good-bye, good-bye, goodbye... no, not that.

I'm just quoting a song. Yeah.

I'm nearly drunk.
I'm a beer away, I guess. I'm too drunk to close my eyes, extend my arms and touch my nose. Haha. I love doing it.
Okay, it has yet to be a month since I turned 21-years-old and this is a list (I compiled of all I consumed, by bottles):
3x Burnett's Cherry Vodka
3x Oliver Red Wine
12x Beers (Heineken and Michelob)
1x Green Apple Smirnoff
1x Red Wine I can't remember/pronounce
1 glass of red wine at Olive Garden

That's all in three weeks. I don't have a problem. My only problem is turning 21 and wanting to experience shit.
Am I rite or am I rite?
(When I misspell it's my gansta speech.)

Discovered Mickey Avalon.
Amazing.
Perverted but amazing.

I love Cricket but she doesn't love me and proves it by ignoring me.
Life sucks.
I want her to love me, but something I do just doesn't sit right with her. What is it? PLEASE, SOMEONE EXPLAIN.
I think about it every day and never understand--never come to a conclusion.

OSHIT. NOTORIOUS SHUFFLED ON.
Let's ride, get high, get high, get high, let's ride, let's ride.


Work remains the same.

Susan barely crammed her body into what looked like an oversized wheelbarrow before the thing chasing her sniffed the air for her scent. She held her breath, gagging, sweat pouring from every pore of her body. Her legs twitched and ached in their awkward position. Her head pounded from a migraine. Her body begged for release and all she could really think about was what was still five feet away from her, maybe, maybe less.
Footsteps, silence.
Crickets and wind.
Anonymous scream.
The girl released some of the air pressure - with it, vomit. Ziploc lips, the vomit pressed tightly upon them. Susan squeezed her eyes shut, reminding herself of the monsters. If she let it out, they, it would smell her. Discover her stuffed into some wheelbarrow with mice gnawing at her shoe and something crawling in her tangled hair.
Susan wanted to moan. Every atom of her being moaned and she wanted to release what she felt.
The anxiety.
The fright.
The thought of being twenty-years-old and dead.
She wanted to be at the party still. Drunk. Couldn’t even remember her own name. Now, her party clothes were torn, soiled and one of her brand-name shoes lost somewhere outside of her safe spot.
Susan wanted to cry, but it would give away her position.
For one brief moment she stared at the night sky and not at limitless space, vomit swishing her mouth-the taste of alcohol and rotten eggs. Susan appreciated it and wondered what constellation was which prior to noticing how still the night had gotten and the wind, there wasn’t one. The crickets, none of them played.
She wanted to ask what was there, but despite her quietness and the will to stop her body in all its endeavors to cope, Susan noticed a pair of gray hands gripping the side. When she opened her mouth to scream, the head popped over the side and smiled.
Susan, before the monster aimed for her throat, chocked to death on her vomit.