*blue balls not included.
The end of the decade is coming. How fucked up is that? TEN FREAKING YEARS have passed. “Since when?” you ask. Since our planet almost self-destructed and we couldn’t tell anyone on Facebook.
Ten years is all relative to whom you’ve fucked or fucked over, but really… 15 years since I left Farmtown Inner-city A-town. Thank GOD all THOSE people were left behind in Senior Last Wills and forgotten autographed yearbook requests. And no, I will NOT add you to my friend list.
It felt like just yesterday I was bundling up (loosely speaking because we all know that 20-year-olds do NOT wear cold weather gear) with a floor-length, feather-adorned black velvet floor-length jacket from Hot Topic because I was one of those cute ass mainstream Goth girls, wearing one of those matching tie-in-back, backless silver-sequined tops and matching skort, OF COURSE, and buckling my clear-heeled, block heel silver-glitter stripper shoes for a night on the TOWN.
New Year’s Eve. End of the supposed millennium. End of the WORLD. And hopefully everyone with whom you graduated.
Nineteen, ninety, nine… de’ ninety…
And I was to spend it at the Velvet Dog.
Am I the only one who is surprised that place even EXISTS on West 6th present day? I was expecting it to be the first place to implode at 00:00 ’00. HAPPY NEW YEAR. Ka-boom. See? Complete end to the impending Douchebag Era.
What a way to go.
Hoochie wear or not, I’m certain some sort of mind-altering substance was involved — ahem, champagne — (even if photos reflect PURPLE SUNGLASSES with a rhinestone star on the lens. WTF?!), and I was dating a “friend” with a pre-douchebag era button-down and whose bleached hair glowed fluorescent green in black lights (he wore his own blue sunglasses, for DUH!) and hanging out with his female “friend” in some twisted Y2K doomsday scenario that not even Cobol could fix.
Obvs, even without my blog, my dating life was one big Millennium Fuck Up.
Let’s face it 2010 is altogether not impressive compared to Y2K. We had DOOMSDAY on the brain — power would cease, we might DIE so just take whatever pill I give you stupid head, and once you develop film SOMEONE has a print SOMEWHERE that you cannot wish enough for a hard drive to fail for its deletion, and WE WERE NOT TEXTING so how could you find your lost friends at the bar. AHHHH!
And forget tweeting about it! Heh.
Where were you at the turn of the century?
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This blog is about pursuit: a transplanted Clevelander (me) in a new city (that's you, Pittsburgh!), pursuing the role of a self-employed copywriter, becoming a roller derby badass and somehow merging all my to-do items into one ever-growing Bucket List.
And of MY boyfriend. His blue balls started this mess.
