studied an hour for last week's test.  Hoping, just maybe, I'd get a B.

But no.  No B's for Darcy McKinley.

I suppose I should be happy.  My father would shit a brick if I came home with a B.  As it is, a ninety-six would make him raise his eyebrows in concern.  He'd never say anything, of course.  He'd be all hugs and high-fives and "atta-girl."  But inside, he'd die a little.

"Hey, Darcy," Greg Hines hissed.  "Pass this to Nick."  He handed me a piece of paper, unfolded, its message easy to read before the hand-off.

Bryson looks like he has a boner.

Nick let out a laugh, causing Mr. Bryson to look our way.

"Sorry, sir.  Spider tickled my arm," he said in the charming cocky way that cool kids, athletes, like Nick and Greg possessed; in the way that teachers knew was a lie, but deemed futile to do anything about.

Mr. Bryson frowned and resumed his lecture.

"Darcy."  Nick handed me the paper back.

That's cause he can see Morgan's tits threw her shirt.

I resisted the urge to correct his grammar and passed the note to Greg.

How many times do you think he's banged her?

Probably 100.

I wouldn't bang that skank if you paid me.

Yes you would.  You'd do it for free.

Yea. Your right. 

The note passing, poor grammar, and degrading of Morgan's character continued until the bell rang for lunch.

I took my time walking to my locker.  Mandy and Annabeth were in D.C. with the debate team, so I was on my own for lunch, which suited me fine.  I wasn't in the mood for conversation.

The halls had pretty much cleared by the time I reached my locker.  I placed my Anatomy book inside and reached for my lunch.  The brown paper bag contained the usual - hummus and chips and an apple.  Next to it was a half-empty Dasani bottle, the contents of which were not water.

It was the first time I'd brought vodka to school.  Mr. Werstein wanted me to read my comparative essay to the class next period.  I could only imagine how many cools points that'd score me.

With an unsteady hand, I reach for the bottle.  A locker slammed and I dropped it to the floor.

"I told you, Lauren.  It's over."

"Please, John.  Don't say that.  You don't mean it."

I watched them as I bent to pick up the bottle.

Lauren reached for John, but he pulled away.  "Actually I do, Lauren.  You wanted Jake.  Now you're free to have him."

She started to cry.  "It was a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.  You have to forgive me."

"Fine Lauren.  I forgive you.  But we're not getting back together.  It's over."

"John!" Lauren sobbed.  Tears welled in her perfect eyes, slid down her perfect cheeks. 

"Come on Lauren," her best friend, Jessica, appeared and put her arm around Lauren's waist.  "Forget him."  Looking at John she said, "You're an asshole."

"Right.  She cheats and I'm the asshole."

Jessica pulled Lauren away and I turned my attention to stuffing my lunch and the vodka in my backpack.

When I looked up John was looking at me.  I gave him a half smile - one of those side of the mouths, half smile, half grimace things.  John nodded.  We looked at each other across the hallway for a few seconds before he lowered his head and walked away.  I hooked my bag over my shoulder and turned in the other direction.

I walked to my usual lunch spot, the picnic table under the old oak tree next to the maintenance shed.  I sat on the table and took out my lunch and The Bottle.

I twisted the cap back and forth.  Loosening and tightening.  Could I really drink at school?

Back and forth.  Loosening and tightening.  

I set it to the side and pulled out the apple.  Taking a bite, I watched him walk toward me.  What was he doing here?  It was one thing to exchange a look in the hallway, it was quite another for John Campbell to have lunch with Nobody.

"Hey," John said.  "Can I sit here?"

I shrugged.  "Sure."

He sat next to me, rested his arms on his thighs, linked his fingers together and looked out over the lawn, the football field - his stage - in the distance.  Students were scattered about in groups - the nerds, the goths, the pot-heads, the cheerleaders.  I wondered what they all would do when high school was over, when they entered the real world, alone, without the safety of their cliques.

John squeezed the bill of his cap and looked down.  We weren't allowed to wear hats at school, but then, he was John Campbell.

I picked up the bottle and extended it to him.  "Here."

He glanced at me and looked back down.  "I'm good."

"It's not water."

He raised his head.  "You bring vodka to school?"

I set the bottle on the table between us.  "Today I did."  I reached inside my backpack for another bottle, one filled with actual water, and took a sip.

John looked back over the lawn.  Two students, too far away to tell who they were, were making out.  A nearby clique cheered them on.

I dipped a chip in my hummus and John reached for the bottle.  He took a sip and grimaced.  "How do you drink that?"

"Oh come on.  I know about the post game parties.  Don't tell me you do shots of Coke and two-liter stands."

John smiled.  "No, no two-liter stands, though that sounds...interesting.  There are plenty of shots. But no vodka for me. I'm more of a Tequila guy."

I made a face.  "Tequila makes me gag."

"I was kidding."

Oh.  I ate another chip.  "So, when you and Lauren getting back together?"

"You heard us, we're not."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah right.  You and Lauren have been together since the sixth grade."


"See?  This is just a bump in the road.  You two are meant to be together."

The couple in the distance were now reclined on the lawn, she on top, her skirt hiked up around her waist.

"It's better this way," John said.  "Gotta free myself up for all the single college chicks who'll be throwing themselves at me.  Wanting a piece of the future of Florida football."  The heavy sarcasm was almost successful in veiling the thin layer of sadness.

"That's not how it works, John.  You keep the girlfriend and sleep around with whoever wants a piece.  Cake and eating it too."

"Nah.  Cheating's not really my thing."

"You know for a Hot Football Star you have pretty tight morals."

"And for a straight A Goody Two-Shoes you have pretty lose ones."

"What can I say?  I'm a rebel."

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.  I tossed the remains of my chips and hummus in the trash and stood up, brushing my hands on my jeans.

"Wanna really be a rebel?  Let's skip class."

"Ooh," I said, "what'll we do?  Rob a bank?"

"I was thinking we'd steal an old lady's purse."

"One with a walker."

"Who's crossing the street."

"Maybe push her down."


"So rebellious."

We passed the make-out couple trying to untangle themselves and right their clothes."

"You know, no one would care if we did," John said.  "Skip class."

"I know.  We wouldn't even have to come up with an excuse.  They'd make one up for us."

"Yeah.  I went home to center myself before the game.  Mentally go through each play.  And you skipped AP Whatever to build homes for Habitat or cure cancer."

"Oh, I've already cured cancer."

"AIDS then."

I nodded.  "I think Princeton would find that impressive."

We reached the end of the lawn, the cliques blending together as students, our peers, made their way to fifth period.  "Well, see ya," John said and turned towards the men's locker room.  Greg Hines and Nick Jones fell in step with him.  I watched them walk.   Greg said something, slapped John on the back and the three of them laughed.  The door to the men's locker room opened and they disappeared.

I headed toward the main building, melding into the sea of students.  Stopping just outside the doors, I uncapped the bottle of vodka, brought it to my lips, and drank until it was empty.