This girl.
Oh summer... you've finally arrived!
I wasn't planning on getting hammered.
I had done a great job turning down beer, then wine, tequila... I think they offered me Amaretto or something like that... but then martinis came into the picture. Who the hell turns down a martini?
Everyone had a normal looking sour apple martini, except me... of course. My shit barely had a hint of green in it. Vodka, vodka, vodka.
I hadn't had much food in the day... so, hello, sweet buzz.
As if that wasn't enough, they busted out the scotch.
I, like Ron Burgundy, CANNOT turn down scotch.
And that was it.
I handed over my keys.
I'm surprised I woke up without a care in the world. No headache, no vomiting.
Oh, how you try to trap me, refined gentleman's liquor (seriously, what kind of freakin' girl likes Scotch?! Even I'm surprised).
Anyway, at this shindig, they were trying to force me to do something that would convert me into the biggest tool imaginable.
See, in Hometown, they have a Patron Saint... since we were colonized by the Spaniards and all that junk. We throw a 3-day-long party in honor of the Patron Saint. Hometown celebrates it in September, so in my lifetime, I've only gone twice... considering I went to school for so long.
Still, I know what the deal is:
They choose 3 chicks: two dress up like princesses and one as a queen.
They spend the week doing all this bullshit... often times the chicks fight amongst themselves, because who the hell wants to be a princess when they can be the queen?
Anyway, the actual day of the mass is the most dramatic, since the chicks spend all day in huge, fluffy, white dresses (i.e. wedding dresses), they crown the patron saint, then they dance the night away.
Blah.
Apparently, a ton of chicks have vied for these 3 coveted spots... since it's pretty much a beauty contest-- what chick doesn't like to feel pretty? I guess-- and dudes check you out like they would a rockstar, or whatever. Girls go to any extent to get chosen for the spots... even sabotaging another chick's "campaign" (I guess a couple of years there was a rigging of the ballots... back in the day when they needed ballots).
A countless number of chicks have ceased to speak to one another due to some of these fights.
(It's better than cock fights, I tell you. These girls come out swinging, and do some vile shit to each other)
Anyway! Hometown is now practically a ghost town... mass migration and this wack Drug War has driven folks out.
There are now only FOUR "native" girls in town old enough to even try out for the spots.
So they have to come to Vegas, Chicago, or LA to find chicks who are willing to be the Queen/Princesses.
This leads me to what happened last night.
Who did they ask to be the queen?
Me.
ME!
Imagine that shit! What the fuck is wrong with the world?!I shook that off like I would a tarantula.
Fuck that.
I'm NOT queen material.
I'm a quiet, shy girl who would rather bite her tongue off than parade around town as the "Queen" (Shit, you'll see me participating in Bay to Breakers before being the Queen of Hometown).
My "beauty" should not be "showcased"... to say I'm the prettiest chick in town would be the worst fallacy EVER. I'm not even in the "pretty" ranks. Get the fuck outta here with that joke.
So I just drank, and drank, and drank, to avoid talking about the subject.
Nothing looks more assertive than a chick saying no, then quietly sipping on some scotch (Glen Taite. SO DAMN GOOD) while staring at paintings.
In better news, I'm officially going to Mexico on Saturday.
Wooooo!!!
I believe I'm only staying three weeks. Originally, I wanted to stay for two, but Mom wanted four... so we compromised at three.
I'm going to sip on some Nyquil and pass the fuck out for the entire bus ride to Hometown.
Then it's off to 60 degree whether and green fields... rivers... fishing... dodging a couple of bullets... avoiding shady-looking cars... ah, the fuckin' life!
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