Entry #100: One Hundred Entries Later, I Still Don't Give A Fuck
This Entry Sponsored By: I Hope That audioslave.com Actually Links To The Official Audioslave Website
It was such a nice day outside like... twenty minutes ago, and now it's thundering, lightning, and raining. New Hampshire weather never fails to impress me.
Anyway, I figure some elaboration on the past entry is due, seeing as there's a story behind just about everything I posted and you got none of those.
First up... Saturday night at the dance recital. I spent much of the night chilling with Tom at the light board, and with two dances left Will and Justin roll in and say, "Party up at Weatherbee's camp." Outdoor party on a nice night? Count me in. Will asks me if I can get beer, I say probably but I won't be able to pay for it... and here comes Josh running over. "Dude, Will just called me, party at Weatherbee's camp."
"Will's right there, man."
"... oh."
So Will talks to Josh, Josh talks to The Source and yes, we can get beer, fairly easily actually. Josh can get forty bucks, enough for two thirty-racks and a six-pack of Twisters, and we roll out in my van to pick up The Source. Pick him up, head down to the bank. Josh uses the ATM, withdraws forty, gives it to The Source and tells him to meet us back at the bank when he's done picking up our shit. The Source zooms off in my van, which we've done before and I'm totally comfortable with because hey -- the van's a piece anyway. The Source gets sketched out when he's not by himself buying alcohol, something that only I seem to understand. Regardless, The Source is gone for fifteen minutes, then twenty minutes, then a half-hour, and by now I'm getting impatient. Josh is already upset because Lauren and Evan are going to be there and he's talking about how he's going to ditch early which is pissing me off because it makes the kid look like he has no balls, and just as I'm starting to run out of patience up rolls Boynton... with The Source in the passenger's seat.
"Your van is safe," says The Source.
I am about two seconds away from crying, but I keep it together, get in the back of Boynton's ride. "What the fuck happened?"
The Source, apparently, forgot to put his headlights on after picking up the first half of our order, and the added police out pulled him over for it. Worse, The Source didn't know my parents' names, couldn't find the registration... just a bad situation. He got off with just a warning, but the police called my parents. By now we're back at The Source's place, where my van resides in safety, and I go to call my parents to make sure that they're not too freaked out. So I call.
"Where's the van?"
"Right here, I've got the keys."
This is my mum, who can be ridiculously sarcastic and obnoxious for a woman who's pushing fifty. "Oh really, because the police just called to report it as stolen."
"... what? No!"
So I had to explain the whole story, but by now my parents are furious and I have to go straight home. Apparently the party sucked anyway, but dude... fuck.
And then this story...
TomIofIV: You know when people say "Don't make a federal case of it"?
hollywoodmcfly: Yeah
TomIofIV: You did.
...and I'm really proud of it. As I mentioned in the last entry, my graphics grade was a 45%, and I knew that if my parents saw this grade I was one dead Slim Shady wannabe. So, on my way to pick up Joshua on Saturday, I formulated this brilliant plan in my head. I called up 411. "Hello, can I get the number for the post office in Littleton, New Hampshire?"
"Yes... I have a local number and an eight hundred number, but the local number is not guaranteed to work. Do you want me to give you the eight hundred number?"
Hmm... "nah, just give me the local number."
Got the local number, and now I dial up the post office. "Hello, Littleton Post Office, Brian speaking."
"Hello, Brian, this is John Peters... I live at 877 St. Johnsbury Rd., but I'm currently in Chicago on business, and I was wondering if you could hold my mail until I get back on Wednesday?"
"No problem, John, just let me fill out a form... 877 St. Johnsbury Rd.?"
"Yes."
"And is there any mail in the box you need to have picked up?"
My heart skipped a beat. "No, sir."
"Okay. Do you want us to drop off all of your mail on Wednesday, or would you like to come and pick it up."
"Just drop it off, thank you."
"Okay, you're all set."
"Thank you very much."
"Uh... bye."
- Joseph H.
It was such a nice day outside like... twenty minutes ago, and now it's thundering, lightning, and raining. New Hampshire weather never fails to impress me.
Anyway, I figure some elaboration on the past entry is due, seeing as there's a story behind just about everything I posted and you got none of those.
First up... Saturday night at the dance recital. I spent much of the night chilling with Tom at the light board, and with two dances left Will and Justin roll in and say, "Party up at Weatherbee's camp." Outdoor party on a nice night? Count me in. Will asks me if I can get beer, I say probably but I won't be able to pay for it... and here comes Josh running over. "Dude, Will just called me, party at Weatherbee's camp."
"Will's right there, man."
"... oh."
So Will talks to Josh, Josh talks to The Source and yes, we can get beer, fairly easily actually. Josh can get forty bucks, enough for two thirty-racks and a six-pack of Twisters, and we roll out in my van to pick up The Source. Pick him up, head down to the bank. Josh uses the ATM, withdraws forty, gives it to The Source and tells him to meet us back at the bank when he's done picking up our shit. The Source zooms off in my van, which we've done before and I'm totally comfortable with because hey -- the van's a piece anyway. The Source gets sketched out when he's not by himself buying alcohol, something that only I seem to understand. Regardless, The Source is gone for fifteen minutes, then twenty minutes, then a half-hour, and by now I'm getting impatient. Josh is already upset because Lauren and Evan are going to be there and he's talking about how he's going to ditch early which is pissing me off because it makes the kid look like he has no balls, and just as I'm starting to run out of patience up rolls Boynton... with The Source in the passenger's seat.
"Your van is safe," says The Source.
I am about two seconds away from crying, but I keep it together, get in the back of Boynton's ride. "What the fuck happened?"
The Source, apparently, forgot to put his headlights on after picking up the first half of our order, and the added police out pulled him over for it. Worse, The Source didn't know my parents' names, couldn't find the registration... just a bad situation. He got off with just a warning, but the police called my parents. By now we're back at The Source's place, where my van resides in safety, and I go to call my parents to make sure that they're not too freaked out. So I call.
"Where's the van?"
"Right here, I've got the keys."
This is my mum, who can be ridiculously sarcastic and obnoxious for a woman who's pushing fifty. "Oh really, because the police just called to report it as stolen."
"... what? No!"
So I had to explain the whole story, but by now my parents are furious and I have to go straight home. Apparently the party sucked anyway, but dude... fuck.
And then this story...
TomIofIV: You know when people say "Don't make a federal case of it"?
hollywoodmcfly: Yeah
TomIofIV: You did.
...and I'm really proud of it. As I mentioned in the last entry, my graphics grade was a 45%, and I knew that if my parents saw this grade I was one dead Slim Shady wannabe. So, on my way to pick up Joshua on Saturday, I formulated this brilliant plan in my head. I called up 411. "Hello, can I get the number for the post office in Littleton, New Hampshire?"
"Yes... I have a local number and an eight hundred number, but the local number is not guaranteed to work. Do you want me to give you the eight hundred number?"
Hmm... "nah, just give me the local number."
Got the local number, and now I dial up the post office. "Hello, Littleton Post Office, Brian speaking."
"Hello, Brian, this is John Peters... I live at 877 St. Johnsbury Rd., but I'm currently in Chicago on business, and I was wondering if you could hold my mail until I get back on Wednesday?"
"No problem, John, just let me fill out a form... 877 St. Johnsbury Rd.?"
"Yes."
"And is there any mail in the box you need to have picked up?"
My heart skipped a beat. "No, sir."
"Okay. Do you want us to drop off all of your mail on Wednesday, or would you like to come and pick it up."
"Just drop it off, thank you."
"Okay, you're all set."
"Thank you very much."
"Uh... bye."
- Joseph H.