(A tale by popular demand.)

Let me preface: anyone could have made this mistake!

It was a birthday dinner at a mexican restaurant. In the grand finale of the meal, the waiters come out and bring a piñata  and everyone sings Happy Birthday. They present the birthday person (in this case my girl friend) with a dessert of some sort of fried tortilla strips with cinnamon and maple syrup and covered in whipped cream. And a single candle.

Now we’re passing this dessert around the table, chit chatting, and each taking strips to munch on. I wasn’t paying particular attention. The plate makes one round. It comes back around for a second. I take my whipped-cream-covered tortilla strip. It’s a little different than the others. But I’m not prejudiced. To me, this makes it special in my eyes. I appreciated this tortilla’s uniqueness. Maybe it will be especially delicious.

Then the bite: I’ve made a terrible mistake. That is not the crunch of victory. That is the “wtf is this texture, wtf is this?” crunch of folly. I extract this waxen intruder from my mouth. A trojan horse, if you will. The candle has hidden within the dessert, and struck at me when I least expected it.

I place the candle on my plate and start to crack up. One by one, our table notices until we are all laughing up a storm.

Ever since then if we go out for a birthday dinner, my friends make sure to reserve me my special dessert. Yum.

When I go home on break, things always get interesting.



If you ever wondered what girl talk is, let me assure you, it’s matters of the utmost importance.

This conversation started as a contemplation of whether a boy’s date-movie choice implied he liked me (I rather think the date implied that…), but quickly got on to more important and relevant topics to our lives.



Anyway, it’s one of my life’s goals (mission sounds a little too pathetic, but wouldn’t necessarily be to strong of a word) to kiss Adam Levine. I’m pretty sure I can make it happen. Somehow, someday, via some sort of evil genius. So you should all stay tuned for that blog post. And Adam, if you’re reading, get me at me;)

My roommate and I hosted our friend’s birthday party, which culminated in us all walking a few blocks to a gay club. It was a general shit show, but I’d say this text convo succinctly sums it up:



The name, Throb, conjures up a pretty accurate impression of the atmosphere. There were crazy laser lights, fog machines, drag queens, and employees dancing around in either just their tighty-whities, or a dong-concealer haphazardly crafted out of a bandana. There was only one unisex public bathroom, which was an experience in itself. There was also a small platform with a short stripper pole, onto which we managed to cram almost our entire group dancing at once- about 12 people. My arm was so sore the next day just from gripping the pole so as not to topple off into the gay abyss. But damn, it was fun.

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