For a good time, read Marissa's Journal.

For the past few nights, I've turned my phone off. This is me "hanging up."

I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wanted to be alone. I still do. In fact, my phone is still off. Try to call? Sorry 'bout that!

I also admit I've slightly neglected my journal. I suppose that's because I've got nothing to say. Burned out, tired out, freaked out. Nice to meet you.

Actually, I do have a few stories to share. And I will do so chr-ono-logi-call-y. (Had to do it pho-net-i-call-y.)

Wednesday: Some classmates (including my ex-boyfriend) and I drove up to Syracuse Stage together to go see "Whose afraid of Virginia Woolf" for our Dramatic Literature (suckfest) class. Now, any of you who are familiar with this play, don't need to read on to know what I am going to say. But for those of you who don't, let me just tell you, FABULOSITY! It was intense. It was hilarious. We laughed. We cried. Suprisingly, we didn't go to bed together at the end of the night! The only thing that pooped was the annoying kid behind me, sloshing around ice chips in a plastic cup right in my ear. I wanted to turn around and shove it down his throat. After that, our group collectively decided that BBQ was the answer. What was the question you ask? Well,it goes as follows: Do you want to have some BBQ? And the answer is: BBQ! So, we pile in my vehicle and head over to the only other thing Syracuse has to offer aside from drive by shootings and STDs: The Dinosaur BBQ  

 

Anyone familiar with this joint? You should go smell their pits. Outrageous, I tell you.

We met up there with another carload of classmates and had the best dang time since they done started slicin' that there bread! Plus we got served by a biker babe with a bad attitude and a banana clip!

By the time 12:00 in the a.m. rolled around we decided it was time to head home. I didn't know exactly where I was, so I figured I would just drive around until I found signs for the thruway. And I did. And I followed them signs. For a long time. The wrong way.

What was supposed to be an hour drive turned into an hour and a half, but it was all in good fun. We listened to Ashlee Simpson for a while, and we all sang along at the top of our lungs. And then people started dropping like flies. Sleeping, I mean. Except for me, the driver, and Mike, the ex. There we were. Laughing, reminiscing of old times. Sometimes I wonder how it didn't last. Him and I are the same person. Well, with different genitalia of course. No one makes me laugh like him (that's a complete lie, but it sounds nice, right?) It's nice to be able to see him and hang out again, without the inevitable "weirdness" of the whole "you dumped me because I'm not good enough for you" thing. But I digress.

All in all, 'twas a good time. Though I missed my BFF. Wish he could've been there, too.

Thursday: Don't remember what I did. Let's skip Thursday.

Friday: Ah, Friday. I was de-virginized. It was my first time at "That Place," Utica's fine establishment for the hottest gay people in town! Including myself! BFF, Harley, Kevin and I hit up fabulous style. Clad in lingerie, jeans and stilettos, I caught the eye of many-a-lesbian. Mainly, Valerie. Valerie is a very gorgeous girl that I knew from way back when and am very thrilled to see her back in my life again. Anyhow, this club, let me just say, looked like an X-Rated gay version of "Dirty Dancing."

No, really. When I walked in, I was swarmed into an inferno of flaming-o's with no shirts, mirrored walls, strobe lights and Madonna. At that moment, life was good. There is one word that describes my night: CRUNK.

For those of you not "in the know," (I love saying that,) CRUNK, as defined by Marissa's Fabulous Dictionary of CRUNK words, CRUNK is as follows:

CRUNK (Kr-uh-nk) : Crunk is a phenomenon which occurs when an individual becomes (happy, excited, angry, passionate, etc...) beyond one's ability to control his or her self. Crunk is known to be highly contagious, as well as addictive, and extended periods of crunk (aka crunkery, crunkitude, crunkness, crunkilation, etc...) may lead to death, either of the individual who is at the time crunk, or those surrounding said crunk individual.

If this is still as foreign to you as that meat in the cafeteria, go here. http://getcrunk.org/

We danced for 5 hours straight. I may have gone to the gym earlier that night, but I have never experienced a better workout. (Well, that one time at band camp...) I even dancing with myself. Literally. I went up to mirrored wall, and got CRUNK with myself. Holler. Good times. I even got CRUNK with my homeostasis Anthony. We rocked it out Patrick Swazye Jennifer Gray style, sans tight leather pants, tutu. He'd count 1-2-3-4 and I'd jump and stradle him, he'd hold me and I'd shimmy backwards all the way down. Then, I'd make like I was riding a bull, complete with sharade-like lassoing effects. We tore that up. Like an old towel. We tore it up.

But "backing it up" a few hours prior to my gay extravaganza, I was on a complete different side of the spectrum (pun intended.) It was my father's birthday. To celebrate, my granny took us to her country club. Being the youngest one there, I had the pleasure of witnessing each and every family member, including granny, get drunk. (No, not CRUNK, drunk!) Before the mahi-mahi arrived, not a moment too soon, I sat back and watched the insanity that is my family. My parents were chatty, both red in the face. My sister, just barely legal to drink, was getting trashed in her own world on the otherside of the table, my sister-in-law who couldn't stop giggling profusely, my grandmother on one side of me calling me a (and I quote) "lezzie" and telling me to "put your boobies back inside your dress." Okay, grandma, have another SoCo. You could really use it. My uncle sat back, just as flabergasted as I was. And my brother, well, he wasn't that drunk. But he may as well have been. His shirt was hideous. It was loud. It looked like something molecular and I snatched every available opportunity to harass him about it. Tony Soprano wannabe.

After the mahi-mahi, which, in all seriousness, really tastes like chicken, we all headed out to the lobby, where my much older-twice removed cousin was playing classic rock for the old couples to dance to. I swear, if I ever hear so much Rod Stewart or Michael Bolton again, I am going to put my head in the oven. I needed a drink.

I looked around. My family was wandering in all sorts of directions. My sister sat next to me, preparing herself for yet another shot. I ordered myself one.

I sat there, trying to look cool, which, by the way, doesn't work. Trying to look cool defeats the whole purpose of "looking cool." Nonchalant is a word you won't find in Marissa's Fabulous Dictionary of CRUNK words. The bartender bought it. I watched and licked my lips as he prepared my a kamikaze. I took my helmet off. I grabbed it right out of his hand. As I put my lips up to it's lemon-y goodness...

BUSTED!

Grandma showed up. "Hey! Don't serve her! She's 19!"

He slapped the glass out of my mouth. I'm suprised there weren't any broken teeth. (But if there were, it would've been Bartender Sandwhich for lunch tomorrow.)

Feeling completely defeated, I retreated (I'm a poet!) to the dancefloor, where I "backed it up" classy style to Madonna's "Vogue," as per my sister's request.

 

Nothing like a racist country club to get you in the mood for some journal writing.

That's crunk.