Call Off the Cherry Garcia
5 feet, four inches tall. 127 lbs. Size 5 women's shoes. Size 3 womens rings. A bad cross between a southern/Jersey accent that makes one say things like "Mahld" instead of "Mild" and "Towst" insted of "Toast". An innate clumsiness and knack for running into things. Now tell me, what's so intimidating about that?
Wednesday night Tom was working and I hadn't seen Jonathan (of Washington, PA fame) in a few weeks so I thought I'd give him a call and see if he wanted to give the city a visit. We walked up to Bootlegger's since I'm a bit leary of getting in any cars lately (two of my friends hit a lamp post at ~60 mph this week - they're not well). The place was dead, we bought a few drinks, laughed as the short Mexican guy who always comes in to play pool threw a beer at Jamie shouting "QUARTERS! NOT CORONA!" in broken English. He paid for the beer and walked off with the quarters, so I took the Corona as a matter of public service. We wouldn't want it getting warm and thrown out now, would we? Jonathan was getting ready to leave as Greenfield Tom (the one who took me to the Prince concert) walked in with two of his pals. I hadn't seen him since before I went on vacation and he was leaving for Florida at the end of the week so we were catching up with each other and telling his friends the story of Amy's battle with the bathroom sink. At some point Tom (yes I know this gets confusing, how do you think I feel?) walked in and was sitting a few feet away with some friends and threw a fit. I left after him, but all he said was "I'm going to Penn St. tomorrow. I'm not going to sit here while four guys hang off of you". So at 4 am my dreams of culturing strippers were shattered. He left me a message that he didn't want to talk for awhile and let's "slow things down" in a classic man line. But I'm not one to sit around and mope for more than ten minutes.
Parker came over last night for an evening on the porch with a bucket of beer and a buttload of "those bomb ass wings" we make at work. We passed out early since he had spent the past week up every night playing video games and I had spent the past week up, well that's not important. Sometime around 3 I heard my phone ringing and walked out in the living room to answer it. It was Tom. He missed me. He had been trying to get ahold of me and wanted me to come over and talk. I hung up and checked my call history.
19 calls. In a little under two hours, 19 calls.
He hadn't left for Penn St. He said when he got in the car, all he wanted to do was turn around. They hadn't even gone out that night. Parker's going to call me stupid. Hell, I probably am.
Wednesday night Tom was working and I hadn't seen Jonathan (of Washington, PA fame) in a few weeks so I thought I'd give him a call and see if he wanted to give the city a visit. We walked up to Bootlegger's since I'm a bit leary of getting in any cars lately (two of my friends hit a lamp post at ~60 mph this week - they're not well). The place was dead, we bought a few drinks, laughed as the short Mexican guy who always comes in to play pool threw a beer at Jamie shouting "QUARTERS! NOT CORONA!" in broken English. He paid for the beer and walked off with the quarters, so I took the Corona as a matter of public service. We wouldn't want it getting warm and thrown out now, would we? Jonathan was getting ready to leave as Greenfield Tom (the one who took me to the Prince concert) walked in with two of his pals. I hadn't seen him since before I went on vacation and he was leaving for Florida at the end of the week so we were catching up with each other and telling his friends the story of Amy's battle with the bathroom sink. At some point Tom (yes I know this gets confusing, how do you think I feel?) walked in and was sitting a few feet away with some friends and threw a fit. I left after him, but all he said was "I'm going to Penn St. tomorrow. I'm not going to sit here while four guys hang off of you". So at 4 am my dreams of culturing strippers were shattered. He left me a message that he didn't want to talk for awhile and let's "slow things down" in a classic man line. But I'm not one to sit around and mope for more than ten minutes.
Parker came over last night for an evening on the porch with a bucket of beer and a buttload of "those bomb ass wings" we make at work. We passed out early since he had spent the past week up every night playing video games and I had spent the past week up, well that's not important. Sometime around 3 I heard my phone ringing and walked out in the living room to answer it. It was Tom. He missed me. He had been trying to get ahold of me and wanted me to come over and talk. I hung up and checked my call history.
19 calls. In a little under two hours, 19 calls.
He hadn't left for Penn St. He said when he got in the car, all he wanted to do was turn around. They hadn't even gone out that night. Parker's going to call me stupid. Hell, I probably am.