We done hosted a shindig...

There was green food coloring in the drinks and people playing go despite hefty language barriers. We danced badly and sang along loudly to Lily Allen songs. No one threw up, but someone broke the lounge chair downstairs, probably doing something scandalous. Anglais borrowed one of my shirts and we almost had a million dollar makeover moment, complete with a Bangles soundtracked montage...but I think it'll be awhile before her self-esteem is healthy enough for her to feel comfortable wearing one of my trashy, besparkled hussy outfits. Tink (my new roommate) loudly and frequently proclaimed her joy at now living with two happily brazen tarts like Dys and myself. I guess the people she used to live with weren't as open-minded, or some such silly thing.
Not me, though. Apparently I'm both open-minded and open-legged. I invited both Scuzz and Burn-out (whose knee surgery went very well, in case you were wondering. He is no longer bombed out on Vicodin, and his cane has been exchanged for a far less fetching knee brace), assuming that one or both of them would bail at the last minute. Not so. Burn-out showed up when I was more than a little plastered, and because I am a terrible host and was more preoccupied with making the perfect party playlist than taking care of him, he spent much of the evening chatting to Keiko, the nice Japanese exchange student. I actually found out he texted her last week, bless him. I think he has a thing for girls with accents...but I hope he isn't as mean to her in bed as he was with me. She's a sweet little thing and I think she might get a bit scared. Then again, you never can tell.
Anyway, all my cruel neglect didn't stop Burn-out from getting comfortable in my bed and removing his trousers later on in the evening.  Unfortunately, just as I reached critical drunken mass and collapsed facedown in my bed alongside him, fully prepared to pass out and ignore any sexual overtures, Scuzz made an entrance with quite the curious look on his face. Uh oh. All of this is remembered through a thick alcoholic haze, so the exact conversational details are kind of haphazard, but I think it went something like this.
Scuzz: What's going on?
Me: (face smooshed into pillow) I dunno. M'tired.
Burn-out: What do you think, man?
Scuzz: Who's this guy? Are you ok?
Me: Myep. M'tired.
Scuzz: ...
Burn-out: ...
Me: Oh! Scuzz, this is Burn-out. He's a fireman. Burn-out, this is my friend Scuzz. I used to teach him stuff.
Scuzz: Am I...can I still stay over?
Me: Myep.
Burn-out: I think it's time for you to leave, bud.
Scuzz: Listen man, I don't know who the hell you are, but I'm Iphy's friend, and I was invited to be here.
Burn-out: *angry face*
Me: Guys. C'mon. This is dumb. I'm tired. C'mere. *gesturing at Scuzz to lay down next to me, which he did* We can totally figure this out, yo. This is a thing that can work.
I don't remember what was said after that, but the following sequence of events began with me kissing Scuzz, then leaning over and kissing Burn-out, and pretty much continued in that vein. Hello, my first ever devil's threesome.
No one can say I don't have spectacular problem-solving skills.

Comin' Up From Behind...

I'm fat. I'm pudgy and puffy. Fatty fatty, two by four. I'm bulgy, malformed and lumpy. I am the big fat sow for the winter's lard that Johnny Cash was singing about in his version of "Country Trash." I am a hideous, 5'2 pile of cellulite and self-pity. I will most certainly shuffle off this mortal coil in a filthy house with reinforced walls, surrounded by Twinkie wrappers, my gigantic gut smushed up against the flat screen. And when the stench of my putrefying corpse finally disturbs my neighbours and they realize that the Big Fat Scary Lady Who Never Goes Outside has gone to Jesus, they will kindly see to it that a crane hauls me out of the house and carts me away to the hospital furnace, which my big fat ass will probably clog up and break.
Yeah, this is what happens when I can't train as much as I want to due to my piles upon piles of schoolwork and a busted shoulder. My jeans feel tight and the Belt of Truth won't do up on the "it's ok, you're not morbidly obese" notch. The teeny tiny sane portion of my brain knows that I'm probably not that much bigger and that a week of working out and eating soup and Subway turkey sandwiches will get me back to where I was before. But the much larger and noisier crazy part of my brain is insisting that this is the beginning of my turning into a lard-ass like my father and if I had any kind of resolve and wasn't such a lazy, useless loser, this wouldn't be happening.
Sigh. Everyone feel sorry for me and my body image issues. One two three, go.
In other news, I gave Brick the arse. That doesn't mean I let him do that booty-pokin' thing that so many boys think is so darn nifty. It's actually a charming Australian term for letting someone know their services are no longer required. He turned out to be a waste of text messaging budget. I still haven't seen Forthright, but I hit up Babydaddy last week. He took me to a Blackhawks game which fucking ruled. I like hockey, so many things crashing into other things. I've never hung out with Babydaddy without getting shit-housed, which I suppose is somewhat concerning, but whatever. He's fun and he always has Vitamin Water in his fridge and an ample supply of goldfish crackers.
Kitty peer-pressured me into getting a tattoo with her last weekend. I've been thinking about it for a while, so it wasn't a total spur-of-the-moment, talked-me-into-it thing. I think it looks pretty rad, or at least at will when it stops being all scabby. A tattoo fits nicely into this rock'n'roll lifestyle I seem to be enjoying at the moment. Now all I need is a sex-tape scandal, a DUI, and a stint at Promises, and I'll really be one of the cool kids.