i like to listen to music.
my favorite people on the internet
objective facts
looking for something?teenager, sister, writer, sleep in 'til 9, jamba juice smoothie maker, crossword puzzler, tattooed, pierced, coffee/tea/soda drinker, gum chewer, swimmer, runner, girlfriend, seminole, owl
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of restoring and syncing yet another one of the winters family hand-me-down iphones. also currently in the process of going crazy if it keeps on telling me that it can’t be restored for god knows what reason.
JUST LET ME HAVE A PHONE THAT WORKS THAT DOESN’T HAVE ALL THE GUN APPS ON IT FROM WHEN IT WAS MY BROTHER’S.
i cut off a large amount of my hair on a whim, but after i was done i never actually looked at it. when i met my mom later in the day, she informed me that she’d gotten me “that hearing aid” that i’d “been asking for.” great, thanks mom. it was literally one earbud from a set of ipod headphones that wrapped around my ear and somehow stuck into my head. i don’t know.
anyway, i then had to go to the at&t store to get a new phone because my iphone was broken beyond repair. i ended up walking out of the store with a blackberry—kill myself—and got in the car with peter, who proceeded to get way too excited about my “hearing aid” that he ripped it out of my ear. thanks to the fact that i had no hair—aka it was short as fuck—this was a visual disaster. i tried to fix it as best i could so i could go to the party i was supposed to be at.
i got to the party and, as expected, received numerous glares from the people there—a positive response to the new hair and slightly marred “hearing aid,” clearly. one guy there was cutting lines of coke, so i relocated myself to another room, and ended up wandering through the house with no real final destination.
me me me me me.
i really hate talking on the phone, and aside from probably two friends, my mom, and luke, i don’t really talk to anyone on the phone.
when i do end up talking to someone not mentioned above, it’s usually to get something done, so by the time i hang up i feel about five years older and a billion promotions more professional.
so tonight, we (me, ellie, my dad, my dad’s friend from the navy, and his wife) were sitting out on the deck, talking, drinking, whatever. none of that is really important, just know that we were outside in full view of the front door around eight tonight.
so the doorbell rings, and my first thought is that it’s my brother coming to say hi or grab a toy he forgot last time he was here or something. my dad gets up from the table and goes to answer the door, and when i hear the voice come from whoever—or whatever—it is that was ringing our doorbell, i realize that i was sadly mistaken.
i turn to ellie, “girl scout?” i say. it sounded like a small child, most likely a girl. we’re all looking at my dad, trying to find any hints in his mannerisms or body language, getting nothing because we weren’t really trying because we only half cared about who was at our house this late at night.
my dad went out of view for a few seconds, and came back laughing with some container in his hand. as he’s walking back up to the table he says to ellie, “remember that stripper that borrowed our phone? she brought us cookies!”
cue the “what the actual fuck?” from the table. well, no one actually said that, but his statement did warrant an explanation. he tossed the cookies onto the table and confirmed that yes, she is a stripper, because her note* smells like cheap vanilla body spray so of course she is.
apparently, a woman in a very revealing outfit with a “rash on her chin from her boobs rubbing up on it all the time” came to our house the other day, claiming that she’s “not crazy” but needed to use the phone because her boyfriend works right down the street at montclair mart and she wanted to visit him but didn’t know if he’d get in trouble if she did so she wanted to call him first to make sure it was okay.
my dad let her use the home phone, a favor she was truly grateful for and still “not crazy,” and she was on her way. ellie, being skeptical of the whole thing, googled the phone number stripper girl had called and found that it was in fact the number of montclair mart.
so now, here we are, six chocolate almond horn cookies richer and still confused as to what the stripper’s real profession is.
*the note says “from the crazy blond chick you let use your phone—thank you!”
