Does this beer make my ass look big?

Disclaimer:  The title of this post is far more interesting than the content that is to follow. 

Speaking of asses, I have a rant.  I despise winter.  Curious as to what winter has to do with asses?  I will tell you.  Cold toilet seats.  There is nothing as unsatisfying and utterly shocking as sitting down to pee and freezing your ass off.  No, I do not want to be freezing when I pee.  And there is my rant.

I made a discovery today.  Any guy that asks me to be his girlfriend via facebook chat is not a guy I want to date.  Facebook chat?  Really?  Did your balls disappear the last time you sat on the cold toilet? 

I have more things to rant about today, but there is free pizza calling my name.  I shall return.

Sleep easy, young panda.  I shall be back.

I don't play games

I don't play games.  Every woman's mantra when it comes to dating.  My question then becomes what is considered a game?  You don't call me, so I don't call you.  Game.  I'm going to ignore your next three texts since you ignored mine yesterday.  Game.  I'm going to write on my facebook status about how happy I am and how much I love life, knowing that we've been fighting, to make you question what I'm referencing.  Game.

The dating game is something I will never understand, and although no one wants to admit that true love is a game, it is.  

For the last few months I have been "talking" (one of those game-esque "titles") to a guy that I met downtown.  Great guy, great morals, great body (go ahead, judge me).  He has a child whom he loves more than life itself, and a job that he's dedicated to.  He thinks it's his destiny to be with me.  So please explain to me then, why he won't call for a few days because he's busy, yet when I don't call him, it's an issue.  Why it's okay for him to respond to every other text from me, but if I allow more than 5 minutes between the receipt of the text and my response, I must be mad at him.  

Double dating standards.  
Games.  

I've decided to play a little game of my own.  It's called, date me and act like an adult, or don't date me and act like an adult.  The rules are as follows:  Admit you want to date, answer when I call, unless there is reason, call when you want to talk, and agree to not freak out when a response is not immediately rendered.  Or, in the alternative, admit that you aren't looking for a relationship, don't call me every day (because "just friends" do not text/call non-stop), and don't ask me on dates.  We're just friends.

Why does it seem as though those rules are impossible for people to follow?  Silly people.

Is it Friday yet?

 

Hannibal, Missouri, H-Town, H-tizzle... Hell hole.

No matter what you choose to affectionately refer to the town as, it doesn't change the simple dichotomy between the classes; the classy and the trashy. 

Hannibal is a small country town, nestled in the eastern side of Missouri. The population ranges somewhere between 17,000-18,000, leaning slightly closer to the lower end of the spectrum.  Known as a "tourist town", people travel from far and wide to get a glimpse of our downtown, the home to a plethora of Mark Twain memorabilia and relics.  

Growing up in Hannibal was fun.  I was raised in the country about 20 minutes outside of town, so I knew what it was like to get down and dirty.  Playing outside in the mud, swimming through creeks, running through pastures filled the majority of my time.  When I got older, drinking beer by a bonfire, riding fourwheelers down gravel roads, drinking beer out on the river, and any activity that we could contort to include consuming alcohol filled my time.

I grew up, I got out.  I realized fairly quickly in high school that getting out of Hannibal is what I needed.  I would never make it far in my little town.  I could work at Wal-Mart, County Market, or maybe the hospital.  Or there was always the option of being a bartender or factory worker.  

Going back to Hannibal is definitely going back home.  I get that warm fuzzy feeling when I pull into town.  Maybe it's because I know that my family is there waiting for me, maybe it's because I know I'm going to get into some good old fashion trouble, or maybe it's because I'm drunk... which I have to be to go back to that place.

Over a week ago I ventured back to Hannibal, my 2 lb miniature wiener dog in tow.  From the get-go, I knew I was set for trouble.  


[check out my other blog, FASHION REHAB - http://fashionrehabbed.blogspot.com/ ]

The Beginning: My Life

I've always been told that my life reads like a romance novel (Raunchy: Harlequin® Romance style), mixed with a little mystery, and a lot of drama.  I've been encouraged to write a book, exploring the plethora of knowledge I have gained through my 23 short years. I've listened to friends recant my stories, envy my experience, despise my opportunity.  I tell them my life is mundane; they insist my life is like an action-packed love story.

I am here to set the record straight.

This is my life. 

I am a twenty-three year old "Legal Account Representative - Team Leader" at a local Debt Collection Law Firm.  I work 7:30-3:30 Monday-Friday, at a job that I love (as much as one can love working).  From 4:00pm-10:00pm I am a cook, house cleaner, and television connoisseur.    Friday nights I sometimes venture to the downtown world, which I must say, can be quite intriguing.  Columbia is a great town with an amazing downtown area that I sometimes frequent.  I generally wander from place to place, landing at some college-focused bar.  Saturday, I lay in my pool, then come home and sleep.  I insist, my life is not exciting.

This weekend was a bit of a deviation from the norm.  A visit back to the town from which I was reared:  Hannibal, MO.